Doors.

The best years – or, at least, the most important years – of our lives, I’ll wager, are not those which contain all the best stuff, but the most momentous. Doors close, others open, windows are left slightly ajar, allowing a steady and continual breeze to waft in, year after year; lights go out; decisions are made; other things occur which are beyond our control; books are read; trousers are lost. [Stolen from Oliver Tearle's New Year's blogpost.]

I don’t often pry on people following me on Twitter but yesterday, out of curiosity, I clicked on Oli’s page and read this excerpt from his blog. Needless to say I was floored–save for the bit about the trousers because, well…those aren’t the articles of clothing I’m often wont to lose. But that’s an aside.

So why all this and why the silence?

I’ve just resigned from my job and come to terms with the fact that desk jobs really aren’t for me.

So one door has closed and another is set to open. I’m mostly just tired so I’m keeping this short. Here’s to the next adventure–and if you ever get to read this, Oli, thank you for the words.

 

Blooming in April: When Writing Feels Great.

The flowers have started to bloom outside our front gate signaling the arrival of summer. It’s an event I look forward to the same way the Japanese anticipate the coming of the cherry blossoms–if you notice, the flowers are similarly poised for viewing. Unfortunately, I haven’t found the time to sit and watch them. At best, I see them in the evening, illuminated by street lamps. Perhaps this is a good time as any to enjoy the sight of them?

April is always a month of possibility. I usually get work or embark on new projects on this month as it often feels specially charged with positive energy. This year, apart from the usual projects at work, I’m looking into more creative work with heritage items. Every piece of our history has a special story to tell and the more I do research into time periods, the more I discover that there’s so much we don’t learn in school. Items too are better contextualized through place. Seeing areas makes them more alive–so, field trips are a must!

I don’t know why I’m writing about these possibilities but I guess this is the best segue I can think of to celebrate the traffic I’ve been getting these past few days. For the longest time, I’ve been keeping this blog, writing for myself–in order to understand things I can’t often articulate in conversation–and inasmuch as this has been a rewarding process, it gets lonely too. Often blogging feels like talking to a wall and though I’m sure writers are happy enough being read, I sometimes wonder what it’s like to really strike conversations online and debate the merits of certain things.

I’m reminded often that writing is only as good as the accompanying photos or the way the text is laid out.  Even at work, my boss reminds me of how short the attention span of people is online, and in general. People are just not interested or able to sit still and read, he says. I want to agree at times because it can get so quiet here.

But I don’t and I write anyway. It feels good to tell stories, especially that of the people and the places I see. I firmly believe that individuals each see things a different way and to not tell others about what we see is a waste–because our capacity to be awed by things is great. And it’s equally special to share this with all of you.

Thank you for dropping by, saying hello and offering such kind words. I have nothing to offer the lot of you in return except more words and photos. I hope these will suffice. You have all given me a great dose of encouragement–which I find incredibly difficult to quantify. And if you found me on account of loneliness, I have to say, my heart’s been abloom all week! It definitely feels like April.

Development: Continuing an Ongoing Conversation.

I have been wary at times to call my line of work “development” related because I don’t meet communities regularly and most of my days are spent sitting on a desk, in the company of my laptop and books that have to be read for work. During weekends, I opt to stand and wield a piece of chalk, trading ideas with my undergrads. It’s a busy week but sometimes I get away and when I do, it’s clearest to me, what development really is.

On the road, I try to see as much as possible and wander off with all sorts of people whom I’m sure have lots to teach me. Once, while on a three-week workshop in Quezon, I traded in my accommodations to accept the invitation of some farmers. I accepted on the condition that they give me work and so they did–we planted vegetables, harvested rice and went to their monthly village meeting. I asked them about how the land was prepared for planting and how vegetables are arranged on farms. They were a small, self-sustaining community that put up incentives so all of their neighbors would practice organic farming.

On another trip, we were scaling a mountain in search of a mumbaki. He’s a priest in the tradition of the Cordilleras. When we met him, it was close to dark. He fed us chicken–one that was still alive when we arrived–that was dressed, thrown atop a fire then placed in a pot of boiling water, seasoned with salt. We sat around a fire eating with our hands and I asked him about this house of his and why it had to be so high up a mountain. On the way down, our original route had become too dangerous to tread so we forged another path.

On yet another adventure, I woke before dawn and headed toward a pier. The fishermen recognized me from the day before. I waved in excitement and heard the roar of the engine. An outstretched hand ushered me into the boat and before I could sit, we were moving out to sea to catch the sunrise. To my surprise, the fishermen prepared a simple breakfast of coffee and bread. We sat together, whispering at first, talking about what kinds of fish they caught and whether they sold them or ate them. As soon as the sun properly rose, we were silent–at home in the calmness of the sea at dawn.

These are but few of the people I have met along the road who have helped me discover the meaning of development–a word I’ve often tried to come to terms with. Regardless of the cause we choose to advocate, what’s clear is that the practice of development is very much like engaging in an ongoing conversation. We listen and speak to one another–not only to be heard but also to understand better who we all are.

But where is the youth in all of this and what role could we possibly play in this conversation? Well, I can say from experience that being young has been about having more questions than answers. At no point in my life have I ever felt so small, not inadequate or insignificant, but tiny in the face of an infinite world that contains so many wonderful places and people. My curiosity has brought me to places I never thought I would see. It has helped me live through the experiences of others. What I’ve found is that most of our problems are the same: food security, poverty, joblessness, the continuous pressure placed on resuscitating heritage and culture–yet, the ways in which we solve these are different. That’s when development becomes exciting–it’s a wellspring of creativity.

Young people drive development because we’re the ones that ask questions. We live them, as the German poet Rainer Rilke once advised his student to do, and in the process our curiosity fuels creative problem-solving that’s not just about doing away with what’s wrong but is about understanding people, listening to them and continuing a conversation as equals.

Lonely in the City: How Manila Mends the Heart.

Only a beautiful city can repair a broken heart. After having been turned away from my alma mater and missing the opportunity to bid my students adieu and congratulate them on successfully completing high school, I took my loneliness out for a walk.

As usual, most of the crying was done on the train and by the time I reached the last station upon which I was to alight, I wasn’t sure if coming all this way was worth the effort. I risked disappointment and foreignness and being in a city that was so cruel to so many of its inhabitants. I boarded a jeepney, wary and out of sorts–but somehow, Manila embraced me in a way I didn’t ever think possible–especially in broad daylight, when the city itself showed its own scars.

There we were, two vulnerable souls, each seeking refuge in the other. Thank you, Manila, for your quiet streets filled with birdsongs and bridges that lead me back to myself.

The Manila Post Office seen from Jones Bridge by way of jeepney.

My grandparents met at the Post Office when they were younger and that’s when my  grandfather claims to have noticed this beautiful, shy woman who would later become his wife. When I see this building, I miss them a lot and I remember the many times we drove past this bridge when they were still alive. They would brighten up at the sight of this building–even in their late eighties.

The Manila Cathedral seen from its side.

You walk along these streets and you remember for a moment that once upon a time, Manila was the Pearl of the Orient. Its architecture and its people were cosmopolitan and though today we’re wont to say that this feels a lot like another place, I’ve finally come to be proven wrong. This is exactly what Manila ought to feel like–beautiful, opulent and still, very much our own. The ambulance was also a dead give-away of my state of mind.

One of the older buildings in Intramuros that’s fenced and appears ready for demolition.

The birds sing loudest in empty spaces where the threat of man is so remote. They don’t sing sad songs and I love that when I was lonely, an even lonelier building cheered me up because of the life it allowed to flourish within itself. Reminds me of the true meaning of giving. Assuming the edifice felt anything, it would long to be whole again, to be used–but instead, it is seemingly at peace, giving birds a place to live, a place to sing. No matter how sweet the song, the birds can never repay the building–kindness without a cost.

San Agustin Church seen from the Ristorante delle Mitre.

The food was wonderful. It’s the kind of home-cooked set of meals you hope to arrive at after taking your loneliness for a walk. From across the table where I sat, I could see the San Agustin Church and I still recall the many field trips and school visits we would have that had this lot as our marker.

The former Philippine Constabulary.

Set against the backdrop of Cumulus clouds at sunset and paired with the moon looking over us all, this scene was quite dramatic. I had come to witness some theater based on historical events…more on that next time but for now, this. How could any theater outdo this sky?

San Agustin Church at nightfall.

It was Palm Sunday, after all. I had waited months for this day to come, for a completely different set of reasons. I was excited for my young ones–as I still am–but instead got served a heavy dollop of disappointment. Regardless, perhaps more than the joy of commencement, something can be said about going back home?

I knew my Holy Week would be meaningful when I found myself in San Agustin, attending mass spontaneously. Sometimes the Spirit calls and I don’t listen as much as I ought to–but as always, instead of punishing me, I am just led back home when I am most broken.

March Sunsets.

March, you have been immensely life-giving. You’ve shattered many of my illusions and taught me to be brave in the face of adversity. You’ve rallied me on and said ‘why not’ when most people were likely to not even understand the ‘why.’

Now I’m here and the future is a good night’s sleep away. I cannot wait for it to come, as usual, but I’m also happy to savor the present.

My family and I journey to Laguna tomorrow to visit churches. I’m nursing a fever and a sore throat but I’m looking forward to the fresh air and the wonderful company of my nearest and dearest.

Holy Week, apart from Church traditions and obligations, has always meant family time so whether we end up watching re-runs of shows or actually heading out, it’s always exciting.

Procrastinating by way of Said.

Theory is taught so as to make the student believe that he or she can become a Marxist, a feminist, an Afrocentrist, or a deconstructionist with about the same effort and commitment required in choosing items from a menu.

- Edward Said, Culture and Imperialism

This isn’t my favorite Said but he does make a fine point here. I’m forced to recall this as I glance over the pile of papers egging me on. I am, as I can sometimes be, annoyed at myself for accepting the task of teaching political ideology to a bunch of undergrads who are only a few years my junior. It’s not so much their age that bothers me but that I can’t see how best to teach this without digressing into history [theirs--meaning everyone else's and ours] and returning with enough time to actually still discuss what all these great minds meant outside of their time.

Next semester, I think I’m begging off (though surely not by pure choice alone) and looking forward to weekends spent reading and writing. More the reading than the writing, methinks. I’ve mastered the ability to jot things down even at the most inopportune of moments–between stations on the train, at the back of a motorcycle whilst riding sideways, while walking…some things just have to be set in writing lest I forget and lose the ideas completely.

But yes, returning to Said, I worry about the teacher’s role as authority and when it comes to things as valuable to me as ideas, it feels annoying to know that anything said in class could hold greater weight because I’m the one standing on the podium. In another, often misquoted and abused work, Said says:

There is nothing mysterious or natural about authority. It is formed, irradiated, disseminated; it is instrumental, it is persuasive; it has status, it establishes canons of taste and value; it is virtually indistinguishable from certain ideas it dignifies as true, and from traditions, perceptions, and judgments it forms, transmits, reproduces.

(Taken from the Introduction of his seminal work, Orientalism)

He knows and I know but the question is, does the student know? I worry that maybe I inflict ideas upon them and as I am careful and quick to debunk even my own analysis just to show that there’s a plurality of beliefs, the reality is still that: authority figures canons of taste and value.

I could also be over-thinking and for all I know, I’ve debunked myself so many times they might not care what to believe anymore in the end. In any case, ideas are complex things–which makes teaching it difficult but not without a great sense of satisfaction especially when students leave the room with more questions than answers. This has happened once or twice in recent history and often, what betrays the thinking, inquisitive pupil is his stillness even as the time suddenly runs out. Class is dismissed and he’s forced by habit to stand and walk out the door but he ambles on in another direction, straying from his usual path. It’s wonderful to watch. Many times I’ve also had to write something nonsensical on the board in order to disguise the mist forming in my eyes as an allergy to chalk dust.

When you ask me a question, sometimes, I feel as if you get it way better than I could ever teach it or learn it, even.

So, what has this been? For the most part, it’s just another digression. In the real world I am worrying about a meeting with the man from Memorare Manila. We’re discussing an event that happened more than sixty years ago and it’s incumbent upon us to spark remembrance and keep the embers burning. There’s anxiety there too and a sense that I might not know enough about history to best be in the position I’m in. As you’ve probably also guessed, there’s school and the reality of a semester coming to a close–so much parting involved and always when we’ve managed to get to know our students better.

This week is erratic and all I can really think about is Said carefully reminding me to not let the entire exercise of the intellect go to waste. “Think!” I imagine him saying.

“Trust nothing but the veracity of your own ideas after your mind’s had its way with them.” [This isn't Said anymore. Just me wanting to carve these words onto a rubber stamp for the next time papers come piling in.]

——–

The footnote: Actually, the point I was going to get at since class ended with Marx was that the nature of the roles themselves [teacher-student] need some revamping, recreation–perhaps even re-enacting?

Commuter’s idealism and finding one’s self.

I am a commuter, not between the city and the village, although I do this frequently; not between the inane idealism of the classroom and the stifling reality beyond it, which I must do for survival and self-respect. I am a commuter between what I am now and what I was and would like to be and it is this commuting at lightning speed, at the oddest hours, that has done havoc to me.
From F. Sionil Jose’s Tree

Sometimes I feel as if the passages were written that I might return to them in various moments of my life and recall precisely who I am. In the past two years, I’ve come every now and then to get to know this man through his work and through his company. Every time, there’s more to know, more to ask. I listen with rapt attention and he rewards me with his generosity and his wisdom.

There is, after all, a reason why we must persevere at remembering. I’d forgotten all about that owing to the fatigue wrought by a month of heavy research on the Pacific war in the Philippines and a yellow revolution.

These have done havoc to me as they did to Jose’s characters but if this be the case, I allow myself the space to breathe, the right to feel and the capacity for gratefulness.

—–

Incidentally, the theme of commuting is apt for aren’t we all but commuters moving from one place to another, one self to the next and back to the only? The road, as I imagine it, takes many forms and sometimes I need not be on one to know that I’ve traveled far and wide.