Of Swallows, Bells, and Fond Memories

Nanay in Lombard St., San Francisco

Tomorrow, the 28^th of December 2013 will be Nanay’s 11^th Death Anniversary.

I still mourn her passing and miss her so, though I am no longer that sad, especially because this year, I was finally able to make one of her most ardent wishes come true.

I went on a pilgrimage for her, one that served me well as a catharsis.

This is my first ever pilgrimage story.

“When the swallows come back to Capistrano” by Leon René is one of Nanay’s all-time favorite songs. She never revealed to anyone why this is so, though I have an idea, or at least a suspicion.

This song has been recorded by several famous singers, including: Pat Boone, Xavier Cugat, The Ink Spots, and Glenn Miller among a host of other artists. Note that if you check the lyrics online, they all repeat the second stanza. 

Nanay’s favorite cover of this song is by The Lennon Sisters who may have added a unique third stanza:

When the swallows come back to Capistrano

When the swallows come back to Capistrano

That's the day you promised to come back to me

When you whispered, "Farewell," in Capistrano

That’s the day the swallows flew back to the sea

All the mission bells will ring

The chapel choir will sing

The happiness you bring

Will live in my memory

When the swallows come back to Capistrano

That's the day I pray that you'll come back to me

While the altar candles burn

My heart is burning, too

If you should not return

I will still be waiting for you

And the swallows come back to Capistrano

That's the day I pray that you'll come back to me

Note: There is a link to this song at the end of this article.

Nanay sang this often, and every now and again, would request our friend Jun, a broadcast colleague in IBC-DYRG to play it for her on his defunct popular afternoon broadcasts.

She was able to visit my sister in California and went to several places there, including parts of Orange County where Mission San Juan de Capistrano is located. Although she wanted to and could have, she did not visit Mission San Juan de Capistrano at that time, because she has promised me we would visit the place together. Unfortunately, as fate would have it, she passed away and we never got to do it.

When I attended the wedding of my niece Liezel in San Francisco, I just had to go. I did not even have to ask twice.

With my host and guide, Grace Magdaluyo

I left San Francisco in the early morning, return tickets and pocket money courtesy of my sister Louella and Manong Louis, on 12 June 2013. I was met by my friend Grace Magdaluyo and her husband. We went straight from the San Diego airport to Mission San Juan de Capistrano. In our collective excitement, we passed by the ruins without noticing it, and, with a fluke from our online Google map, ended up in the new Mission Basilica San Juan.

We did not realize we were in the wrong place until I noticed the predominantly Hispanic colonial-style modern structures that surrounded us. I walked straight into a cul-de-sac which led to the Mission Basilica School and asked for directions from a man who likewise seemed lost, and only spoke Spanish, the mile-a-minute variety that got me discombobulated and invariably lost in translation. To my chagrin, I realized I was no match to a Mexican who spoke andale andale with such a frenzy. So I went back and pulled Grace along, literally, dragging her inside the school administration building. The ladies there were not at all surprised that we lost our way and readily gave us instruction, with hands flying to indicate directions, in English.

It was a very short drive back, powered by peals of giggles. We entered the gates and found ourselves in a very quiet, introspective and awe-inspiring place.

Established in 1775 and re-founded a year later, Mission San Juan de Capistrano is a living piece of history and culture with religious significance. Unfortunately, this great stone church collapsed when an earthquake struck in December 1812. Today, it is run by a non-profit organization that preserves these ruins of a bygone era. Without a doubt, it has become famous for “The miracle of the Swallows” which takes place March 19^th, St. Joseph's Day.

While we were merrily walking around and taking loads of pictures, I chanced upon one of the lady volunteers, who was pruning a hedge of flowers. Spur of the moment, I asked her what her favorite version/cover of the song “When the swallows come back to Capistrano” and she flashed me a winsome smile, eagerly whipped her mobile phone out of her pocket, and showed me her collection.

I told her about Nanay, and why I just had to visit The Mission. As I was talking, I did not notice that I was already in tears. She asked if she could give me a hug, and we did. I was bawling and she held on to me for as long as I did.

As the flood of tears stopped, she asked to be excused, and much to my surprise, she gave a stern warning asking me to stay put.

With Josh, whom we met again on his way back from lunch.

She came back with Josh, the Director of the place, who, having heard my story from the lady volunteer, expressed appreciation for our visit and then walked with us to The Mission Store and gave me a candle, for free. Next thing I knew, I was in the Chapel.

I do not know what perception Grace had of me at that point, but she left unobtrusively to give me my private moment. For a couple of minutes, I just stood there … basking in my very private moment well spent in solitude, thanksgiving and closure.

Inside the "Serra's Chapel" at The Mission. Candle to the lower left was the one I lit, courtesy of Josh.

It was a time of reckoning, as a new realization came to me: I was named Josephus because of this awesome place. Yes, that is my first name, Latin for Joseph. And it was not the late Fr. Rago who added this, as if on a whim, on my baptismal certificate. It was Nanay who really wanted it, hence my nickname, Jojo.

I did not notice the swallows that day of my visit, neither did I hear the bells. But it was one of my happiest moments (to think I could have been named Juan, or even worse, Swallow … kidding!).

It was a peak experience flying with the swallows … and hearing bells … in my heart.


NB: You can listen to The Lennon Sisters' cover of "When the swallows come back to Capistrano" by clicking on this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GYxrydmTXRI

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A most unexpected phone call ...

I just got a call from a friend whom I haven’t seen in ages. I first met him in 1978 during the National Secondary Schools Press Conference in Tabaco, Albay. We’ve correspondent by snail mail for several years. Then I moved to Manila where I went NPA—no permanent address—having moved from one place to another. We’ve gone through stages—pagers and cellphones—but before SMS came along, we eventually lost touch. He found me last year, through an old blog that I no longer have access to, and eventually, on Facebook. He’s been living in Europe for over two decades now.

Through all those years, we’ve grown to know each other’s quirks and whenever we talked, we invariably finished each other’s sentences and gave voice to each other’s innermost thoughts and feelings.

Let me go back 35 years and 6,211 miles.

We are both Martial Law Babies, the product of a generation of high school writers who, while trained in the Development Communications approach, wore no blinders. Our letters went beyond the usual diary-style correspondence. We talked about anything and everything.

I eventually fell in love with him, and while he could not reciprocate, he accepted and appreciated that love. And in his special way, showed me he cared.

He was heterosexual, and that was it. We’ve remained good friends.

Today, he told me that he is divorcing his wife, and that he has a lover, another married man.

I was absolutely stunned! Where the hell did that come from?

He was pouring his heart out … so I zipped my mouth and listened … an utterly difficult feat for me.

What was I to say? What did I have to say when in my mind, I wanted to blurt out: “It should have been me, you jerk!” But I love my friend, and when he asked for my advice, I was torn.

This is insane. I am no psychologist. My friends know that I invariably give bad advice. I was wary. I may have had a bad script at hand, following in the wake of “My Husband’s Lover” which I never really watched.

I was now crying with him. For someone who is quick at repartee, I really did not know what to say. I was too stunned. I was thinking, wherever fate takes us … there must be a reason.   

And then it came to me, a phrase from one of my literature classes (though I could not, for the life of me, remember whoever it was who said it): “If chaos be the price of love, let there be chaos.”

I told him to follow his heart and wished him luck!

!!! Happy New Year !!!

May 2013 usher in the realization of your fondest hopes and most ardent aspirations. 

Sayaw ng mga SENIORita: when gays become thunderkats!

What is it about the Filipino audience that can fill huge venues featuring foreign acts and only have around a hundred people watching “Sayaw ng mga SENIORita,” a high-caliber Filipino play?

 

My jaw literally dropped when I saw the small clique of people inside the 1,074-seat AFP Theatre a quarter of an hour prior to the published performance time. I thought to myself: where is the Filipino theatre audience?

To think that there are people who fly in from the provinces or who forego major meals just to buy tickets for concerts.

When Lupang Hinirang was played, I was in tears!

Penned by Jose Javier Reyes, Sayaw ng mga SENIORita is his long awaited comeback after a 23-year hiatus from theatre after he wrote the musical Katy in 1989.

 

Sayaw ng mga SENIORita, directed by Jun F. Flavier Pablo, is a poignant, brutally honest play about aging gays that goes beyond RA 9994. Portraying gays as people and not just sexual predators, Jose Javier Reyes veers away from the stereotype and in the end, (at least for me) delivers a stern warning. With an in your face ruthlessness to it, the language is quite vulgar, and when you identify with any of the characters, some of their lines are bound to hit you and hurt like crazy.

The major roles were essayed by no ordinary mortals but by thespians and directors. Director Soxy Topacio as Rading De Guzman, antique dealer and birthday celebrator who was feted with a surprise party marking his 60^th natal day; Director Joel Lamangan as Terry Mangubat, a very stringy businessman; Director Manny Castañeda as Dr. Gerry Almario, aesthetic and cosmetic surgeon to the stars; Arnell Ignacio as Romeo Cajanding, bikini-open impresario and male-starlet manager. Rading, Terry, Gerry and Romeo are friends for life.

Newbie Chase Cervera plays the role of Ollie, a male nurse and lover of Rading. To Cervera’s credit, he simply refused to be swallowed whole by his co-stars and completely owned the stage when he had his character’s dénouement.

I was eagerly looking forward to seeing BB Gandanghari as Raquel Villasor, the homecoming queen but unfortunately, it was Justine Ferrer of Survivor Philippines Season 2 fame who played the role. Honestly, I felt cheated.

Also in the cast are Doreen Bernal as the maid/pageant host; China Cojuanco as the wife of Dr. Almario; and the eye candies Royce Chua as Lance; Christian Paul Meteoro as Troy; Paul Jake Paule as Kuya Ed/Pulis; and playing the character of Ericson is the dashing Johnron Tañada who was my boyfriend until he read about it here.

The only thing I did not like about this play was that it began almost half an hour late.

Sayaw ng mga SENIORita was created when Gantimpala Theatre Foundation was invited by the Cultural Center of the Philippines’ for its Fourth National Theatre Festival.

Inspired by Tony S. Espejo who gave life to prize-winning plays of the CCP Playwriting Contests since July of 1978, Gantimpala Theatre Foundation is now on its 35^th year and "continues its glorious tradition of bringing theatre that excites the intellect, stirs the heart, and electrifies the soul” by embarking on projects “that are of national and global interests.”

Gantimpala Theatre Foundation will “continue to create and mount artistic undertakings that further advance its stature as leader of the Filipino theatre movement”. The group has had its metamorphoses after the EDSA Revolution.

The play dates for Sayaw ng mga SENIORita at the AFP Theatre in Camp Aguinaldo are: November 24, Saturday, at 3pm and 7pm; December 1, Saturday at 3pm and 7pm and December 8, Saturday, 3pm and 7pm.

PS. During the intermission, you have to try the basil and mozzarella rolled pizza at the Snack Bar.

Two Voices: One Shrill; The Other, Silenced

She wanted so much to be a VJ and auditioned for MYX for three consecutive years. During her 3^rd audition in the summer of 2012, she was asked “what has changed since you auditioned last year?” Her reply was: “Mahaba ang buhok ko” (my hair is longer).

Such profundity was consistently manifested in the interview during which she feigned familiarity with the channel but failed miserably when she appeared to not have known and have been caught by surprise that OPM mix became PinoyMix way back in 2007. To think that she purportedly watches regularly and even named her favorite shows.

When asked to deliver a sample spiel, her lines included “This is me behind this camera and off this camera” and “I am fans with them” (referring to the group Callalily).

You could read it in her eyes and body language, the longing, the intense desire to become famous.  She tried to appear knowledgeable, eloquent and intelligent but failed miserably on all three counts.

Yesterday, she finally had her axiomatic 15 minutes of fame … and instantly gained notoriety by alarm and scandal.

That was quite a scene that she created in an LRT station with thousands of people coming and going. She was giving a lady security guard a severe tongue-lashing allegedly because she resented the manner by which her attention was called for failing to have her bag go through a security check.

Unknown to her, the scene she created (showcasing what she thought was her superior English language skills complete with ‘accent with an attitude’), and the condescending treatment she was giving the lady guard, attracted the attention of another passenger who took a video of the confrontation.

The video inevitably went viral on social media, with shares and retweets fueled by negative reactions to Amalayer’s apparent lack of self-respect.

It is possible that she may have had a legitimate grievance. If so, she could have gone to LRT management to complain. Indeed, there are security officers who are so full of themselves, rubbing their bloated egos off people they purportedly serve if only to emphasize that they are persons, or at least agents, of persons in authority.

In the video footage that I saw, it was apparent that she was bent on raising hell and calling attention to herself. She appeared to look around as if asking for sympathy from people who were either surprised, curious or shocked but had no wish to get involved in the fracas.

What was most telling was when she said she studied, ergo educated, as if security guards themselves do not have an education.

The condescending attitude towards security guards is not uncommon. The fact that they have a voice in Congress through a party list representative did nothing to address their plight, primarily that of being overworked and underpaid.

Their job is to ensure the safety of people and property. But most of the time, they do not even have job security. More often than not, they get automatic deductions for government-imposed contributions such as Social Security, PhilHealth and Pag-IBIG but their contributions are not remitted by their agency.

It is such a crying shame that security guards will not be able to send a legitimate voice in Congress, with Ang Galing Pinoy having been disqualified by the Comelec because it failed to meet the requirements for representing marginalized sectors in the House of Representatives.

Two perspectives, one sorry situation.

Death Knell for the FOI Bill

14 November 2012

Dear Mr. President:

I am very disappointed with what appears to be the death of the FOI Bill in Congress. I am very disappointed that after you said you were supporting this bill during the height of the Corona Impeachment, nothing has been heard from you since then on this subject.

I am very disappointed that you sat this one out. You might say you do not wish to interfere with Congress because it is a co-equal branch of government. But then again I know that when it was convenient for you, there is no way for you to deny that you did, too!

I sat still and kept my peace during those other times when I was of the impression that your Excellency failed, in the bar of public opinion, on certain issues. This one I shall sit out, too, Your Excellency. But I have to let you know that I am very disappointed. Very disappointed, indeed.

Respectfully yours,

Glenn Inosanto Jereza

Escolta Revisited

(Published in This Week in Manila, a Travelguide Magazine, in the early 90s 

and in Pensieve Moments on Wednesday, 27 October 2010)

From across the Ayuntamiento, ladies with colourful parasols and intricately embroidered billowing skirts and gentlemen with their de rigueur tropical whites and diadem-encrusted walking sticks, take a leisurely walk along a road of cobblestones, a promenade that is preferable to what could otherwise have been a very bumpy ride on a caromata. Along the fringes of the calzada which is parallel to the Pasig River are balconies with ornamental iron lattice-work grilles and awnings that are directly proportional to the flare of the ladies’ skirts. Children scamper about in their game of hide-and-go-shriek, mindful of the occasional rickety calesas and tiburins while the scent of dinner wafts in the unpolluted air, competing with the aroma from a profusion of sidewalk food stalls. Street hawkers blare their wares to the consternation of permanent food stall operators. A horse-drawn vehicle that careens on a street compel fretful womenfolk to make the sign of the cross as they eye nearby rooftops for signs of bricks about to surrender to gravity. In a moment, everything is occluded by the bells of the seven churches of Intramuros across the Pasig River, as they peal the oracion. Silence prevails with intimations of mortality. And then a sputtering of felicitations is heard, but for the children of the Indios, this alone would not suffice. Thus, they scamper homeward, kissing their elder’s foreheads or touching their elder’s hand to their lips. Who does what to whom is dictated by relationships and the difference in their chronological ages. This was Escolta at the dawning of the 19^th century—the zenith of its popularity.

Less than a kilometer in length, Escolta is neither a cul-de-sac nor main thoroughfare. But the march of history resounds, even pulsates in this calzada that shows silhouettes of a bygone era. Those who have seen for themselves the grandeur that was Escolta’s halcyon days can only sigh and reminisce when the area was the place to see and be seen. The elite who once lived on its fringes, be they insulares or peninsulares, added élan to the place. Its proximity to an already crowded Intramuros ensured its growth and development, with the added advantage of being adjacent to the Pasig river which was the route of trade and industry then.

Prior to Escolta’s development, propelled by the burgeoning confines of Intramuros, a breathtaking view of Cavite’s Bundok ng Susong Dalaga (Mountain of the Maiden’s Breasts) was discernible. The quest for development shielded the sight with multi-storied buildings, forever changing the skyline of the Loyal City. Disasters likewise played a crucial, albeit integral part in changing Escolta’s landmark structures. An 1880 earthquake prompted the government to issue a mandate requiring galvanized iron roofing in lieu of bricks and shingles in an attempt to ensure the safety of passers-by from the deluge of falling debris in the event of another tremor. Nine years later, a great fire gutted a considerable portion of Escolta which resulted to a face lifting of the area.

                                                                               

The mid-1800s saw Escolta as just another street in what was then the plush district of Manila, with erstwhile ultra-modish, European-inspired, two-storey buildings whence shopping was a convenience the moneyed society took to like ducks to water. Chivalry was alive and well, and drivers of caromatas patiently waited for their fare for hours on end amidst peltering rain—unwittingly getting drenched during the oracion because one had to be uncovered—a very literal translation of an inculcated foreign tongue and acculturated custom. The Spaniards, Portuguese and the Japanese lorded it over in business as kerosene lamps began to light the street, an indication of Escolta’s prestige over the other districts of Manila, extra muros.

The early 1900s saw Escolta become a compleat commercial center replete with electric lights, an advantage it once again enjoyed before other districts had a foretaste of this luxury. By then, Intramuros was somewhat already truant in the scintillating display of colourful gay merchandise, most of which were already confined to the shops of Escolta but soon spilled-over to Rosario and Santo Cristo. Makati, which was by then very provincial (Quijano de Manila remembers it as a place where one had to bring at least a change of clothes) was for all intents and purposes, practically unheard of, while Cubao was cogonal, unproductive land.

Escolta, being a place to see and be seen—demanded an informal dress code—people who were not properly dressed would not be caught dead in the vicinity. Escolta exuded a touch of class, and sought to maintain, even demand, a certain dignity, like Makati as we know it today. Escolta was tantamount to a good trademark, and goods bought there became a source of pride, at least until the shops began to specialise. It soon became harder shopping there, hopping from one specialty store to another, lugging bulks of paper packages and cartons with snap-on holders. Banks, which used to transact business there either branched out or transferred to less crowded and up-and-coming locations.

The 1970s saw the sluggish demise of already crowded Escolta and the kindling of multi-storied department stores in the vicinity as well as the genesis of shopping complexes in Cubao and Makati. The advent of shopping malls finally wrote finis to the Escolta of yore. The process of urbanization swiped the classy image Escolta bore for so long … choked by its largess, constrained by time and space. Now, only the silhouettes of a bygone era remain in the hallowed street of cobblestones and asphalt and concrete that was—like layers of history—piled on high.

Today, one who walks the length and breadth of the famous calzada cannot help but sigh at the almost palpable rhythm of the ancient place—bereft of all the glories of an apogee that could no longer be sustained, unable to incessantly defy physics—like a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow which when found, one finds too heavy to carry. Even the offices of movie production companies that proliferated in the area could not hold a candle to the glory that was. Attempts at modernization were hemmed by constraints of space, albeit viability in the face of one-stop, sprawling shopping malls which made readily available the acquisition of more than just the bare essentials. To confound the problem, the proliferation of beggars and street urchins in Escolta is a dismal welcome—with some of them making lean-tos as permanent homes in the periphery. Traffic is another bleary headache, with a procession of cars parked bumper to dented bumper along with the ubiquitous Love Buses that replaced the trambia in this narrow calzada.

People who persists on calling Recto Avenue by its old name, Azcarraga, are beyond doubt, diminishing in great numbers. But while Escolta does not face the threat of being renamed in the dawning of the 21^st century, it is disheartening to note that it will remain but a shadow of its old self—not even a kiss on its forehead can suffice to resuscitate the silhouettes of a bygone era that spanned more than a century.

FORT SANTIAGO: Rampart of Valor, Sentinel of Freedom

(Published in This Week In Manila in the early 90s

and posted in Pensieve Moments in October 2010)

A strange melancholy feeling grips whoever enters there hallowed grounds. A plaintive cry: bewailing uncertainties, apprehensions, fear of tortures, of reprisals, fear of being given away by one’s own countrymen, a fear of death (wondering which fear is greater, that of more torture, or death?), ultimately, fear of fear itself. The pain that is felt is almost crystal clear, unique and yet almost incomprehensible … so far off the beaten path of ordinary human emotions that some find it difficult to recognize it as the stirrings of nationalism. An almost sepulchral silence pervades. One feels a sensation of loss so keen … as a susurration from the common grave of martyrs and conquerors is almost palpable in the soothing breeze. The martyrs would probably readily admonish us for the frustrating realities of our times, while the conquerors would spite us for failing to learn the nuances of lessons from out past.

Steeped in history, wrought in volcanic stones, awash with the blood of the brave and the daring … these words, whilst they describe the importance of Fort Santiago in our country’s history, will not suffice to describe the multi-dimensional worth of this rampart that serves as a sentinel of our search for freedom and democracy. Perhaps no other place in our history is as loaded with significance and respectability. One who knows his history cannot but have a spontaneous affinity with this environment … erstwhile palisades of Rajah Soliman, bastion of Spanish dominion for almost four hundred years, testatrix of Japanese atrocities, for forty years a mute witness to a lopsided friendship with the Americans.

For some time, Fort Santiago was but a fascinating detritus of volcanic stones that was the focus of a dedicated restoration effort, a proud testament to the courage of a proud race. Unfortunately to others in contemporary times it is but a trysting place where more than just engagement rings are exchanged

Who would have the guts to say that one knows Fort Santiago like the palm of thy hands? It would be tantamount to blasphemy, the treasure trove of history that it is can never be known that intimately. Not even to survivors of the holocaust that continues to haunt the pride, conscience and memories of those who lived to recount their gruesome experiences. If the volcanic stones could only speak. Be that as it may, Fort Santiago is a Pandora’s Box of stories about incarcerations, tortures and privations of the will and the spirit.

Likened to the “black hole of Calcutta”, the low-ceilinged dungeons zapped the lives of countless individuals whose collective cries must have reverberated across the fields like fusillades of mortars and the steady rat-tat-tat of machinegun fire as they drowned with the rising tide of the Pasig River, completely engulfing the low-ceilinged dungeon that was their last vista of their beloved land.

A dreaded prison throughout the Spanish regime, Fort Santiago stolidly embraced the countless revolutionaries that were held captive in its bowels. The fort became an infamous concentration camp during World War II wherein hundreds of famous personalities and thousands of nameless others were incarcerated. Gallant men who rode the slow swell if impatience, the rending impatience of waiting for freedom … the horrible doubt that it may never come after all. Some of them never saw the light of freedom shine but their supreme sacrifice ensured it. With growling bantam rooster aplomb and not much else in terms of firepower they stood up to the enemies even as the immediate future seemed bleak, with little to hope for and everything to dread.

Now, we get nostalgia constipation from people who masquerade as heroes who often put a halo over their heads, a fixture that does not belong there. It simply proves that the difference between a rebel and a patriot depends on who is in power at the moment.

It has been a long time and we’ve already covered a lot of distance. Our erstwhile enemies are now our allies as we collectively renounce war. The world has shrunk in terms of our global efforts to reach out and co-exist under the mantles of peace and brotherhood.

The neglected heap of volcanic stones that was Fort Santiago has been transformed into a legacy, a monument to our proud race—a grim reminder of the tragedies of war and the promise of peace. It endures in all its glorious splendor so that we may maintain a stable sense of perspective. It is there to give us an opportunity to understand ourselves better in the light of our glorious past. It stands firm and unyielding to the elements so that we can develop an affirmation for the value of freedom and human dignity—so that when our freedom is threatened and independence is at stake—our individual and collective affirmation for our fifth freedom will ultimately save us. Contrary to what is commonly perceived that we haven’t enough respect for the past, Fort Santiago is a notandum that will always be a strong bubble memory, prompting us with a stern warning never to be condemned to make the same mistake in the future.

This is Fort Santiago … not just a heap of blood-spattered volcanic boulders and iron-braced portals … not just a park or a war memorial … over and above these, it is a promise that the supreme sacrifices of our heroes and forebears have not gone in vain.

Ready, headset, go!

Posted in Pensieve Moments on 30 June 2010

(This article is dedicated to my former colleagues in Sitel as PH3 closes today, the 30^th of June 2010)

I used to work from dusk to dawn in an industry that gives employment opportunities to zombies who can literally talk their minds off.

I used to start my week while others ended theirs … on a Friday night. Just as everyone else in the so-called normal world began to unwind in bars and cafes all over town, my minions and I would start to “shift” gears and glide into our work-a-night world, like zombies who go bump in the dead of night.

My shift started at 8pm and ended at 5am. Not surprisingly, I rarely got to see the sun. That was nice. I did not have to spend so much on suntan lotions with SPF factors whose efficacy I never get to figure out anyway.

My first job in the call center industry was voicing for the deaf, the hard of hearing and the speech impaired. I loved doing that. Imagine typing verbatim (minimum typing speed: 60 wpm at 90% accuracy  while keeping your client informed of everything that is happening during the call, including tone of voice and background noise such as toilets flushing or someone farting. Unfortunately, I failed to certify, and I had to leave, albeit with a heavy heart. Best thing about it was that there were no Average Handling Time (AHTs) to worry about.

And then I moved on over to another company where I had to work my butt off to have low AHTs while serving under the safest and most popular online shopping company in the world. Unfortunately, I had a magnet for thurdercats (geriatrics) who use Jurassic equipment (dial-ups).

Oh, those daze, those daze were so exciting.

My world was a complete turn-around. I woke up at around 5pm and greeted my housemates Good Morning. I’d leave the house at around six o’ clock while “normal” people are on their way home. As they arrive in their homes and start to unwind, I wind up and get to the office in about 45 minutes. I would usually be found at my workstation half an hour before the start of my shift at 8 pm.

Lunchbreak was around midnight, and yes, we really called it lunch. After almost 3 months, my stomach was used to it. But for a while, it was confusing, especially because I usually don’t eat after 6pm.

Shift ended at five o’ clock in the morning and woe is me if I got a long call minutes before shift actually ended. If and when that happened, I just grinned and bore it and tried my darndest best not to take it out on my client, who did not even have the faintest idea what time it was in my part of the world, or where I actually was located.

The world was still bathed in neon lights as I left the building. Sunrise was about to part the veil of darkness. The world was still at rest and only the early birds flap their wings in the morning wind. There is no queue on the MRT.

I would usually get home at around half past six and then hit the sack after a quick shower … arrived in snoreland shortly thereafter, wet hair notwithstanding (yikes, if my Grandmother were alive, she’d be stark raving mad).

Gliding into a day-off is a sensation in itself, and you would earnestly wish to catch up on lost sleep, until your eyes automatically open at six, brain still half asleep, body clock taking over automatically –- on your day-off.

People who work in the call center industry invariably move around a lot, seeking better opportunities, comparing pay and benefits and subsequently, moving on with such nonchalance … with a wider network, better pay, more handsome benefits, and chances at promotion, among a host of other considerations.

In the case of 5 members of my former team, they incorporated and made a lateral move in the call center industry by going into recruitment — almost cutting our team membership in half – which invariably proved problematic, and they eventually split up again, going their separate ways, unable to preserve the shreds of friendship.

There used to be 14 of us in Team Jake … “M” was the first to leave, a bundle of joy gone haywire in the name of love … followed shortly by “J” who had to leave purportedly because he could not live with the stress of working nights, his health suffering in the process.

Team Jake was composed of people who volunteered to work during Christmas and New Year, fresh out of training and literally wet behind the ears. Some of us were already industry veterans, or at least, experienced. Most of us were neophytes, called virgins, green apples in an industry that pays a premium for experience.

Each one of us had a story to tell … almost every single one of us a survivor, having gone through some harrowing experiences. Each one was trying to make a better life for him/herself.

The stories we shared could be winning pieces in Maala-ala Mo Kaya … the harsh realities of life and its tragedies: a tragedy of fate, a tragedy of character, or in some cases, a tragedy of both fate and character. Not quite a fair shake.

Five of us were gay. And that alone should have shaken Jake, our Team Manager … but with fortitude, he handled us like wet bars of soap … not too gingerly lest we fall, not too hard lest we slip out. And then most of the women were acting like gay blades themselves, especially one of the girls who has declared that she was brought up by a gay nanny!

The comic relief amidst the pressures of work invariably resulted in peals of laughter. We coped in many different ways … someone was consistently banging her mouse on the desk, another would, in fits of rage, raise her keyboard and slam it down, another would slam his fist, another an open palm. One would press the mute button and swear at the customer, another would press the same button and deliver a hilarious one-liner to insult the intelligence or lack thereof of the customer at the other end of the line. There were foot stampers, there were those who clucked their tongues, there were those who glared at the twin-monitors.

We were a crazy bunch.

There was this one day that I really had this very strong urge to stay and laze in bed and catch up on lost sleep. I should have followed my instinct. Darn, the building elevators were out of service and a co-worker and I had to take the stairs to our workplace — 25 floors up in the sky — cursing all the way up!

Not surprisingly, there were only a handful of us who were ready to go to work. And those of us who were there shared a common feeling and developed a sort of special bond. Survivors. And true professionals, said a Work Force rep. But of course.

If Jake, our Team Manager, weren’t a good chap, I would have taken a hike, damn the desire to maintain a perfect attendance and earn another balloon at the end of the month.

I figured out that it was the price we had to pay for having a wonderful view of Eastwood and the nearby communities. That was the price we had to pay for the sheer enjoyment and thrill of looking at Antipolo, cock-sure that there were people out there who were viewing Metro Manila from that not-too-distant balcony embracing a ravine.

Over half an hour since the final ascent, I was still trying to catch my breath. Darn you Jake, had you been a jerk, I would really have loved to stay in bed … alone but not necessarily lonely.

And then we literally got glued.

I arrived at work earlier than usual on Monday, March 6, 2006 and was welcomed by the nauseating smell of rugby (not the game but an adhesive which happens to be the drug of choice of street urchins). It was being plastered as an adhesive on sheets of plywood which were to be sandwiched together as a double-walling material to set off a portion of the production floor near the pantry.

I thought to myself: why should they do this at this time when they could have done it in the mid-afternoon when the place was practically deserted? Oh but then again, that was their pie and my fingers were busy with different batches, not necessarily my own.

When our shift began, I was already having a headache but I thought I would feel better then because our work stations were on the other end of the hall, far and away from the construction area.

Half an hour later, my pre-shift meal was trying to find an escape route other than my rear end. I willed my tummy to be still. Mind over matter was a whole lot better than creating a scene, barfing in the midst of people who would naturally be offended by the sight of someone puking into a wastebasket. I knew that if I stood to go to the loo, I would not make it. I was really that woozy.

I felt like my brain was contracting to the rhythm of my pulse while my vision began to make crazy patterns on my twin monitors. I felt cold-clammy and my stomach was now heaving like crazy, the battle of the wills being at its wit’s ends. I did not know I was already on a high (in the local parlance, bangag!) but was too ashamed to admit it to myself and subsequently ask for help. Neither did I know that by then I was not alone. A lot of my co-workers were already emptying their guts on trashcans and at least one did so on the keyboard itself. Surprisingly, I was, statistically, already victim number 9.

Time to mambo.

We were asked to go to the reception area, where the clinic was. But the doctor was not due to come in until ten o’ clock. And so we were herded downstairs, in the lounge near MiniStop. The elevator felt like a roller coaster ride, all vertical plunge.

After over an hour, the doctor arrived and we were herded back upstairs. My stomach was still playing the role of a control freak with its contents and I could barely keep my eyes open because of a throbbing headache. My eyes were bloodshot and I could barely keep them open.

When my turn came, the doctor, in no uncertain terms, told me that my symptoms resembled that of an MI, a heart attack! Wow, imagine being told that out of a simple exposure to rugby. I toldl the Doctor that I used to have sinus bradycardia with arrythmia about a decade ago. But I have since been okay. And now …

Management decided to have Josh and myself taken to Medical City for further tests (this, in itself, deserves a stand-alone feature story), with a guard named George, and Gene, a gentleman from HR. Although we did not have medical insurance coverage just yet, Boss Martin went out of his way to make the necessary arrangements, with Cris, an amiable lady from HR, coordinating on our behalf.

The doctor, a handsome fellow from Bacolod, ordered ABGs (arterial blood gas), a painful blood extraction process from which there was no escape. We also had x-rays taken (mine had to be repeated … a double whammy). But what really got my goat was when we were led to a rest area for the blood extraction and the nurse introduced us as “sila yung nag rugby” (the ones who inhaled rugby) as if we did it on purpose! I gave them a piece of my mind and they began walking on eggs.

We were cleared at around half past four o’ clock in the morning … we were there for almost five hours. We were no longer “bangag” but boy were we cranky, hungry and exhausted.

I will be remiss in my role as a writer if I were to fail to include a comment from someone who added insult to injury. While we were reeling from the effects of the rugby, this woman said: “it is no longer as bad as it was earlier” … “it shouldn’t really make one sick, it is just a smell”.

Oh well, even with drugs, there is this thing called “cultural differences”.

Postscript:

I left Sitel almost four years ago to work in Sampaguita Gardens, a boutique resort in Aklan, my home province. But thanks to Friendster and later, Facebook, I have been in touch with some of my former colleagues. A couple of them were even able to visit me and stayed at the resort.

POST POSTSCRIPT:

As of July 1, 2011, am back in the BPO industry!

To this day ...

Posted in Pensieve Moments on 21 June 2010

It has been two years to this day when we experienced the wrath of Typhoon Frank, international code name Fengshen, which bore down on us with unexpected full strength, having caught us unaware that it changed course and intensified overnight from Signal No. 1 to the maximum, Signal No. 3.

We suffered a direct hit. Thousands of families were instantly rendered homeless.

In the wake of the storm came mud floods. Cars were floating around like oceangoing vessels. People’s homes were emptied of its unprotected contents by the flood, with furniture and appliances floating like flotsam and jetsam. People were on rooftops, or being carried away by floodwaters as they were perched on the roof of their houses. For the very first time, floodwaters reached the height of Kalibo Bridge.

Devastation was the order of the day. Thousands died in its aftermath in the region.

We were forced down on our knees not just in supplication but also in abject surrender to the horrible, wretched experience.

Emotionally drained, physically exhausted and financially crippled, the double whammy of the storm and flood sunk us in catatonia.

Indeed, June 21, 2008 will be remembered in infamy through the centuries with stories that leave a bad taste in the mouth. Bad memories made worse by the apathy displayed by people who were supposed to come to our rescue and protect us from further harm.

Prices went through the roof as sellers took advantage of the situation. While businesspeople were literally making a killing, the local leadership of the Department of Trade and Industry failed to make their presence felt while in the interim, people were forced to pay through their teeth for items supposedly under price control. It took the DTI a couple of days to surface even if the floodwaters were gone on the 22nd.

Political stalwarts came to visit and lo and behold, local officials came out of the woodworks, in droves, unable to resist the photo ops, which worked both ways. Media was finally aware of the situation, thanks to bloggers who helped spread awareness. If not for their efforts, people would not have known what actually transpired.

Tuesday, the 24th of June was the Feast of Saint John the Baptist, Kalibo’s Patron Saint. In the early morning, church bells pealed and fireworks were launched but no one was in a celebratory mood. It was Kalibo’s saddest Town Fiesta ever, far worse than during the dark days of the Japanese occupation period.

Thankfully, a huge contingent from the Metropolitan Manila Development Authority arrived to help clean up and rehabilitate Aklan.

Lo and behold, a day prior to the President’s arrival, NFA vehicles with “Rice for Sale” signs suddenly became very visible, with someone’s mighty magic wand orchestrating the show. But for whose benefit, really? As soon as the President left, the NFA vehicles were gone.

The thing that really angered people was that relief materials were turned over and “overturned”. And that is putting it mildly. Not surprisingly, a slew of Non-Government Organizations came in and personally handled the distribution of their aid to make sure that people who needed it got it. And that is a fact!

It has been two years. However, what has our government done to help prevent what happened from happening again? Apparently, not much.

To this day, people have panic attacks whenever there is a heavy downpour.

To this day, people still remember that infamous gift of imported goods distributed by a politician on his birthdy.

To this day, people still remember that van of mineral water that went up someone’s house and never got distributed to victims of Frank.

To this day, people wonder why someone was so desperate for media mileage he had to go out of his way to do something very unusual that literally drove people to peals of laughter.

To this day, people wonder why someone had to deny he ever said on national media that damage to Kalibo was minimal.

To this day, a lot of strange actuations, a lot of strange actions, a lot of strange occurences, remain unexplained.

To this day, non-government volunteer organizations are puzzled as to where their relief goods and financial contributions actually went.

To this day, NGOs who came to Kalibo to personally distribute their aid directly to the victims talk about not trusting government entities with their donations.

To this day …