My Teacher, My Hero: A local, personal recount of the teachers’ day celebration

FS Blog dated November 26, 2010

In a country perceived to have economy marred with instability, flawed with morality concerns, feared for issues of security and tight means of living, then how the Filipinos of today would even contend for an education that would set the standard for today in this ever competitive world? In as much as the education quality is in a state of disparity with what has been considered as international standard, the leaders deployed new and judicious programs to connect both the poles separated by the entire blunder encompassing the different sectors of the Filipino society. It is downbeat, perhaps, from head to foot but unless an unprecedented stride –no matter how small it will be- is attempted then never will come the changes that may spell the difference between educational accomplishment and collapse.

October 5, 2010 is now considered a milestone in the continuous development of education in the district of Rizal. The World Teachers’ Day was celebrated as a testament of the district’s unremitting search for plurality among the industrious and competent members of the Teaching Force. For one glorious day, these ever diligent and conscientious teachers converged at Rizal Central School, bringing themselves the pride and honor of being a teacher who are, in a way or the other, has been consistently drizzled with work. They were pampered with worthy praises and accolades which are indeed proper.

The event started at around 8:00 am with program that served as the kick-off activity of the day. All public school teachers from north to south of Rizal came in to participate, not because it is required but more of the moral accountability surrounding their being teachers after all. Highlighting the program was a contest in Folk Dancing joined by each school. The activity became even more exciting as the different contest was called. There were the Vocal Solo, the Song Writing, Essay Writing and Poster Making contested during the actual day and also the Search for the Outstanding Teachers and Master Teachers prejudged the week before. In the afternoon, parlor games were held signifying that teachers, no matter how serious they are inside the classroom, are also capable of enjoyment and fun. The centipede game, the egg & eggplant clash and the Pinoy Henyo- Rizal district style all brought tremendous finicky rolling laughter across the entire quadrangle where teachers played and displayed their rallies and effort. Ma’am Sally Mateo, ASDS and Ma’am Joy Gagarin, ES I both graced the affair with their presence. Awarding ceremony came and everybody cheered their comrades both winners and not.

In the end, it was all nothing but success. The essence of a needed break in the ever demanding resilience for the daily task in school combined for the wonderful day of celebration lifting up the spirits of the Rizal district teachers. It was a stride. A stride, no matter how small is still a stride. It may not define success in the sense of promotion of the untamed quality of education yet but sufficient enough to present a rupture in the monotony of daily school work. Now, after the last word has been said and the last coin has been tossed, all the teachers went home with smiles bearing a contented heart for a day that changed the downbeat tune into an upbeat rock and roll of being both a teacher and a hero.

My first try of a short story: Ambo Buto-buto

FS blog dated July 30, 2010

“1, 2, 3, pak, pak, bang!” Echoes of rapid punches resonated across the foggy backyard as roosters, alarmed and startled, simultaneously crowed within the rice-farming neighborhood of Sitio Bunubon.It was Saturday, five-thirty in the morning - still dark as the sun had not peeked on top of the great mountain range, The Sierra Madre, just yet. Ambo was about to finish his usual daily practice hitting this old punching bag his father made from tattered sack, filled with fine sand and rice husk, tied mid-air in a branch of a tree called Sagat at the back of their tiny, shabby house. He had been doing this for almost two months since watching his boxing idol, nicknamed Pak Boy, at a barber’s TV knocked its opponent out in only three rounds of a world championship clash. So far, he enjoyed the early-morning workouts while images of the champion’s spectacular performance roamed around his head. He mimicked, again and again, the fighter’s double right jab followed by a stunning left hook, dubbed as the Manila Ice, which dropped the bigger challenger into a bone-chilling knockout victory. He worked duplicating the combination for days and felt near to perfection. Only that his own present foe was a stationary punch bag that won’t fight back.

Ambo learned that his father, unlike him, was a strong freestyle fighter and this inspired him to follow his footsteps although he preferred the Sweet Science, or the epitome of technical boxing -to hit but not get hit, more than any other combat sports. His enthusiasm for prizefighting kept him coming back to that small barber shop in their barangay, whose owner was also a huge boxing fanatic, to watch televised fights and read sports magazines. He learned many things during his frequent visits to the shop as it fed his urging appetite for boxing information. Until one day, a customer informed that an amateur boxing show every Saturday was opened three weeks ago as part of the town fiesta celebration. He also learned that it accepted thirteen to fifteen year-old participants in the so-called midget division He grew incredibly excited and wanted to see it badly. He planned to watch the featured bouts and, if given a chance, join the fight cards but there was a problem: he was not particularly athletic. In fact, he appeared smaller than his 13-year old frame. His arms were long but skinny and his legs were not sturdy and seemed a little rubbery. His mother told him that he was fragile and sickly when he was a baby -perhaps the reason why he stood visibly smaller compared to his classmates after they have been circumcised. A common belief among townsfolk was that an adolescent becomes taller after circumcision but Ambo was deeply wondering why he grew very little a year after his Baptism of Fire.

 “Store’s open”, his mother said upon clearing her voice, “Go and buy Putok; I know you are hungry”, she added giving ten and five-peso coins, a worn-out towel and a refilled bottled water for her son who was already bathe in sweat.There were only two of them staying in their house. Her firstborn worked as a farm helper for a rich onion trader in the nearby town of Bongabong.

Ambo reached out his hand to receive the money and slipped each coin in each of his pocket. He immediately gulped water then towel-dried his sweaty face. He noticed his Mother was obviously unwell. He knew she was ill but she seemed good concealing her coughs with some imperceptible whimper. “Inang, you look worse, we better visit a doctor”, he suggested.

“Don’t worry about me”, she replied. “I’ve been to the health center and I’m fine. Listen, I am worrying because of what you’ve been doing since last month. Promise me you’ll never go into that cruel sport”, she pleaded as she perceived boxing, legal it may be, in equal brutality with what happened to her husband two years ago when her old man suffered terribly after losing in an underground grappling fight somewhere in Manila. Her spouse thought that fighting, even illegally, was their chance to survive poverty. Some said he was comatose before he succumbed to death in a hospital bed three days after. His family was uninformed until he was brought home inside a replicated wooden coffin. The family was awfully devastated. It made the woman extremely depressed. Ambo, more than once, saw his mother looking far out the window in grief. She frequently thought of her deceased husband as well as the future of her family. She then worked as a dishwasher in an eatery for a dismal wage so she allowed her older son, rather hesitantly, to work and help augment their income which barely covered their monthly expenses. 

“Would you like me to buy 3-in-1, Inang?” Ambo asked remembering that the coffee mix tasted better than Salabat -a concocted ginger that his mother readied for them believing it may help sooth her throat. He really wanted the sweet, creamy and roasted coffee flavor. It seemed to relax his body. He was salivating in anticipation. “Mmm, taste like heaven”, he thought. But he knew his question implied to cut the cost for Putok -a kind of bread slightly larger and more packed than the soft, tasty Pandesal - in order to purchase just a sachet of that five- peso-worth beverage.

His mother, to his disappointment, just closed her eyes and shook her head, “You’re beginning to be a little abusive”, she alleged. She knew too well that her bunso, much like before, would eventually demand for the entire mixed brew. “Off you go and return home fast”, she added caressing her chest after a series of now bothering coughs.

Ambo set off to the store still with the memory of the picture-perfect double jab and that infamous hook by the Pak Boy, a southpaw or left-handed like him, considered to be the best lefty in boxing history and current pound-for-pound kingpin. “ A Pound-for-pound king is mythically the best if all fighters are of the same weight class,” he recalled while walking along the road doing shadow boxing, hitting the air many times with that same combination uttering, “1, 2, 3, pak, pak, bang!” again and again. 

“Uhuy, buto-buto attack!” a familiar sarcastic voice yelled from behind followed by series of rolling laughter from others at the rear. “You’re back with boxing daydreaming ha, Ambo buto-buto”, the boy howled. 

Ambo, though hard for him, had been used to it. He knew this guy invented the buto-buto or skeleton remark. And he needed not to see to recognize. It was Bardo: the biggest bully he ever knew existed together with its cohorts he secretly called “The Alipungas” – coined when he can’t recall the word Alipores or followers, thus, the term remained in his head even after learning the later. It was his big and frightening, overage classmate who used to flick his ears or to habitually slap the back of his head whenever it came near him. Badly, it approached him nearly every single school day he remembered. It was also the one he saw stuck a bubble gum under the teacher’s table that eventually gummed on to the old woman’s skirt making furious screams to the whole class; the one labeled their principal, Squidward – a cartoon character with big, balding head and a rather longer than usual, dangling nose; the one who used to peek under the skirts of their schoolmates and occasionally touch their faces and pronounce sweetly, “Wow, beautiful girl,” without them knowing there was booger in its palms.This awful guy was his ultimate persecutor –a solid mass of bewildering force he never ever attempted reckoning with. So, nervously, he ignored the bullying and walked straight as if nobody was behind him. “It’s completely mental, all I must do is to ignore him”, he thought trying to avoid being further confronted but the physical came instantly. 

“Splaack!” Bardo’s hand walloped his head as he waggled out of balance, in pain, and nearly fell to the dirt street. He feared what might soon to follow. He was right.

“You face me when I am talking to you, stupid boy!” Bardo commanded. “Your money; take it out of your pocket and give it to me, now”, ordered the big bully upon raising the collar of his shirt up with its left hand as if to lift him off the ground.

Ambo just stood there in his toes, trembling. His mind raced as to what he must do. He was scared not to give in but equally troubled that his ailing Mother would be upset. The coins in his pockets were not his.He couldn’t respond appropriately out of confusion, fear or both.

“Hand me your money!” Bardo screamed hooking a short right punch towards his diaphragm.

Ambo wobbled and dropped to his knees. He pressed his palm onto his midsection trying to relieve the pain. He felt the blow almost cut his breath as it signaled throbbing from his stomach to his brain which made his knees melt like jellies. He was almost hanging by his stretched collar still being gripped by Bardo’s strong hand. One perfect punch to that exact spot in the middle of the torso would instantly impair the entire body, more so, the mind and self determination – the infamous Solar Plexus. Surprisingly, even top-caliber, world-class fighters would suddenly get defeated after receiving such a wicked blow. Sadly, he was not even a fighter. He was just a boy being thumped helpless by a larger, stronger guy. At the edge of his mind, he wanted to fight back but sensed little to no chance at all. Sprinting away might have been the next best way out but his legs already betrayed him entirely.

“So you won’t!” Bardo exclaimed preparing another blow but now heading to his face grimacing in pain.

“S-top please, h-here’s my m-money”, Ambo stuttered as he managed collecting his mettle back. Trembling, he slowly moved his left hand from his diaphragm inserting it to his left pocket. He surely felt the coin but pretended unable to touch anything. Consequently, he inserted his other hand onto his right pocket after pulling out his empty left. His right hand withdrew a coin, praying it was not the bigger one. He was lucky. He needed to play that trick, at least, to save even just a coin. The bigger boy never asked to search the other pocket.

“Damn five pesos. You still needed to get hurt just to give in, moron!” Bardo said about to slap Ambo again to the head.

“Enough, Bardo”, another boy from the rear bellowed, “Let’s go. Leave your stupid darling there, I’m late!” he added with authority pausing the bully with his threatening hand in the air, sweating.

“Ok, sorry, we’re going now”, Bardo said releasing his hold on Ambo’s collar.

Ambo stood up but still in pain. He asked himself who had just ruled over his tormentor. Never in his imagination had he thought of anyone who could even attempt that. He concluded that it must be an ultimately tough guy; tougher than what his mind could ever imagine. So he tried his nerve and glanced at the face of that boy. He had never seen him before. The gang, riding bicycles, threw some scornful laughs upon leaving him. Surprisingly, he observed that the leader was not as tall or even as big as Bardo but appeared lean and solid, “Just a few centimeters taller than me but looked tough, really, really tough”, he said. He was contented, nevertheless, that he was spared of that supposedly last hit because of him. He hobbled to the store, purchased the bread with the remaining ten pesos and went home nervous. He was thinking hardly of what he must reason out if in case his mother would ask about the money and what took him longer to get home than usual. 

“Have your breakfast… I’m really not feeling good”, his mother struggled to say in between short, rapid breathing. She was lying on their wooden bench, chilling and covered with blanket.

“You have very high fever, Inang”, he cried after touching her cheeks. He had to do something but his mind suddenly went blank. This was the first incident that there was no one except him to think and decide. 

Sensing his worries, his mother shakily withdrew something out of her purse, “If you can buy this, it may help. Sorry, son, that’s all I got”.

It was the doctor’s prescription folded crosswise and inserted was a fifty-peso bill. All along it was inside her purse. She just went to the doctor but never followed the treatment.

Ambo rushed to the nearest drugstore in town and handed the piece of paper marked with handwritten barely readable for him. But the lady pharmacist nodded and requested a young girl, almost of his age, to retrieve some foiled medicine from a box and give it to him. He was a little relieved after knowing that the medicine was readily available. All of a sudden, he was captured in awe looking at that young girl and thought her eyes sparkled like faint stars twinkling calmly in a cold, cloudy night. Her serene smile revealed a tiny dimple on her left cheek that seemed to pull him out of his obscurity. Her long, shiny-black hair stirred in the sudden wind. He thought she was beautiful, gorgeously beautiful.

“Forty-four fifty each, times ten… ah…that’s four hundred and forty-five,” the girl said, beaming in a soft, lovely voice.

“What!” Ambo exclaimed as if coming out from her spell. “Four hundred…huh?” he asked in disbelief.“Ah…Err…W-would you mind selling me just a piece?” 

The girl asked the pharmacist and explained to Ambo, “Mom said it’s ok but the prescription says you take it twice a day - morning and evening”.

Ambo went home with the girl’s lovely face still lingering in his mind but he could not believe how expensive the medicine was. He gave a piece of bread, a mug of salabat and the encapsulated medicine to his mother. Gladly, the drug calmed the woman after about an hour before she went into a sound sleep. But he knew this was temporary. He must think of a way to be able to buy the whole prescription. He couldn’t take seeing his mother suffer like how he saw her earlier. His mind struggled between the idea of what he must do and the perceived hopelessness of this adversity. Suddenly, it hit him. He placed a wet towel over her mother’s forehead, kissed her and hurried back to town.

“Your name…” asked a muscular man in eye glasses, wearing white polo with butterfly, inside the municipal office.

“Ambrocio Cristobal, Jr. po”

“Age…”

“Thirteen.”

“Good. Have you boxed before?”

“Ah… no sir, but I’ve trained for this.”

“You look exhausted. Are you sure you want to join today? “

Ambo stood up, concentrated and replicated his favorite combination with the Manila Ice, “1, 2, 3, pak, pak, bang “, in rapid succession to shake off his fatigue, “Yes, certainly, sir”.

“Well done, boy. You seem to know what you are doing so here’s your contract and bio data. Sign your name right here”, the man explained. “The rule is like the amateur. You and your opponent, within the same age range and weight, will be given two minutes for each of the three rounds. You’ll be wearing headgear, mouthpiece and, of course, gloves. All you have to do is connect the most number of punches - hard or soft doesn’t matter. The one who made the most connections wins.”

Of course Ambo knew the rule, but the professional rule. He was unaware, though, about headgears and the duration of the fight. He thought it was twelve rounds, three minutes each, at which might pose a big problem as long as his untested stamina was concerned. But learning this rule made him immensely comfortable thinking how easy this fight would last. “Only six minutes all in all or even less. Whoa, I can make that. Headgears must absorb punches, alright. And my opponent surely is a match”, he thought brimming with confidence.

“Winner will receive five hundred pesos and the loser, a hundred”, the same man who was to act as referee explained. “Punch below the belt line is illegal as you well know. No elbows, knees, head-butts and no hitting the back of the head. You do that, you’re automatically disqualified. The fight will start a little less than thirty minutes from now, so be prepared. And I nearly forgot: If you get knocked down even once, for safety reason, the fight’s over and you lose”, he added as he walked out of the office leaving the boy alone.

Ambo never heard that regulation. “How if I intentionally trip my foe and the referee did not see it”, he asked himself considering the possibility but he was serious. He needed to stay and remain standing until the last bell for his ailing mother no matter what would transpire. The images of her on the bench were alarming. He never saw her mother that way before and it also reminded him of his lifeless father being brought home. It was painful as he felt his heart clenched. And he was a little bothered upon recalling his mother’s pleads for him never to fight. Also his trainings were just about punching a bag. He never even tried sparring. Questions about how if he would, again, hit by the Solar Plexus started to dawn on him. The moment he lost the fight also meant sufferings not only for him but more for his mother.“Is there other way to have money for medicine?” He considered for a while but he finally decided that this was it so he stood up and shadow boxed to warm him up. “Just this time, Inang, just this time”, he promised himself.

“Are you ready? It’s time. Follow me”, the referee said peeking inside the slightly opened door.

Ambo nodded as he followed the referee to the dressing room. He was given a headgear, a pair of gloves and a mouthpiece he suspected was already used before so he made sure to wash it with water before popping it in his mouth. He was ready although he felt a little uncomfortable with the gears and mouthpiece which seemed to be of a different fit.

“Don’t you have any shoes, boy?” asked the man.

“None, sir, I don’t have any”, answered Ambo a little gibberish due to the thing in his mouth.

“Poor kid, you aren’t allowed with those slippers in the ring”, the man chuckled. “But you can do it barefooted, you know. Ah, I’ll just tell the announcer to call you Barefoot…hmm… Barefoot Banger, is that ok?” the man asked.

Ambo thought it was cool. It was better than what he was dreaming to be named: The Destroyer, The Finisher, The Smasher, El Terrible, El Matador or even La Dinamita. The last three were obviously of Mexican origin where boxing had been widely practiced like no other country on Earth. That was until the Philippines, considered as the new haven of the sports of sweet science, captured the Boxing World Cup over Mexico, five wins to one, two years prior.But to be the “Barefoot Banger” seemed the best he heard so far, “Sure, sir, I like it”, he mumbled banging his gloves.

“And so let’s go. Good luck”, the man told Ambo tapping his shoulder like he was a grown man.

Ambo felt proud. He liked it. To be identified like a real man was something he never thought would make him feel really good. He took a deep breath and entered the main covered court hearing all the applause of a full packed venue. His legs almost froze seeing the huge crowd as he trudged out of the room to the middle of the sports complex. There, standing proudly was a true boxing ring he only saw on TV before. He heard the crowd became electric as he stepped inside and proceeded to his corner. He was feeling the high. “This is for real”, he said humbly but a little tensed. Then in the midst of the thrill, he noticed a familiar group of people laughing and shouting at him.

“Boo! Boo! Boo…Buto-buto”, shrieked by a group of boys led by Bardo.

“The Alipungas are here”, he said feeling humiliated as he tried paying no attention to them. He felt bumpy reminding of the incident earlier. The pain in his midsection still throbbed. How could he join this event if his tormentor was there watching and discouraging him? Again he thought of backing out but the image of his mother earlier was too much for him to ignore. He observed that their leader wasn’t there to watch him fight as it might probably, like Bardo, mock and laugh at him had it been present. He felt a little relieved.

“Your milk bottle’s waiting for you, crazy boy, so get your tsinepen and go home”, Bardo derided about his slippers by combining tsinelas and step-in as laughter instantaneously commenced from the group and from the people surrounding them.

Then suddenly there was a loud cheer. The huge crown that appeared to be rooting for Ambo seems to turn against him when the opponent entered the arena and came up the ring. There was a deafening roar within the complex. So loud that he felt like his heart would jump out of his chest. Each member of the crowd appeared to be really shouting out their lungs in great anticipation. They loved his adversary that sounded like it was the favored fighter to win and he, clearly, was the underdog. But when his rival finally slipped through the ropes and stood in its corner, he couldn’t believe his eyes. He was transfixed as chill trickled down his spine. The face inside the headgear opposite him was somebody he recognized and eventually feared. It was the tough leader of the gang he encountered earlier with Bardo and the Alipungas. He felt an extreme discomfort like butterflies inside his stomach. His heart felt like banging his chest out. Beads of sweat formed in his forehead and his knees trembled like he was about to fall to the canvas without even being punched. Again, his mind reconsidered backing out but it was too late. The opponent extended its right arm towards the other direction and moved its glove across its neck like an executioner. Ambo knew his rival identified him, thus, the showboat was a sign of that.

“Ladies and gentlemen”, the presenter with its booming voice announced from the middle of the ring as the crowd fell silent. “We are about to witness an exciting amateur boxing match. Allow me to introduce to you the challenger who is the fighter standing to my left. This is his personal debut and he doesn’t wear shoes”, the man scoffed, smiling. “A round of applause to, Ambo “Barefoot Banger” Cristobal!” the man finished emphasizing the nickname and his last name while almost half the crowd laughed while the others booed him.

Ambo paid little attention to the introduction as his mind was preoccupied with panic devising a strategy on how to survive. He recalled that sometime in the boxing golden era, a champion named Willie Pep won a round by sole defense and without throwing a punch. This helped him recover a little of his confidence. “Defense is what I need to do”, he thought recalling all the possible defensive boxing he identified: the counterpunch which is the best way to control a brawler by hitting back immediately after an opponent resets his punch; the lateral movement to make the opponent miss; the flicker jabs to prevent the opponent at bay; and of course, the Pak Boy style where there’s no better defense than offense itself. He doubt, though, if he was capable executing all these particularly the last one. To the contrary, he also knew that sole defense can never produce a winner, thus, he remembered featherweight great Gabriel “Flash” Elorde’s speedy straights and the Filipino welterweight legend, Ceferino Garcia, the inventor of the Bolo Punch -a punch in circular motion like slashing knife performed with one arm to distract an opponent, causing him to either take his eyes off the attacker’s other arm or actually focus on the fighter’s circling arm. There was also the Rapido or the rapid, left-right upper-cuts to the body specialized by the best Asian flyweight of all time, Francisco “Pancho Villa” Guilledo. All these facts and his theories were all filling his head. The problem was how he would pare for the actual execution. Worse, he was in complete doubt of his ability.

The presenter continued. “Now for the fighter standing to my right: he is undefeated winning his three previous bouts which all came in by way of knockout in the very first round. The last ended at only 47 seconds; making it the fastest ever knock-out victory in this tournament. Ladies and gentlemen, a huge round of applause to the champion, the dangerous triple V… Valentino “Voltron” Valerio!”

The champion raised his hands like a real prizefighter and repeated the executioner act in the middle of the ring, licking his upper lip like a mad dog with his enraged eyes fixed towards Ambo.

Crowd roared as the name was announced. Bardo’s gang even brought some plastic soft drink bottles, banged them together to create noise while chanting for their bet, “Voltron! Voltron! Voltron!”

The referee signaled both fighters to come to the middle of the ring for the final instructions. But Ambo, feeling he was about to enter a lion’s den, could hardly move his feet. His eyes avoided contact with his opponent’s while the referee repeated the rules. They were asked to get back to their corners as the round was about to commence. And…

“Ding! Ding!” The bell signaled the start of the match. 

The champion, without a hint, sprinted towards Ambo like a raging bull and instantly banged him with combinations, left and right hooks, to the side of his head. He was attempting an early knock out. Ambo sensed the danger, immediately covered up protecting his head with his gloves while at the same time shielding his body with his long arms. He was dazed.He couldn’t move his feet away as he was stormed with punches while being pushed back to the ropes. He was receiving too many power blows that might have knocked him down if not with the headgear. He felt like he was no matched to his burly opponent but believed he must at least survive the round. Each time he attempted to counterpunch, the champ found an opening for connection. Then, “Bang”, Voltron hooked another left that hit forcibly into the challenger’s gloves followed with a hard right to the side of the body. Ambo felt the punch. He cringed trying to hide the pain. It hurt the side of his body more than the Solar Plexus. His narrow frame was almost weakened in an instant but the instinct to survive, fortunately, stiffened his stance and moved him laterally to his left. He managed getting out of trouble from the ropes to the center of the ring.

The fans cheered as their champion displayed superiority over its opponent. “He’s damaged goods, finish him off, Voltron”, a fan shouted from the crowd. Aggressively, Voltron stalked and resumed his rapid hooks focusing to the body. Ambo found it easier moving laterally from side to side than covering like a turtle inside its shell. His arms still absorbed most of the punches but using his footwork, most of the power hits from the champion missed. He tried the Peek-A-Boo or peeking over the gloves covering the chin down to the body with the arms while waiting for opportunity for attacks, receiving punches with reduced impact. It worked yet he had not tried answering offensively. He was simply trying to endure the round. He wondered how long he had been in the losing end. It was just over a minute but he felt it seemed like hours. As the fight progressed, the champion unsparingly threw one assault after another trying everything to create an opening. Once, he even lured the challenger to hit him by lowering his guards but Ambo was still thunderstruck and hardly opened up when the bell signaled the end of the round as the crowd burst into a cheer. 

“I’ll stop the fight if you won’t punch next round”, the referee warned in disappointment as Ambo gasped in his stool. Unlike Voltron, he had nothing for a corner other than a tournament staff who handed him water in a plastic pouch. Exhausted, he gulped and consumed almost half of the liquid before he remembered that a boxer should limit in or refrain from taking water while fighting as it may weaken the abdomen and shorten the stamina. He stood up and emptied the pouch by splashing the cold water over his head. He felt refreshed but still breathing hard when the bell signaled the start of the second round.

It was almost the same as the first round when Voltron darted out towards the other corner and launched his furious attacks. Another horde of left and right hooks both to the head and body were thrown in reckless abandon knowing that the rival couldn’t counter. Ambo, confused of what to defend - the head or the body – immediately covered up. He saw an opening but was so employed defending, unable to throw anything. He then felt his weight as if he was carrying load around his belly. It was the water he drank that was slowly taking its toll on him. He understood why it should have been better to simply gargle than drink it. At the corner of his eye he saw the referee coming in and about to put a halt to the fight. He remembered the warning during the break so he quickly jabbed a left hand straight from his chin to the head of his opponent remembering that a straight punch must land faster than a hook. “Bang!” It connected timely to the exposed cheek of the champion who was coming in. Voltron was stunned and immediately backed off, surprised. Ambo felt it. He knew he rocked his rival and thought he might able to knock the champion with that punch if given another chance. The referee refrained himself from stopping the fight while the crowd unexpectedly fell silent.

“Straight is the answer for hooks. I should have figured that out earlier”, Ambo affirmed. He was now ready to rumble but still cautious to lunge. He moved one step forward as if testing the water but he was surprised that the champion backpedaled. He stepped to the left; the champion moved a couple steps to the right. He faked some aggressive assaults and each time, Voltron was backing off or avoiding him. Ambo felt he was gradually gaining control as the champion was starting to lose it. He figured that Voltron was really hurt.He dashed forward for his own attack when, suddenly, the referee stood between them blocking his offense.

“Why?” Ambo asked, puzzled.

“To the corner now,” the man commanded, “It’s the end of the round, boy”.

Ambo did not hear the bell. He was inattentive as his focus was on his opponent. The previous round appeared much faster for him. Most of the people in the crowd were quiet. Perhaps, they were surprised seeing the champion backing off. They couldn’t believe that their bet was retreating only because of a single punch - a lucky punch. It was something that they never realized could possibly happen but it was happening. Within the crowd were people who now seemed to cheer Ambo. He felt better until he turned his eyes to the crowd and saw somebody he was not expecting to see. He tapped his reddened face with his gloves wondering if this was real. It was the beautiful, young girl at the drugstore looking at him and watching him fight. He saw the eyes that earlier seemed to be blinking like stars but now became visibly dimmed with trouble staring at him. She seemed worried. Ambo felt butterflies in his stomach once again. But it was different. It was no longer out of fear but of something he couldn’t explain. His heart beat fast, like raindrops in a galvanized roof, gazing at an attractive, angelic face.

“Seconds out”, the referee shouted as if Ambo had a set of corner men. The bell resonated signaling the final, two-minute round.

Ambo stood up with his chest out like a fighting cock preparing to counter-strike. He was more confident especially after he found out that the girl from the drugstore was watching. All he must do was to summon all his courage and bring the fight to the table. He waited for the champion to lunge first. But the opponent just stood there grinning, gesturing his glove and challenging him to come forward. Professional boxers sometimes do that for two reasons: first, to show they are ready and in control to whatever the opponent brings; two, if tired and simply pretending the first mentioned reason – a kind of psychological warfare.

“Only psywar”, Ambo thought as he charged setting up his dominant fist for a full-forced left hook. He was sure that if the punch could connect, he would surely win. Then, “Shooff!” the power punch hit nothing but the air when the defender ducked and moved to his left side hooking up a short popper to his open body. He missed but surprised that the body shot he received did not hurt him. He perceived his opponent decided to box technically perhaps after knowing that brute force had its own limitations and very, very tiring. He knew that if the champion do hit and run, it would probably win by points.

Voltron backpedalled to the center of the ring and stood there in wide stance, smirking. “Come here and bring it on”, he challenged Ambo for a telephone booth brawl – a case where two fighters go toe to toe inside an imaginary tight booth.

Ambo accepted the challenge. This was his only chance to win. He knew he was losing in all the judges’ scorecards. They were facing each other, standing with their feet firmly on the canvass. He initiated by throwing a powerful left hook, a right jab and a left straight at which the first two connected respectively to the defender’s biceps and chest. The champion, able to avoid the last shot, found an opening and countered a strong right to the belly. Ambo was staggered and fell two steps backward. But he lunged forward and immediately answered with Pancho Villa’s Rapido penetrating the foe’s tight defense.

“That’s nothing, go on. It doesn’t hurt me at all”, the champion said employing another psywar while defending like heavyweight great, Muhammad Ali in his own peek-a boo before suffering his first career loss to Smokin’ Joe Frazier. He also countered a right hook that connected to the side of the challenger’s head.

Ambo was hit but amazed that he, again, was able to take it. At once, he confused the opponent by the bolo punch that found the right eye. Voltron was shaken; eyes swelled, but heaved a left upper-cut that hit the challenger’s chin. Ambo responded and connected a double left jab to the champion’s face that appeared unaffected. Both fighters stood their grounds trading power shots. The rabid crowd cheered wildly when suddenly Voltron lunged, head first, to challenger’s covered chin. Ambo’s head flipped backward as he was immediately grabbed to the body, embracing for a clench.He was tottered, his whole head ached, and he couldn’t make a move being clasped. The referee separated them but gave no warning call. He overlooked the illegal move.

The crowd booed the champion. They saw it and hated the cheater. Gradually they were turning their favor towards the underdog and started cheering him, “Barefoot! Barefoot!” Ambo was wobbling as if he lost those imaginary springs in his feet. He was really hurt and his vision was blurred. He wanted to complain but the referee just signaled them to continue.

Voltron appeared so determined, even resorting to dirty tactics, to win in spectacular fashion. This was the only time he was unable to stop his opposition in the first round. But he saw that his foe was clearly weakened by his head butt. And he knew this was the best chance to finish him for good. “Goodbye, buto-buto”, he screamed leaping towards the challenger to finish him off with his orthodox stance or dominant right hand swinging towards the challenger’s left jaw. 

“No”, Ambo whispered, shocked that he was too late to cover for defense. He stood frozen waiting for the coming doom. His mind randomly pictured everything he had: his mother, chilling on the wooden bench; his brother, working hard for them; the girl from the drugstore watching him, seeing how futile he was; the old ragged house they lived in as a home; his father’s memory with the old, threadbare punching bag he inherited. But he saw the punching bag stirred. It was alive, laughing at him. It swayed back and forth with its own fist about to hit his face. Instantly, Ambo felt his hands moved like they have their own mind doing what they were used to do…

“1, 2, 3, pak, pak, bang!”The combination with the version of Manila Ice reverberated within the gymnasium. The double jab connected first stopping the challenger’s attack before battering the face twice and finishing off with a hook to the jaw that almost twisted its neck.Voltron’s legs gave in as he fell like a log, face-first, to the waiting canvass. The referee needed not to give mandatory ten counts for the fallen fighter to get up. It was the hardest combination Ambo ever threw. He was victorious. 

At home, Ambo gently touched his mother’s forehead.She was still fast asleep at the long wooden chair and her breathing was normal. Her fever already subsided. She looked fine. Ambo inserted his hand onto his pockets and retrieved a plastic bag with a foiled medicine and two sachets of mixed beverage. He went to get a mug with hot water and emptied the contents into it. He was excited, salivating with the aroma and the taste like heaven. He slowly savored and sipped his favorite 3-in-1 coffee in celebration of his triumph. He felt that he became a new person -a better person. He sat comfortably at the side of his mother who looked very peaceful. He thought returning to the drugstore to buy one piece of medicine at a time, twice a day, for the next four days. All these with visions of that lovely girl, with eyes like stars now twinkling brilliantly in a clear night sky, roamed passionately around his head.

A haunting tale of the Rizal Central School forest with a taste of its unheard history, revealed

FS Blog dated July 1, 2010

“I’m 100% sure that it is here; this Sampalok tree is what he kept on telling me as the marker”, explained a middle-aged, heavily-built man with some streak of gray hair wearing eye glasses, brown jacket and a colorfast blue jeans after recalling the detailed description of his father back when the old man was said to be still alive less than a decade ago.

The man was poking his right index finger to the trunk of the biggest, oldest-looking and believed-to-be century-old Tamarind tree from among nine others of the same fruit tree in random locations within the forest hill at the back of Rizal Central School. He said it was the old marker as well as the direct indicator from where riches of gold and diamonds of the then fleeing Japanese forces headed by the infamous general, Tomoyuki Yamashita at the end of the second world war, lie not too deep beneath. Clutched in his left hand was an old, yellowish-brown cloth scribbled with lines and a big, red X in the middle. He was so sure of the location and he persistently requested the school principal to allow him to dig the ground surrounding the spot in search for fortune. He even promised to dole out the find if he would be successful in his quest. The man was a treasure hunter. 

“I am sorry, Mister. We never really allow such excavation here in our school. Digging is strictly prohibited”, the principal explicated turning the request down thinking how much damage it could result to the forest in particular and the environment in general. It was much like what she typically does after being bombarded with the same requests from couple other treasure hunters again and again since she arrived in the school more than three years ago. She had been used to it. Some brought really compelling stories that could possibly sway anyone into believing but others seem so ridiculous a story that she decided to totally disregard each and every demand. Although she felt that this man was a rather convincing one.

“But in case you change your mind, just let me know”, the man said handing her a piece of paper containing his contact number. “Perhaps, Ma’am, you did hear some mysterious stories of ghosts and spirits here didn’t you? Those are the clear manifestations that they have something valuable protecting in here; this forest is haunted. It has been a Japanese garrison in the 1940s. Dead soldiers were probably buried here until today. Father said there is a huge tunnel underneath this mountain that may contain lots of wealth. And to prove what precious things are those, there is only one way to find out and that is if you so decide”, he added before leaving the principal who was feeling a little weird knowing unquestionably that there are numerous ghost stories and spirit possession accounts spread by words of mouth and seen by actual experiences through the course of the town’s long, forgotten history that are related, one way or another, to that aged forest at the back of the old school.

The hill that was

A hill that was the back draft of the then Gabaldon-type school building, wooden and fragile, that stood proudly facing -as if young Biblical David challenging for a fight the vast greatness of the mountain range- Sierra Madre who is Goliath. The school itself was part of that hill making it known as the school on a peak since its establishment some few years prior and slowly growing within the consciousness of the town itself as well as the nearby barangays of Pantabangan. All throughout, the hill was a plain brown lump of Earth and dried grass during the parched, summer season but instantly turned into green lush of grassy bulge only days after the first torrential rains fell on June. With only some frequent trees scattered across, sunshine touches the face of this hill in full as the tall grasses called talahib grew in abundance from end to end. Within weeks, the then clear, chocolate colored soil with desiccated grass will change into a verdant slope where the dreaded sawa, kind of a constrictor and the ulupong or cobra – known as karasaen in Ilocano- hide within holes and crevices making the hill even more terrifying to trudge across and along even on bridleways and horse trails.

It was in the late 1970s: Martial rule was nearly about to be lifted after the massive protests and social upheaval as result of the then Senator Benigno “Ninoy” Aquino’s arrest and confinement (nobody thought of his upcoming doom in about four years ahead). As the nation was focusing in the city particularly Manila, far-flung towns from provinces around Metro Manila were living better in sense of its being secluded from the noise and stream of the Philippine political landscape. But Rizal town, being known as a community that despises injustice became the breeding ground of fighting insurgents, idealists and youthful rebels making it one feared spot for strangers who were not familiar of its real guise. Nonetheless, it remained a quiet town amidst the tumultuous events that was to come. They lived well as if disconnected from turbulent politics of the time. With their own sense of life, leaders and educators of Rizal continued to develop their own spirit of community and learning, rather alone.

Godofredo Uera, Rizal District Supervisor in the 1970s to the early 1980s never intended to convert the then grassy hill into a forest. Not even a hint of what can be seen today was prowling in his imagination but was so inclined in clearing the side of this hill facing the back of the school. He directed the then Principal II, Florencio Viernes to clear the hill off the tall grasses by setting them ablaze to get rid of the fearsome snakes and scorpions first. Afterwards, Grades V and VI pupils of Batch 1979-1980, each carrying lingkaw or scythe allotted enough time each day for the clearing. Soon they were able to clean nearly the entire area as they started planting seedlings of both ornamental and fruit-bearing trees. Edukasyong Pantahanan at Pangkabuhayan teachers like Arsenio Madina and Benjamin Estiller as well as Agriculture teachers, Teodora Samala and Leonor Nepumoceno joined hands in continuing the quest to make the hill functional for the school. Also they saw, as it was revealed after everything has been cleared, what was known as “the slide”. It was a long concrete slide with stairs beside it like what you see in children‘s playground only that it was tracing down the whole side of the hill. It was said to be built a few years after World War II for reason that no one currently alive can tell. 

The concrete slide was a very odd sight, though. At almost 20 feet long, it was extended midway starting from about eight meters from the top of the hill down to the bottom. At its left resided the concrete and stone stairway that served as both trail going up the hill top and as path for those who wanted to simply enjoy being like a child doing the slide. The people from the school knew that there was indeed a slide somewhere there but only after the clearing that they were able to discuss things about it like its origin and purpose of being there. With that came all the possibilities and doubts as well. They asked who would want to build a peculiar playground at the side of this hill. Years and years passed without definite rationale for the erection of the slide until it was decided to be removed being so old and worthless after more than five decades of its unexplained presence. All about its origin remained a mystery until now.

Came the forest as it is

With all the mystical tales surrounding the cleared part of this baffling hill, stories of haunting and sightings of unknown beings were practically accounted. Years went by, as the then small, infantile trees were now starting to grow full size, mysterious accounts and haunting stories equally grew much more in number and intensity. One such story was when a boy played at the slide all alone, he bumped into something he couldn’t see and that resulted into him getting sick and nearly succumb to death for no apparent reason. Another was that construction workers who toiled for months at the current main concrete building after the destruction of the old Gabaldon-type by the Eartquake in July 1990 narrated some sightings of ladies in white and sometimes black with their long hair covering the face while they were floating around -the feet not touching the ground. Also, lately, there said to be a very young, fair-skinned girl with blood oozing from her forehead down to her cheeks who usually reveal herself to pupils; some even said that the girl still shows up inside the campus until today asking pupils to join her jump off the window from the second floor (the story was even written as a feature in the school paper a few years ago). Student teachers who used to stay in school related what they hear as crying and sobbing lady and a child’s wail from the forest during the wee hours of the night. But among the latest and most gripping account was about a young woman attending a summer camp of the Aglipayan Church after they chose the school as the venue. The woman was seen hiking up and down the forest with some friends while others were having siesta one afternoon when she saw and eventually picked a rather weird-looking wooden object lying on her trail before they went back to camp. After about a minute of silence inside their billeting room, she suddenly burst into screams and howls cursing everybody and forcing them to leave the place saying, “MAGSILAYAS KAYO! ANG IINGAY NYO, BINUBILABOG NYO KAMI!” Eight fully-grown men struggled to prevent her from further doing any untoward action that could possibly hurt her and others. She was said to be possessed according to the words of the priest. The young woman was probablypertaining to the Praise and Worship Community Singing they do each night as the disturbing noise.

No one exactly knew the real story behind those mystical and sometimes bizarre occurrences other than the mute trees that can only sway their leaves as witnesses with the hums and blows of the sudden wind. Among these trees are twenty one (21) caimito or star apples that never survives the slingshots of youngsters clamoring for its free, yearly sweet produce; eight (8) mango trees that stand proudly as home for birds every afternoon before the setting of the sun; ten (10) tamarinds including the one which was said to be the golden marker; three (3) camachile trees which typically grew unnoticed along roads; another three (3) coconuts, three (3) guavas and two (2) santol trees. These are the beloved fruit producers that can never say a word amidst almost being accused of sheltering the unknowns. But who can ignore the eight (8) narra trees that could value in millions if it would be cut and sold for its timber value -one of which is considered as another century-old tree standing proudly in front of the school; the twenty one (21), fast growing Gmilena that are maturing in only a couple of years; twelve (12) lowly ipil-ipil that only the goats escaped from their leash would get excited; four (4) mahogany trees that are believed to contain extraordinary medicinal value; three (3) pine trees that may resemble an aura of elegance like when one is traversing the mountains of Benguet; six (6) tic trees and two (2) umbrella tress that can pose as your hiding places when the unexpected rains suddenly fall but one must only be careful of the itchy larvae of butterflies that similarly loves to hide and feast on the plants’ succulent, broad leaves; and the five (5) graceful acacia trees that with the others withstood the test of time.

Fast track to 2000

The ingenuity of the school personnel, from teachers and administration alike, during the early years of 2000 showed deeper concern for the use of the forest as part of the school. The now fully grown trees covered almost the entire area making it an ideal setup for school theme parks based on subject areas. The then principals Esmeraldo Palmones who eventually became the District Supervisor, Julio and Julia San Jose, a couple who followed after each other’s respective terms, and Violeta Callanta all sustained their effort for the improvement of the place. Upon their initiatives, the once dreaded forest was turned into parks and had stimulated the sense of both relaxation and function of a common area for recreation. You can see up until now their endeavor with the presence of beautiful and colorful Subject Area Parks at the foot of the forest that can serve as placeS of rest and as excursion set for those who stay in school for lunch.

Forest forever but seems not quite

“Only God can make a tree and only trees can make a forest be called forest. So we must take further care of it”, Dr. Gloria Vicencio, principal of the school told her subordinates about the forest while explaining to them its beauty and mystery. The current school administration through the guidance of the current district supervisor, Editha De Jesus, maintains the aesthetic exquisiteness and excellent functionality of this woodland. Only at the moment, unlawful tenants from the top of the hill are now starting to crease the loneliness of this discrete area and slowly invading its domain. Soon enough, without the town administration’s initiative to let the government-owned parcel of this forest impede or relocate these prohibited settlements, the now green, jungle-like forest may one day become residential vicinity looming with populace.

Our part for the obstruction of the increasing issues of global warming must begin now. Therefore, before we take concern to other places on Earth, we may start practically within our own backyard. The Rizal Central School forest is a great testament of the Rizalian environmental inventiveness during the early times that has been inherited by us today. Let us all heed the challenge and refresh the history of this forest by acknowledging the spirit of community and camaraderie acted upon by the early people who toiled and labored to recreate the splendor of the then old rugged hill into a stunning, magnificent school forest we currently enjoy.

Clearing the [cigarette] smoke off by the SON who also rises to the palace

FS Blog dated June 12, 2010

GOVERNMENT WARNING: Cigarette smoking is dangerous of to your health; not even a would-be president is safe.

If there is one thing that Filipinos learned coming out of the 2010 election, it is that we realized the possibility of a trustworthy process never before seen in our country. Even after so many rah, rah and blah, blah from people who seem to create noises out of thin air, we eventually came to understand that a beautiful progression from one perceived hopeless scene can actually become a sight beaming with optimism.As we trudge along the way, at least there are personalities out there who clearly deserve to be given some chance. And if by this chance the wheel of our destiny came to a lustrous conclusion, then we can tap our shoulders and say, “Glad I did the right thing; a very good job.”

Current senator and president-elect Noynoy Aquino is one person I am referring to. Coming off a victory from an election not-so-marred with worries of possible fraud, he took along with him more than 15 million believers who trusted his scheme to heave the country into the writing of the next six years of Philippine history. Being a product of two heroes in the name of the martyr, Ninoy and the saintly, Cory, he emblazoned their momentous lives and created a scenario of hope just like what his parents did during the dark hours of martial law more than two decades ago. That although his mother, the late Cory, herself, did not bring the country into a land of milk and honey during her raise to power, she created the change that had been clamored for more than 20 years prior -from dictatorship back to democracy. All these started when Ninoy was shot to death that brought fury and added fuel to the then raging fire in the hearts of million Filipinos; he died but the name and his face will forever be entrenched within the veins of our consciousness –the premier airport bears his name; the face looking out from your 500 bill.

Now, it is the son’s turn to prove how he will define the legacy his father left but for sure he must work quadruple times: As a senator for only 3 years before his candidacy as chief executive, Noynoy can never equal his father who served the senate for five years before attempting to face his biggest rival, former Philippine prexy, Ferdie Marcos. History tells us how the hero, Ninoy climbed the political ranks of being a multi-awarded journalist at tender age of 17 and later become the youngest ever mayor at 22; Tarlac vice governor and eventually as governor at 27 and 29 respectively. He also became the youngest senator at only 34. Things would have been better and greater had not with his imprisonment, confinement, exile, his return to the country and his assassination at age 50.

President-elect Noynoy is now 50.

Until now, Noynoy is unproven as a senator authoring and co-authoring no more than 10 bills during his 6-year tenure both in the house and the senate. Though very important these bills were, he is perceived to be short of ripening as long as legislation is concerned. So questions about his possible performance when he begins his job as the Head of the Philippine State have been thrown well into. But minding all these, of course, is to reflect how his mother, President Cory equate with her son when it comes to political history -Cory has no political history apparent to her seat to presidency. Though intelligent she was, she actually claimed she really was and just a plain housewife; no political inclination other than being a Cojuangco from Tarlac. Also during her husband’s political ordeal, she preferred to glow faintly under his shadow. The only two reasons why she was chosen as a bet against the then ailing-strongman (excuse me for the oxymoron) Ferdie were because she was Ninoy’s wife with the grounds of emotional penchant with his death and also because she was the direct opposite of Marcos, physically, politically and [sexually] –oops, wait, that is being the first ever FEMALE president and head of state in whole of Asia. She entered Malacanan at age of 52.

Looking at these seems to be a no brainer – Noynoy is a version of a politician who’s in-between his father and that of his mother. With this, we can say that by electing him as president, the country has settled in-between!

But as we go into the next six years of having Noynoy as the president, we must expect the unexpected. It is either we get better or get worse. Chances are, we must take half of his father’s political prowess and another half of his mother’s modesty. Both might be good or otherwise but after all the hullabaloo of smoke will then come the clearing of it and it may finally get us all through this whole tribulation our Philippines is currently experiencing. Trust is the key; he deserves a chance after all.

But to ask if he’s to quit along the way, expect a resounding NO! Not that even Barack Obama said he already quit it; Noynoy seems really unprepared for that kind of HUGE sacrifice with his tiny-lit roll of stick called cigarette.

DepEd warlords strike with the baton, unleash an all-out war against Jejemons

FS Blog dated May 31, 2010

I remember sometime in January 2009 when I tried to reconnect thru text with some fellow trainees at 10^th National Multimedia Training for Oral English Communication sponsored by Convergys on November of the year prior. Fortunately, during the training we were all asked to fill-in our contact information (i.e. mobile number, email, etc.) in a bond paper which was then photocopied and distributed to each one of us. I found it to be convenient enough since we were apparently made to pledge cascading the training to our respective divisions. Through it, information sharing for the then would-be seminars may become easy and handy. I scanned the list and immediately identified some names based on ID tags we wore as well as those who became my activity group mates. There were about eight persons whom I can clearly recall that would have been my immediate contact had not they used either Smart or Globe mobile network. I use Sun Cellular. From the list, one name stood out; she’s Michelle Gomez from Bicol who used the same network as mine.Since most trainees were DepEd officials and supervisors [I don’t think I’m good at saying they aren’t OLDIES, do I?], I initially thought she might be one. And so I texted her this way (notice the means of my text):

Hi Ma’am Michelle. I don’t know if you still remember me but we met at Convergys, Makati. I’m Jerwyn from Nueva Ecija. I scanned the names of our fellow trainees and I can see that you are also using Sun. I would like to know where you from.

Then she replied:

Ys, I rmembr u.d 1 w/ a @#$! face.M fr Albay.Hw r u?We wr suppsed 2b prtners n an actvty der,ryt?

Suddenly it felt weird. I thought she might be a supervisor or a DepEd official -I mean age wise-but there she was texting the way I usually do had not I considered her as [ok, ok I admit I was totally wrong] an OLDIE. Thus the next messages, alas, were confirmation that she is far younger than I thought she is and that I’m, in fact, older than her. So there came my apologies and explanation and I then later came up explaining that young people used to text this way:

“Eow puH, uzTah pUh qEo!” 

I couldn’t recall though if I put in, “jejeje.”

I hope I didn’t

Luckily it was alright with her as she even told me that there really are differences in way of TEXTING for those who are either young or old people. She even told me that those “in-between” –maybe like us- also got our own style. But together with that, I never realized that our observation about that new wave of texting style among the younger generation was the beginning of a trend that more than a year later will be dubbed as the “Jejemon” phenomenon.

Jejemon, for that matter, is a new terminology used to identify young people trying to appear “in” with the way they create an art-form out of the regular Short Messaging Service (SMS). It is a way of expressing their different level of enthusiasm for texting. There are actually differing ideas of it: First, some said they are actually making compressed term out of regular word to maximize the limited space of an SMS. The other side actually makes their messages appear more complicated –even longer- than the usual. Either way, most people who aren’t Jejemons agree: their styles practically won’t make texting easier to understand. Also, they have their own fashion statement. I bet you’ve already seen a guy who placed, not wore, a colorful, net-like cap above their head. 

About three weeks ago, I received a Facebook invitation from a former pupil to join a group called, Anti-jejemon (a.k.a jejebusters). From the name itself, it appears that there seem to be a growing dislike for Jejemons. Some even aired their intents of destroying them and annihilate them off the face of the Earth. Some said, “Who wouldn’t?” You receive a text but then you need to summon all your earthly knowledge just to comprehend. Then you get enraged because before you could understand a thing, all hell broke loose. 

Media attention, particularly GMA 7, made these even more highlighted after featuring them in some of their news and documentaries. The exposure made them so popular that a lot were created out of the idea like fashion, music and literature. It may not be too long that we may hear jejemons in schools and even in the curriculum. With this, the Department of Education through Secretary Mona Valisno declared an all-out war against Jejemons. She said that there will be some adverse effect to students if they are not to do something to stop this phenomenon. The pronouncement reaped different reactions from people. Some agreed and some didn’t. Surprisingly, a Roman Catholic bishop defended these poor jejemons by saying that they wouldn’t last too long. This is just a current trend that sooner or later will vanish like bubbles in the air.

I agree. 

I am not a bishop; not even a Roman Catholic. But I am an elementary school teacher who, most likely, will meet and converge with real jejemons come school year 2010-2011. But we are supposed to follow our secretary for her warlord stance. So what must I do?

The prevalence of jejemons in the Philippines is not really a phenomenon until media expounded them. But who can’t blame the media when their job was to create a SCOOP? One thing I noticed about these jejemons is that you won’t see them bragging about their style. Not once you would see them trying to tell everyone to join or follow them. They even say that they won’t text jejemon-wise if the receiver isn’t one of them. In fact, I don’t see those influencing teachers and the way the school transpire with their work. Cellphone texting and writing themes are far different things. For one, jejemon use the complexity to write words since it was invented out of the necessity to maximize the 28 letters of the alphabet into just nine keys of a typical cellphone keypad. On the other side, handwritten words don’t usually end up as jejestyle text because it is with pen and paper –not really that intricate. Some teachers may argue that sometimes they were able to exchange proper spelling for textspeak in writing lesson plans but it was minimal and should not cause any alarm. If jejemons are to be eradicated, then teachers must be the first to receive an all-out war from DepEd due to the textspeak manifestation to their work and not these poor youngsters who clearly defined the difference between texting and actual handwriting.

In the end it will be narrowed down to the effect of jejemons to the public. If it is right or wrong, we still couldn’t tell by now. Clearly the end will justify the means. I will surely get alarmed and perhaps I’ll join warlord Valisno if one day I hear some of my pupils SPEAK like jejemon texts do.

Election 2010 ala stock market: Koala “bear” or bull?

FS Blog dated May 27, 2010

Take it or not, 2010 election was the fastest the Philippines ever had. It was deemed historical purely because of the lightning speed counting and transmission of results never before seen in this country. Who could imagine that only a few days after May 10, we see local officials being proclaimed with minimal to no protest at all? There, the typical election scenarios of disputes and remonstrations that usually take center-stage have been greatly reduced. The speed at which the election results were being canvassed both officially and unofficially was staggering. Not even the “mandarayas’ –now [I think mistakenly] named as hackers- could do something as the election process pass before their eyes.

This was until the name Koala came about three week after. Not to take away anything from the cuddly but solitary creature, it now appears that we, once again, drag poor animals to human representation regardless of our own possible negative connotation. Remember buwaya, baboy and ahas along with their editorial cartoon symbolism? It is evident that the term Koala Boy was created based on the appearance of this man who wears white mask with rounded, black portion at the lower front that resembles a koala bear. It was a hit like Lee Dewyze winning American Idol. The echoes of possible election fraud that appeared impossible at first suddenly became so hugely doubtful that even a 128-bit encryption of the Precinct Count Optical Scanner (PCOS) program seems to be in question once more.

I don’t know if this is a real score to tackle but I doubt anyone who can actually break that 128-bit security encryption. This may sound too technical but 128-bit encryption is, by far, impossible to decrypt, unless of course, you have the original source code to boot where you no longer need to break in but just simply modify the program –it is no longer hacking then but proramming. But as far as I know, the source code is currently inside the most protected vault of the Bangko Sentral ng Pilipinas. So the question is how? I don’t know. Maybe those who are in doubt or in suspicion are either computer hacking ultra genius or simply otherwise (I don’t want to say imbecile). It is either you are a wizard at decrypting where 128-bit becomes chicken feed as what Koala boy implies or you’re just afraid of something you totally don’t understand. It’s normal for human to fear the unknown. Now the Filipinos are between the validity of the entire Philippine election versus that of Koala Boy. HU R U Picking?

In stock trading, we have terminologies like BULL market and BEAR market. Bull stands for surging stock prices; the one investors love to hear –read: PROFIT. Bear market, on the other hand is the exact opposite when stock prices, in general, go down. It is quite a matter of how you look at it as an investor. Most are greatly delighted to see the prices go up. Surprisingly, others understand it the other way. It is said that a good investor earns when prices go up or down.

I can compare the recent election with this: The first week, where there was assurance going into the canvassing, can be matched up to a BULL MARKET.People are happy, oozing with confidence with the process. Some candidates even conceded as early as three days after –an unprecedented occurrence in Philippine politics as, before, no one was said to lose; it is either you won or you were cheated. The country appeared to finally break off the bandage of questionable results. Fraudulent upshots became a thing of the past. And we were all happy.

But this was not until Koala Boy came into picture. He single-handedly turned the bright scenario into a dark picture as he represented the BEAR MARKET (no wonder he’s koala BEAR, pun intended). Now we are in a brink of a possible collapse. Have you imagined what probably may happen if Koala’s claims will be proven as valid? Then there will be massive failure of election. Even for places where there may be no hoax will doubt the results.Just like the stock market, prices go up or down within minutes by just rumors of massive selling or buying of some blue chips.

But are we, Filipinos, to act like good investors in this trying moment is the ultimate question. Can we cash-in or succeed either way or just like before fell trap to the quicksand of spurious politics? The final stretch of canvassing for the executive positions started yesterday. In just a few days we may finally have either a legitimate president or a bogus one depending on what will transpire through the Koala controversy.How we perceive it, perhaps like investing in stocks, matters more than how we look at koala boy being a timid bear or a raging bull.

Mosquito jabs + POMPYANG punches to GMA Network’s coverage of “The Event”

FS Blog dated March 21, 2010

It may be true that many Filipinos are disappointed or outright disheartened with how the seven-time world champion in as many division, reigning WBO welterweight titlist and pound-for-pound kingpin, Manny “Pac-Man” Pacquiao defended his belt for the first time largely due to the tough but clearly passive challenger and former IBF welter champion in Joshua “The Grandmaster” Clottey, Sunday, March 14. I am not. Rather, I was and still am disappointed with something else–the GMA 7 free coverage. It was a near piece of s—t (expletive).

This may be true as well that perhaps most if not more of the so-called diehard fans lost their bets due to ludicrous premise not about whether Pacquiao will either lose or not but on what roundClottey would kiss the canvass. Sorry people but Clottey isn’t a walk in a park even for the Pan-Man himself. I honestly pity those who spiel that it was a boring fight. I certainly wouldn’t want to concur. What I saw was an action-packed, one-sided domination of a game Pacquiao and a back pedaling, defensive, just-passing-to-get-my-paycheck-strong Ghanaian. Also for me, it was far from boring, though. All twelve rounds I was sitting on my toes, sweating as if in need for toilet after feasted on some soup gladly not the Ghanaian BANKU and OKRU stew! Whoa, does it ring a BELL, you boxing fans?(Please excuse me for the pun). What you are if you got bored with 1,231 punches thrown by the Pinoy phenom based on CompuBox versus pathetic 399 by the challenger? When did you see six heads short of a sold-out ticket of 51,000 people in attendance at Cowboy Stadium in Arlington, Texas –the third most attended boxing event in recent history? I just really don’t know.

But I am no boxing analyst, neither a commentator nor an expert so I am leaving the full commentary to all who say they are. But in all honesty, the fight–I mean ONLY the fight and nothing more– was far from being a slumber-inducing pill unless, of course, you are a rabid fanatic of the sports in search for pure brutality and not of the Sweet Science.

Forget that I am a full pledged KAPUSO, watching almost all of the anime especially Hunter X Hunter to Knock-out on mornings and also the 24 Oras to Queen Seon Doek at primetime. Forget also that I own a little over a thousand shares of GMA Network stocks that again, for sure, will earn handsome dividends due to its string of commercial successes on top of this monstrous event called, “The Event”. It no longer matter to me the possible amount of revenue I am guaranteed to generate based on these but as a true-blue boxing fan, I need to feed myself with right amount of boxing dosage at the best possible frame of time to get well with thirst of such information.

Clearly, what I mean is the commercial delays were awful. You would count to ten commercial plugs at average of 20 seconds each but then you still can’t see the following round coming due to miscalculated interruptions. Or when it does, probably the fight had already resumed. I feel as if I was in nasty facial contorting with each passing commercial piece due to blatant disappointment. No wonder, I got a BP reading of 170/100.

But, then again, business as usual for the network I belong- with that old tag line: Where you belong. As a fan relying much from a free TV coverage, there seem to be nothing I can do. If only there was Pay-Per-View available for this fight using my Dream Direct Satellite, I might have thrown another 890 pesos just for a few hours of LIVE coverage. There was none. On the outset, for practicality’s sake, gladly, there was indeed none. I might reconsider myself, again, as an impulse buyer if I did purchase PPV.

Good thing, nonetheless, my old transistor radio worked real wonders. Coverage was LIVE. The only downside was that I needed to squeeze my brains out to picture what the anchor/host Orly Trinidad was trying to depict us. He would say, “Mosquito punch, pinakawalan ni Manny, sunod-sunod pero dalawa lang ang tumama!”

Then I said, “What the hell is mosquito punch?!”

As far as my limited boxing knowledge is concerned, there are basic punches left and right like jabs, crosses, hooks, straights and uppercuts. I learned one which is called the Bolo punch invented by one helluva Filipino boxing great during the Golden Era, Ceferino Garcia. The Gazelle Punch by none other than the father of modern boxing, Jim Corbett. The Dempsey roll, named after himself, Jack Dempsey. The Peek-a-boo by Cassius Clay or better known as Muhamad Ali is a thing of beauty. And of course the Manila Ice or the Pacquiao’s vaunted left straight.But how’s such a mosquito punch? What f*ck**g mosquito punch is?! I might agree, though, to call Pacquiao’s two fisted simultaneous assault on both sides of Clottey’s head as the “POMPYANG” punch ala FPJ which practically made some finicky rolling laughter across the globe. But a mosquito punch is not only out of books but a clear inappropriate nomenclature considering how a mosquito could possibly punch, if any. It is maybe a “kurot”, “pindot” or what but clearly not a punch at all.

Good thing, I stick with my transistor. The fight ended even before 1 pm. GMA7 coverage? 4pm!!!

So next time I better watch alongside my dearer Mylene who is in Manila. I might able to convince her to accompany me to one of some free LIVE shows there - Oh, oh hold a second, it is not what you think. Maybe it will be better. I wish it shall be the battle atop of that squared-circle with the loudmouth Money Mayweather. As some says, it takes two to tango. And so do boxing. And, perhaps… so do I.

Should I now move to the KAPAMILYA network with its TOP RANK, INC. rights to boot? I still have to think twice. Anyway, ABS-CBN share costs between 26 and 28 as of press time. But I’d rather discuss it with my broker, Joy of Venture Security, first to tame my impulsiveness.