Tu Hijo Piensas Asi

More and more of my friends are approaching that age when wedding bells begin to ring in their girlfriends’ ears and the subject tends to come up more often than they’d like. One has even gone as far as having a detailed discussion with his girlfriend with regard to the future of both their careers. He will continue to work while she will be a stay-at-home mom. It wasn’t exactly democratic and he’s learned to avoid all conversation on that topic since then.

It was funny at first until we started projecting about where we’d be sending them to school, what first car to give them, and how often we’d allow them to go out. I, coming from a conservative family, vowed to put him through all the misery my mom has done for me. It’s for his or her own good after all.

Because my mom loved me so much, I couldn’t drive myself out to gimmicks until I was 19 and couldn’t stay out past 12 midnight until I was 20. You can imagine how much worse it was for my sister. Of course my mom had always justified these rules of conduct by recounting the instance the same rule had been imposed on her, when she was our age. Her conservative ways haven’t been updated since the Spanish era, apparently.

There were rules like:

No phone calls after nine o’clock.
A girl should never call a guy.
A girl should always be chaperoned by her brother or cousin on dates.
Never let the boy into the house unless he’s courted you for one year.
If you invite out, always pay for the bill.
A boy should never enter a girl’s bedroom.
When dropping off a girl, always wait for her to enter the gate of her house before driving off.
All boyfriends and girlfriends should meet the parents in a formal dinner for approval before the courtship is deemed official.

Come to think of it, it’s that formal dinner that I’ve always dreaded. My father was easy to please, but my mom was another story. She needed glasses to read but had no trouble spotting the way anyone held the fork and knife (or struggled to), through each of the five courses. Intelligence, beauty, and table manners were standard requirements. Manner of speaking, interests and clothing preference were subject to scrutiny.

There was a skin whitening commercial on TV that seemed to depict my conundrum to a T. A strapping young man had brought a girl home to meet Mom. Gently lowering her glasses the mother inspected the girl head to toe. “She’s beautiful, but is she intelligent as well?” the mother asked in Spanish. “Si Tita,” the girl replied. “Tu Hijo Piensas Asi (He seems to think so).”

Yet, as absurd as the commercial seemed, Mother’s powers were stranger than fiction. They weren’t simply limited to perception but delved into the telekinetic. She could tell what the girl’s family business was simply by the last name, quickly followed by that particular girl’s hidden agenda for going out with me.

It’s why I’ve always kept quiet about who I was currently dating at the dinner table. It’s why I quickly change the subject when my girlfriend asks why I haven’t introduced her to my folks.

Mothers are like the omnipotent narrator in fables, unfortunately. She had ways of finding out. She seemed to suspect I was out philandering and doing drugs every time I returned home late. I still wonder if the threats of disowning me if I got a girl pregnant were a stone cold bluff or well informed intelligence.

It’s not simply a Mama’s Boy thing. Who wouldn’t want to meet a nice girl they can take home to meet mom? Only a spiteful one, I imagine, would bring home one that breaks all her rules.

Over the years, I’ve found her advice has helped me avoid potentially long and masochistic relationships. Ironically, the few disastrous ones were those I could call after nine, or kiss on just the first date.

True class, as mother has taught me, is not determined by what you do or say, but what you hold back. Impossible standards for this day and age, my friends would argue, but I’ve been fortunate to date a few that pass with flying colors.

When I look back at the girls I’ve dated, including the ones she’s told me to avoid, I realize that there might have been some hasty generalizations as well as some sad truths to her beliefs. Nevertheless I’m still glad I’ve followed and broken her rules in equal amounts of measure.

I remember saying “That’s so last century” in response to the rules. I realize now what they were really for. All the emphasis on tact, courtesy and graciousness were more for our own upbringing than for finding worthy husbands or wives. You could say it’s a quaint home-style finishing school in many ways.

As for mother, her vigilance has waned into the occasional query about my love life. Her trust took a hefty 25 years to gain. She’s also managed to secure an early retirement, not having me or my sister to worry about, seeing as how we’re realized for ourselves the kind of qualities we ought to be looking for in potential life partners.

Great plan, I think. I wouldn’t want to hasten my baldness (if what my Dad says about worrying too much increases hairloss [plus the fact that baldness is hereditary]), by worrying about my kids either. So torture them it is. Hey, I’m only concerned about their future.

The Power of Blackmail

I read once somewhere that the reason friends becomes close is because of a shared secret. Sure time and shared experience factor in there somewhere but nothing brings two individuals closer and faster than sharing a secret. Not just any secret, the kind that, if let out into the world, could ruin a man's life forever.

It’s something true of members of a band, partners-in-crime (Yes, real crime. I’m talking ex-cons here) and even partners-in-crime in the business sense. BFF’s or best friends forever share innumerable secrets about each other that, in one way or another, black mail them into staying together.

Just like buddies in a military troop, exploring foreign territory, there’s no one else to rely on but your partner. It’s a terribly hostile world and naturally, you turn to the only thing that’s not hostile towards you. I’m not putting a dark, survivalist spin on this, but rather stating a matter of fact.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve felt that in Europe, jumping from train to train and finding my way, much thanks to my best friend, through a city I’ve never been to before. Sure there were times that we didn’t get a long, but we lived through it anyway. What further puzzled my parents was how we could stand to see each other the very next day, when we got back from Europe.

“Haven’t you had enough of each other?” they asked. I couldn’t figure out why they found it so obscure.

In contrast, my best friend always says, “Familiarity breeds contempt.” That, too, is true. Hang around someone or something long enough and you’re bound to hate it, that ever dependable, yet hideously rusty family car entrusted to you, that tacky family heirloom of a ring from grandma, with a gigantic turquoise rock in the center surrounded by ridiculously Victorian leaves… there’s a whole laundry list of them around the house.

Yet despite all this contempt breeding familiarity, that blackmailing secret still remains. It cons your subconscious, somehow, convincing you to suck up everything you hate for the sake of keeping something a secret. It could be the reason why some people, despite all the indications contrary to it, happen to be friends. You know a number of them — best friends (or couple) with nothing in common whatsoever, who seem to start a fight every chance they get, only to make up after and begin the cycle anew.

I’ve just recently come from a week long vacation on an isolated island in the equatorial Pacific with some friends. (Funny how you can use ‘equatorial’ and ‘pacific’ and suddenly it doesn’t sound like the Philippines anymore.) I’ve come back with pictures, stories (Yes, even the kind that make me some money.) and a nice new tan. Yet one more thing I came home with was a closer bond with friends I never thought I’d grow closer to.

The very next day after our arrival, we just had to see each other for one reason or another. “Siargo bonding,” one jested. I still think the reason is a little secret we all shared, one you won’t see in the pictures I’ve posted — the kind of secret that blackmails you into staying together.

Finding When Not Looking

Irony. Yes, that’s what it’s called — “incongruity between the actual result of a sequence of events and the normal or expected result.” So when I say “I’ve got nothing to leave behind,” it turns out that I do, indeed, have a lot to leave behind.

The past entry revealed just how much I had to leave behind, unfinished projects and all, and a couple of new additions to be mindful of. And in the long absence now marked in the journal as a whole month of no entries, I’ve discovered even more.

I was on vacation recently, and was enjoying it too, when I got a call from a PR company inviting me to another one of their events. Apparently, they haven’t heard that I’ve “gone to the States.” “Wow, they still want you,” my friend remarked. I retorted with a bit of cynicism, though in hindsight, he might be right. It really does take an outsider to see things more clearly.

Perhaps the brightest and most prominently waving banner is a recent offer from an editor of a rival newspaper (call me a mercenary writer if you wish). He talked about the misconceptions about journalism, media, and writing in general. He also had a rare adherence to precision over pride that I've always heard of yet never encountered in the industry until now. Reminds me of my feistier ivory tower days. Say it’s a sheltered publication and I just might be enticed even more.

It offered the kind of mentoring that I miss back at the magazine, coupled with a career path I thought I didn’t want to take. Yes, it’s hard, it’s hectic, it needs yet more sacrifice and perhaps it’s the masochist in me that’s drawn to it. Or perhaps I just give too little credit to my craft.

He had this enigmatic quality to him, that editor, whether he was talking about the Kapampangan Mafia (don’t bother, it’s an inside joke), the current senatorial line-up or some obscure topic for a 3 hour lecture abroad. Maybe it was his enthusiasm for, of all things, my potential future in this path, should I choose it. Maybe it’s because he ignited a spark that first drew me to journalism, if my first three years can be called that, in the first place.

Yes, news is a stoic business, but that’s not to say there isn’t a hint of romanticism hidden in there somewhere. It started out as a lofty dream, a half-meant joke, a bit ambitious from some points of view, but laced with the best of intentions, I assure you. Maybe it’s something all my mentors wanted to see happen, something that was always in the back of my mind, yet hardly acknowledged.

I won’t say it’s a ‘coming home’ of sorts, lest I be forced to put my foot in my mouth in the near future. I’ll look into other options, of course, but you all know I’m already hesitating to leave this field.

A career investment — yes, that’s what I’ll call it — a gamble on what many are already saying is the most llamado option.

It’s hardly a sidetrack. Those who are in the business would, in fact, call it the next logical step — something that came sooner than expected.

Ask, (Well, not on purpose, in my case), and ye shall receive.

It's occasions like these when you can’t help but believe.

Nothing to Leave Behind

I’ve recently brought up the issue of finding work abroad with family members and they seemed quite receptive and encouraging. They were glad I’m finally opening up to the idea and pondering spreading my wings and leaving the nest, so to speak. One of the reasons they’ve cited for me to pursue this is that I’ve “got nothing to leave behind.”

While in a way, it’s true, it’s also painfully revealing of my life thus far. I’ve recently turned 25, you see, and against all my will, all my ridiculing on the matter, I think I might have unwittingly stumbled into the feared “quarter life crisis.” Funny what a few little words can do.

Perhaps the first thing that comes to mind is the part about the love life, or lack thereof. Four years in college, three years in the work environment, four self-help books, and dozens of acquaintances later, I’m still lacking. Recently, I’ve argued that it’s a matter of choice. Yet there are times I’ve wondered if I’ve been a little too ambitious for my own good.

Following closely is that of my career. Three years of working my ass off has still kept my salary well below what I had expected when I was back in college. Heck, in all that time, I’ve only managed to raise the cost of my services by just a mere four figures. Then there are the stories – my efforts at immortalizing my thoughts, opinions and experiences, to broadcast them to the world to make a world event. Of course, the world event lasts only as long as the ink does on the paper, or the cache does in Google. My billboards — my petty little claim to fame — that used to stand proudly in four prominent locations in the metro are now gone. They’ve been tucked away into a filing cabinet of aggressive marketing, long forgotten thanks to the rival brand’s relentless hard sell tactics.

Then there are my personal projects — little things I scribble into a little red notebook that cost too much to bring to life — an ambitious magazine here, a new way to phase out money in a mall, a job recruitment agency cum educational institute. None of them have gone beyond brainstorming coffee breaks, much less a feasible financial viability study.

And Destiny, my Destiny. I’ve got such great plans for her, plans that were made the day I first drove her to school – promises that have yet to be fulfilled. Indeed, things have been made easier to keep these with her, but despite all my negotiations, one thing I can’t seem to give her is time. And yet she’s waited for 48 long years.

As for family, spirituality and craft, they’re now, perhaps, worse off than when I started. There’s been so much abandon, so much compromise, so much putting off thanks to the pressure of work that I wonder when I’ll finally begin working on them rather than adding to the growing list of To-Do’s on my phone.

Perhaps it’s because the one thing I keep working for is what I hope will buy me more of this precious time in the future. I’m prepared to make more sacrifices and am struggling to tick off things from my list as I go along. The trouble is, when I do come back, will there be any of this “nothing’s to leave behind” left waiting for me? At the end of the day, all I’m looking for is something to come home to.

Bum Ticker

Funny how you only start to look into your own health when it’s too late.

My Dad’s recent episodes of high blood pressure have prompted the family to buy this electronic blood pressure monitor. As part of his concern (read paranoia with mild hypochondria), he urged us to take our own blood pressure readings regularly as well.

Now we’ve long been aware of my mom’s mild anemia, but I wouldn’t have believed it was genetic until I saw my own pressure reading. It was the first time, in a while, that I’ve had mine taken. Naturally, the whole family was already high strung about health, and off I was trooped to see the doctor.

So we took some readings, and there were some interesting findings. The doctor said I had abnormal heart rhythm called arrhythmia. Nicknamed ‘athlete’s heart’, arrhythmia often occurs in hyperactive adults. My lifestyle, obviously, is quite the opposite. Of course, the doctor assured me that it was all within normal bounds. So my worries were laid to rest… for a while.

Reading and editing through press releases, I discovered a couple of factoids regarding arrhythmia.

“The term arrhythmia refers to any change from the normal sequence of electrical impulses, causing abnormal heart rhythms. This can cause the heart to pump less effectively. Some arrhythmias are so brief (for example, a temporary pause or premature beat) that the overall heart rate or rhythm isn't greatly affected. But if arrhythmias last for some time, they may cause the heart rate to be too slow or too fast or the heart rhythm to be erratic.

Mine, obviously, is too slow. There were gaps when my doctor thought my heart stopped beating. Speaking of which...

“Sudden cardiac arrest is a condition wherein the heart beat stops suddenly and unexpectedly. There is abrupt or sudden loss of heart function, and it is usually caused by abnormal heart rhythm called arrhythmia.

“Sudden cardiac arrest occurs when the electrical system to the heart malfunctions and suddenly becomes very irregular. The heart beats dangerously fast, causing the normal rhythmic contractions to stop, and inhibits the heart from pumping blood and oxygen to the rest of the body. Within seconds, the brain becomes depleted of oxygen and the person loses consciousness. If not treated immediately, this condition deteriorates to ‘a systole’, wherein the heart ultimately stops beating, and the person dies – sudden cardiac death (SDC)… Smokers are vulnerable to developing coronary artery disease, which in turn, could lead to SCD.

Brilliant. For quite a while I was pretty confident I’d never die of a heart attack: I have a semi-vegetarian diet, I’m not fat, and it’s not in my family history. I couldn’t be more wrong.

No, I'm not about to stop smoking soon. And it's too late to make it my New Year's resolution. Besides, it's the only way I deal with the devastating news of this depressing condition these days... *Sniff*

On the bright side, I can say that I really do have a broken heart, literally.