Kitty Litter

This photo deliberately low resolution. See how these two idiots are happily gossiping away without a care for how their carts are blocking the aisle? Maybe we should hire these people to act as barriers during concerts, live shows, events, etc. Given how selfish they are about blocking the path (added bonus: if you ask these morons to move, THEY get mad!), I'm sure they can prevent things like the recent game show stampede and police the border of the US and Mexico. Just tell them it's a grocery.

If you're wondering, they spent fifteen minutes in the aisle, just babbling. People pointedly stared at them as they tried to get the two cretins to move. Finally one guy asked them very politely. They gave him a frosty stare then moved...six feet down, to block the next aisle. So considerate! Give them a medal.


See the airconditioner directly hooked up to the electric post, without a meter? This squatter hovel on E. Rodriguez enjoys comfort at your expense; someone has to pay for the electricity.

And worse, people like these think they are entitled to their comforts because they are poor.

Whoever said shows that give away money are trying to help the poor? Bull. It simply encourages greed and materialism. Who puts a value on what they get for free anyway?

I'm sure there's a reason for this aircon. Of course there is. But what should anger you is that theft is still theft...and stealing electricity for something that is a luxury cannot be justified for any reason.

This site offers to make shirts off the stuff in your blog, and it's fascinating what they pull out of blogs. Got this from Dean and Banzai Cat.

So what's on your blog? ^_^

Sometimes the smallest things can make you happy, and I believe that the secret to happiness is in being content with what you have…and being easily pleased.

Now don’t rush out and practice this; I’m no self-help guru, and may your God help you if you think that. I think this is why I write creative nonfiction: because it deals with finding the extraordinary in the ordinary. Because it’s about telling good stories, and relating to your reader. Because it is about examining the self, and navel-gazing be damned.

One thing that gives me much comfort at night, when I wake up from the rare bad dream (or the occasional “naalimpungatan”), is the sight of Wynn’s* slippers in my room.

(*For those who asked, “Polar Bearball” and “Wynn” are the same person; I do not have a new boyfriend who resembles Brad Pitt in “Troy.” Boy toy ko lang yun…cough cough, where was I? Ah, Wynn. He simply got tired of being ribbed by officemates who read my blog and began referring to him as the “Polar Burr.” You know who you are, Best-Selling Stud and Madam H. Ha!)

Slippers are of special significance to me. I don’t own Havaianas or those strappy affairs fashion victims sport. I like the plain rubber variety, but the tacky knockoffs of Havaianas in SM are beginning to tempt me. I own six pairs of slippers (one of which is missing a partner) and am planning to get more.

Mention “tsinelas” to my best friend Golda, and she will begin snorting in laughter. This was because she once stayed over at my place at the height of EDSA 3. We turned on the telly, and there was this reporter pawing through the wreckage at Mendiola. When asked to describe the debris, he cheerfully told the audience that there were so many slippers there, he was going to see if he could find a pair in his size.

We found that funny, of course. We even have a silly theory: slippers do not die, they merely circulate, like fruitcake. Notice how often you see abandoned slippers in the streets? People don’t mind losing slippers because they know that the universe will always provide them with tsinelas.

Plus we’ve had quite a few hilarious encounters with people that involved slippers as weapons, slippers as disciplinary implements, and slippers as headgear…and no I am so not making the last one up.

Where was I? Oh yes, Wynn’s slippers. It’s a bright red pair of knobbly slippers, the fairly cheap rubber kind. Some time three or so years ago, when we got really serious together, we decided to buy house slippers for us, his-and-hers pairs we could keep in my bedroom. It would solve the problem of him going barefoot when he was at my house and picking up splinters with his feet—which was almost daily.

These days he has his own pillows here, spare clothing, even books and other stuff as my house is fairly huge and has many places to store junk. But these slippers mean more to me among the stuff he’s left here.

We had fun buying those slippers; we had a “you-had-to-have-been-there” moment in the middle of SM City, giggling over the prices of slippers. We hadn’t realized how expensive tsinelas was; every time we walked over to a likely pair of Sun Beach or Spartans, exclaiming “This looks good!” we’d be taken aback by the price tag, and slink away muttering, “Pangit, pangit!” in the worst display of sour grapes ever.

Then we saw two pairs bound together—one a deep, whorish red with blue straps, and the other a sickly puke green with mucus-yellow straps—in a buy-one-take-one offer. How could we, practical cheapskates that we were, resist? Added bonus: they had “pressure dots” all over them. They were tacky and ugly, and we decided to give them a home.

Plus the price was right: less than P 150 for two pairs of fairly sturdy albeit hideous slippers (He still thinks we paid too much). Naturally, I own the green pair; he pads around in the red pair. Mine flop about on my feet and have been so badly abused, they’ve faded and some “pressure nubs” have worn out. His are still fairly pristine, and have only begun fading recently because I steal them frequently and with impunity.

But I love his slippers almost as much as our silly Siamese does. You ought to see Doc Ling go bananas over Wynn’s feet and slippers. The again, maybe not.

As for me, Wynn’s slippers tell me that, no matter how bad things get, he will be here because he is at home with me.

Tatin said something in the comments box of an earlier post (two posts down from this one) that I overlooked. "I don't believe that desperate straits led these people to be trampled. There are a lot of people who go hungry but still cling to simple human decency." Well said, Tatin, and thank you.

I think of the desperately poor family who helped me long ago. They didn't see themselves as poor, only momentarily broke. Yes, Tatin's right. Poverty does not necessarily translate into abandonment of simple human decency. I should have remembered what that family taught me one Christmas long ago. As per one of Wynn's favorite songs, the least complicated stuff is the hardest to learn.

My friend Mayette, who is an advocacy lawyer for the EU, works with indigenous people who are so poor, they have no concept of wealth beyond a kilo of rice or sugar. They also don't feel greed; to them, a kilo of boiled beans and ube (sans salt and sugar) is a feast, and they happily share with outsiders.

She told me that they don't think of themselves as poor. It's because they're too busy working: planting, tilling, taking care of their offspring, learning how to do things to improve their lot, and so on. When given money, they divide it among themselves and save up the rest for the future. It's not even a communist thing; it's simply because they do not feel the need to hoard or to complicate their lives.

They are so poor by our standards that they think selling their exquisite baskets for P 20 is good business because P 20 will buy them a kilo of rice.

Contrast this with the "survivors" (NOT the victims, whether dead or merely injured) of the Wowowee stampede. They booed the host when he told them they were canceling the show, and milled around the disaster area even after the dead bodies were lined up outside. They wanted in, and they had plans for the money.

It would be nice if I could say that all of them wanted to start businesses and pull themselves out of poverty. But I'd be lying. Watch TV, read the news, talk to those who were there. Too many people in that crowd wanted the money for a big fiesta, new clothes, a new cellphone, a new house, a new car...just add "new" to a consumer product and we're there.

My friend Maoi, who has also worked with the truly poor in the countryside, told me that too many of Manila's "poor" are actually broke. Instead of saving or investing their money, they squander it on luxuries they've seen that other people have. I can believe that; walking to the QC post office once, I saw a man park a new car in front of a shanty, go in, and come back out in house clothes. He had a phone worth P 30,000 (and this in 2002), and inside the shanty was a large TV with a karaoke machine.

If that's what "poor" means, I'd like to be poor.

Final example: I used to sympathize with squatters until I discovered what professional squatters were. That's when I received an essay from a student which taught me more about real homelessness than anything else.

My student wrote about his family scrimping and saving to buy land at the foot of Mount Pinatubo, and they achieved this in 1989. You know what happened in 1991. Their house and farm was buried under the lahar, and they were broke and homeless.

The government had no help to offer his family, who had paid their taxes religiously for years. No help for people who had truly worked for what they had.

They were too busy helping the squatters in Manila...those who benefited from the odious Lina Law.

My student angrily wrote that he had no sympathy for squatters, because they would hold out for more and more money, then go and squat somewhere else again. He was furious that the money his family had paid in taxes was being paid out to those "thieves." And, most of all, he was enraged that all this was legal under the idea of "social justice." There they were, renting homes and borrowing money to survive, while professional squatters grabbed the land and resettlement areas.

I only wish I still had Elmer's essay. I think he was one of the students who taught me the most.

I was going through my students' papers and I was infuriated to discover that several students in one class had failed to follow simple directions. There I was, angry because I was thinking, "common sense isn't as common as you think." I was wondering why I even bothered insisting on continuing to teach until March of this year.

I gave up and went to my coverage for the day: an "erotic food" (so right up my alley!) demonstration at the Philippine Plaza. That's when I ran into D, a former student who now works for a cable network. She was eager to hear that I'd left UP, and reminded me that I'd once told her to go for her dreams...and that she did.

Another talented former student, B, attributes part of her spectacular success (which includes winning the 2005 Ramon Magsaysay essay writing contest) to me in her blog, and bewails my leaving the university. My boss Marbee always thanks me for referring P to her; P has since become more friend than assistant.

Then I wandered over to Kate's journal. Kate is a former student whom I adore for her writing talent and perception. She had this to say about the Wowowee incident:

"i remember something my pol sci 14 professor said in class -- probably the only thing i remember -- it's that those in power want the powerless continually, eternally powerless, because that's the only way they can continue being in power. patron-client, wasn't that what it was called? it was a term associated with the way our political system works, but isn't it scary how it applies to more aspects of the filipino way of life?"

Former students keep coming up to me to thank me for what I've taught them, and others wander over to this blog and tell me other good things. You begin to be humbled by the discovery that what you did DID matter, after all; that the years of putting up with idiots and jerks were worth it. You begin to understand something a great teacher, Prof. Ramas, once told you: that it is true that there are fewer diamonds in the rough in our classes these days, but those one or two diamonds are always worth polishing.

I feel privileged to be considered an important part of the learning of these people; knowing that is like finding a home you didn't know was there. That's when I remembered why I'm going to miss teaching at UP: the chance to teach people like her, to be a part of their lives. Say what you will about teaching (and it's probably true), but when things like this happen, it makes me happy, and helps me raise my head a little higher on days when I think, "Teacher lang ako." It becomes, "Yes, I am a teacher, and I'm a good teacher (especially when I'm motivated), and these are my former students. They are my contribution to society."

And when that contribution can think and write like Kate does, then I think I've paid my dues to the country. :)

It's been some time since the squatter colony near our house has held a funeral on the street. Their area faces a major, four-lane (okay, maybe three, but it depends on what's parked there) road, so they can take over two lanes, sometimes three, when they hold a funeral.

So when I drove past there a few nights ago, I was forced to swerve because there was only one lane left open to traffic. The coffin itself was on the sidewalk, fronted by the requisite gambling area. I hope no foreigners passed by, because last I heard, only the Irish drink in front of corpses...but they don't toss their beer bottles under the coffin or put food on top of the coffin or use the area under the coffin as a garbage bin.

O-O

In a cab yesterday, the driver was listening to news about the Wowowee stampede. The old bloke was shaking his head and tsk-ing. Seems the people outside refused to leave in hopes of seeing the show go on.

"People have died and you want to go on?" spat the cab driver in Filipino, more to himself than to me.

The interviewer corralled an Aling Juanita at the Medical City, and she told a horrible story of being helpless, of being pinned under six dead bodies...which was probably what saved her.

I know what she meant. I once got caught in a small mob outside the Supreme Court while waiting for Wynn's bar results several years ago. I'd stupidly parked myself in front of the gates, not realizing that the bar results were going to be posted where I stood.

When the mass of lawyer hopefuls came crashing towards me, I discovered a new level of fear: not being in control. I was swept off my feet, pushed and pulled this way and that, and my pleas to let me through ignored completely. If anyone tries to tell me that lawyers are dignified, I dare them to stand in the way of the bar examinees when the results come out.

I was somehow spat out of the mass of people, and I leaned against the gate for support. There were no people in that crowd, just a mindless mass of squirming things who wanted to know whether they'd passed the bar or not. Nobody's safety and well-bring mattered to any of them.

That was a smallish crowd, just about a hundred. According to reports, Aling Juanita was up against at least thirty thousand. Imagine her fear at knowing that nobody in that giant crowd cared whether she lived or died.

Aling Juanita told of men pushing against the railing, climbing over the barricades and trampling on women and children to get into the ULTRA. In an anguished voice, she told of being trapped outside when the security guards locked the gates to protect the premises.

"Poverty is what caused this. These people wanted a better life," someone said.

"Bah," snoted the driver. "It's not poverty. Those people were the victims of someone else's greed."

Unable to resist, I asked, "Sir, whose greed?"

"People like them, those who wanted the money."

And I knew that he was referring to people who didn't t care that they might have killed someone weaker because they wanted a million pesos. People who placed a value on someone else's life; one million pesos was enough for them to forget to care that someone else stood in their way. What's worse is that they probably don't know what they did, and don't care. The mob, the herd took away their capacity to reason, to think, to care; all they could think of was "I want a raffle ticket."

Look at the roster of victims and you'll see no able-bodied men among them; they were mostly women and children. When the finger-pointing is over, when the bodies have been buried, was a million pesos really enough incentive for whoever trampled them to shatter the lives of those who lived with, loved, depended on these women?

I guess they literally voted with their feet, because their heads weren't available.

Death is cheap, I know that. But who was it who once wrote that how we honor our dead is how we are as a people? Manong Taxi Driver understood that better than me. The question is now whether those who trampled the victims understood--or at least even knew--what they did. If they felt some remorse then it would be good.

But those interviewed who claimed they were with the earlier crush mostly said they wanted another shot at getting into the ULTRA. The deaths didn't matter to them; one even jokingly said "We weren't the ones who died anyway." Others milling about the disaster area were cheefully waving banners and hands at the cameras. It was as if no one cared.

When I drove by the funeral area tonight, the coffin was gone. But the beer bottles (now broken) and the garbage was still there.

And you have to wonder who you are and how you fit into a world where too much human behavior can't be justified even if it were animal behavior. Are we really set above all other creatures? Last time I checked, there was always a good reason for animal fights: territory, food, mates, defense of offspring.

How do we justify trampling other people to death, then not caring, if we truly are the highest of creatures? If you know, help me understand.