Snippets of 'Military Secrecy'

The original version of my submission for UP High/UPIS: 100 years of Basic Education in the University of the Philippines (2016), the centennial coffee table book.

I graduated from high school only eight years ago, in the year 2008, but already I've forgotten much of what I swore to always remember. What comes back are now just images, like photos, of what had passed and the reasons behind them. The stories, the unfolding of events, are blurred. Most of them about the Corps.

The Corps of Cadets composed of fourth year students (class '07) called an orientation for COCC (Cadet Officer Candidacy Course), the training of the higher CAT officers, in front of the Corps office one afternoon. My friends went so I did, too. They taught us the basics of what was expected of us, what we needed to prepare if we chose to join, and they let us try out following the commands after demonstration. I got in trouble for making my mother wait in the car that afternoon when she came to fetch me. I also got in trouble for letting one of my upper batch guy friends accompany me home (because I didn't know how to commute) when she left to fetch my sister first. But somehow, I managed to convinced her to let me join, even if it required a lot of adjustments not only on my part but also hers and my sisters'.

COCC required us to be in school as early as, I think, 6 am for morning physical training. It required us to stay after school until, I think, 6:30pm or 7pm for afternoon training.  This was a problem because I was almost always late for the 7am flag ceremony and my mother brought me to and fetched me from school. The rest of the changes were fun; there were a lot of unusual rules. The COCs (Cadet Officer Candidates) of each section were supposed to stick together all the time, even when going to the bathroom. We had to go by pairs at the very least. We were not allowed to step out of a room without following certain procedures. We had to run in formation to get to places. We were allowed to bump students who stand in our way. The girls had to wear a white bandana on their heads, the boys had to tuck their polos. These did not go well with some of our teachers, and I now understand why. But back then, it was everything to us. The looming threat of being made to quit surely stirred tears.

We were set apart from the rest of the school, enough to blissfully feed the adolescent ego, and yet, it was the first time I ever felt I belonged. Morning, lunch and afternoon trainings taught us to move as one through obedience to commands. We learned to look out for one another while being punished as a team for a few's mistakes. But best of all, we made new friends. Our officers weren't as scary and strict as they  are expected to be. In fact, training was almost mostly play. Sure it was physically tough, but we weren't miserable. Some of the most entertaining training sessions included three tall boys bopping and arguing to the lyrics of Datus Tribe's Lakambini Bottom, and being made to scream “HOTDOG!” Sometimes, we'd even hang out outside school premises, or after school events.

Older alumni would probably frown at what the Corps had become during our time. We didn't have a corps commander. When we finally became officers, we were given a faculty adviser. And eventually, if I heard correctly, they've removed the program altogether. The truth is I'm not sure it really mattered. We prided ourselves to be the best flag raisers in school, better than the scouts. But that was all. We didn't learn how to dismantle and put together a rifle. We were not equipped with skills aside from marching. I can no longer even recall the precepts and roster we were made to memorize. And the friendships, they didn't really last long after graduation from training. But that's just high school. It's not really about what you learn or what you keep. It's how you spent it. COCC was fun but I don't want to go through it again.

Quiapo Medical Center

Schedule a trip to what Dr. Michael Lim Tan calls the “Quiapo Medical Center” and the other big medical / private hospitals in Metro Manila any day prior to August 25, 2015 discussions. [Tuesday, August 25 at 1-3 pm on SDH: Culture and Illness]. Dress simply; try to blend in with the other consumers and/or church goers. Explore as many facets of the medical centers' - “wings”: emergency room, OPD, lobby, admitting section, pharmacy, wards [if any], cafeteria, other areas. As expected of a health professional, be respectful and observant. Keep your eyes open, listen to the sounds, smell your surroundings. Keep safe, be alert. Be aware of wonder.

A question of authenticity 

The first thing that concerned me about the whole Quiapo Medical Center concept was whether the 'personnel' really believed what they were offering. It's one thing to sell these things as part of a cultural system one really believes; to sell these things without believing in them is another and that just seems wrong. It's the difference between a quack doctor and a faith healer. Coming from a family of doctors in Quezon City, I have no prior experience with these things. It's a completely different world from the one I know. And so, authenticity was one of the issues I hoped to investigate.

Evolution of the Nickname Story (or Bakit Geno?)

Since college: "Hindi ko nga alam eh, ako daw pumili nun nung bata ako."

Since med: "Pinili ko lang daw yun nung 4 years old ako."

Since this year: "Dati yung tatay ko kasi Gen tawag sa'kin. Tas yung tita ko, Henobeba. Siguro pinagsama ko, kaya noong 4 years old ako sabi ko daw 'Ako si Geno noh!'"

Cure vs. Treat: An Anecdote

Back in college, some of my philosophy classes conducted “objective” exams. That is, they asked identification/enumeration questions, instead of essay ones, but you can protest and defend your answer if it is different from the answer key.

There’s this one particular item that still haunts me to this very day. It’s a question about an analogy between something in philosophy and medicine. I don’t remember the exact question, but I remember the answer: cure the patient. I wrote treat the patient and it was marked wrong. People asked. The instructor reasoned that treating someone is not the same as curing someone. Treating someone was more like how you treat others, she said, and she was looking to the removal of the disease, as what the word ‘cure’ means. This was enough to appease the complainants. But she was wrong.

She forgot to account that a word may have several meanings, and treat does have different meanings. We had been using the word equivocally. In fact, in medical jargon, the word treatment is used a lot more than cure.

I knew this all along, but I never said anything.

Si Susie Pumasok Sa Pinto, Sa Door Pinto, Sa Door Pinto, Sa Front Door Pinto, Sa Front Door Pinto

Isa yang mnemonic na tinuturo sa pagkabisado ng electron configuration sa chem. Nagulat ako nung narinig ko iyan sa lecturer noong college sa UP noong nag-Chem ako kasi kilala ko kung sino ang gumawa niyan, mga kaklase ko noong third year high school habang chem class: yung kras ko at yung bespren niya.

The Lolo I Never Had

My Lolo at his best.  Jan. 4, 1997
I've always thought he was a handsome, old man, more handsome than in his youth,
and more handsome in his usual scrunched up, weird-smelling clothes. 

This was my lolo, Plaridel, the grandparent with whom I have the most memories. Memories of him consists of afternoon walks around the village with him walking backwards and his sweater worn backwards, or inside-out or both, peeling mangoes with our hands and wiping the stickiness on leaves, throwing macopa flowers at each other, playing in the backyard baha during rainy days, watching him cook rice with firewood under the makeshift shed he made his carpenter build, being spun in his office chair as transport to Quiapo, and feeling grossed out when he put the molted skin of an insect on his navel, saying he was breastfeeding it. 

He was a lawyer, and a queer man. His office and bedroom was a makeshift extension of our house, and looked pretty much like the houses of informal settlers. His files were kept in cut Tide boxes. His drawers had disgusting things no one wanted to touch. His bed smelled of him, the smell of an old person. Under his bed was a small, old hopia box with soil, where he would spit out phlegm. In his bookshelves, he kept a small pack of lemon drops, which I would try to find every now and then. And in one corner, very accessible to children, he kept the rifle he allegedly used in war. The place was dusty, had a weird smell, and was covered in agiw. He let us play there all the time. 

I liked playing with his office supplies-- the inks, the stamps, the staplers, the paper and all that magical paraphernalia that can do all sorts of things. I was allowed to play with his computer when I was, like, in kinder. It was Windows 95 with Solitaire as the only game I remember but couldn't understand, so I messed around with MS-DOS and learned how to use Microsoft Word. He also let us watch his TV whenever we wished, even though we had our own TV in the sala. He let us jump on and mess up his bed. He even let us use his drinking cups to build soil towers and mud cakes. 

We played a lot, but I don't remember talking. I was perhaps too young to talk substantially. He told stories, but only that one time I specifically asked to hear some. I don't even remember what they were about. He was gone by the time I could really talk about stuff.

Popo

Popo's still missing. We aren't close, but I've known her since second grade, even before we were classmates. We've been classmates since the third grade until she moved to a different high school. We had called each other on the phone where I discovered her nickname is Nikki and she discovered mine is Geno. We teased each other every time we interacted, and she would have that mocking look on her face. She borrowed my Wild Thornberries shirt and never returned it, but I've always been fond of her. I made her write in all my slam books, which I still keep to this day. I used to know by heart her birthday. I still remember her full name. Her younger sister used to be my cadet, and we had fun times in high school. I know they have a younger sister, and it has always amused me (and most people I know) that they all look so much alike. I've seen their parents, and I know they look a lot like their mother.

We stopped talking in high school. But she's just too real. It's natural to feel this concerned.

Some High School Poems: Behind the Verses

Poetry is not my thing. There are very few poems that I can appreciate, let alone read. But high school has a way of forcing these things upon us, like dancing and electronics. Somehow, we pick up a few of those skills, even if just the basics. So among all the stupid things I wrote, here are the decent two out of three (edited so as not to further embarrass myself), all written in 2008.

Pineapple: a metaphor

My mother planted these pineapples in 2011. They've just been there since.

Germination

It was in the fourth grade that I began receiving the type of instruction in formal education that made me really, really fond of writing, or so I recall. Our English teacher, Prof. D assigned us tons of activities involving writing and vocabulary. One of those activities was a daily presentation allotted for the first few minutes of class, wherein students randomly called shall present a new vocabulary word. Since the presenters were randomly assigned, everyone had to be ready, otherwise the student who didn’t do homework would receive a grade of zero. Prof. D was strict, and a bit scary, as I remember.

Book Tales

It was through my mother’s efforts that I came to love reading. I don’t remember but I’m pretty sure she taught me to read like Teodora Alonzo to Pepe. While cleaning stuff that haven’t been touched for decades, I found evidence: the letter S cut out from green art paper and pasted on cardboard (totally her style), along with the first books I probably owned as a child. I remember looking at the pictures of those books before learning to read. When we got a piano, I would open them on the piano, and then press piano keys, telling my little sister that that page was played as such.

My mother bought us books althroughout our childhood. There were storybooks of various sizes in either English or Filipino, mini illustrated dictionaries and encyclopedias and other illustrated educational materials. I think I read every book she bought, not once but multiple times.

Ilang Kwento ng Paghingi ng Tulong

May babae sa waiting shed na kumausap sa'kin habang naglalakad ako sa Kalayaan kahapon. Akala ko magtatanong ng direksyon kasi sabi niya kanina pa daw siya nandun at hindi niya alam yung gagawin kaya humihingi ng tulong. May mga sinabi pa siyang hindi ko naintindihan pero ang naging malinaw sa huli ay kulang na daw siya ng pamasahe kaya kung maaari daw, nakakahiya man, ay humihingi siya ng kahit gaano kaliit na halaga para makauwi ng Valenzuela.

Sa isang mabilis na sandali, napaisip ako. Pano ko malalaman na totoo yung sinasabi niya? Hindi malayong magawa ko rin iyon, pero hindi kaya scam ito? Hindi kaya modus ito at naghihintay lang sa isang sulok yung kasabwat niya? Magbibigay ba ko? Tatanggihan ko ba ang humihingi ng tulong?

Mga dalawang buwan na siguro ang nakalilipas nang may lumapit rin sa'kin matandang lalaki sa gawing iyon ng kalsada. Galing daw siyang city hall, pero naubusan ng pera kaya hindi makauwi ng Marikina. Naalala ko yung kaibigan ko nung hayskul na taga-Marikina rin na minsan daw nauubusan ng pamasahe kaya napapalakad nang malayo.

Mga ganoong panahon rin, sa loob naman ng compound ng National Kidney and Transplant Institute, nang pauwi ako galing PCSO, may manong na tumawag sa'kin. Tricycle driver daw siya sa Maginhawa at namumukhaan niya ko dahil baka daw naging pasahero niya ako dahil alam niyang taga-doon lang ako. Matapos kong isiping imposibleng naging pasahero ako dahil hindi naman ako sumasakay ng tricycle, pinakinggan ko ang mapait niyang kwento. Yung asawa daw niya nakitaan ng bukol sa hindi ko maalala kung baga o bato, pero ooperahan daw noong araw na iyon. Hinihintay niya ang anak niyang lalaking nagpasada ng tricycle nila para bigyan siya ng pera nang makabili na siya ng lugaw na ipapakain niya sa asawa niya bago ito ipa-fasting. Sa huli, lumabas na hinihingian niya ako ng bente kung meron man ako.

Mga isang linggo lang ang nakakaraan, habang naghihintay ako sa paborito kong sulok sa compound ng Lung Center, may lumapit sa'king manong, tinatanong kung may pasyente rin daw ako doon. Yung asawa daw niya ay naroon rin dahil may bukol sa baga. Kakaapruba lang daw ng hinihingi nilang tulong sa PCSO kaya noong araw na iyon ay ooperahan din ang kanyang asawa. Hinihintay daw niya ang anak niyang babaeng nagpapasada ng tricycle upang makabili siya ng lugaw na ipapakain sa kanyang asawa bago ito ipa-fasting. Habang sinasabi niya ito, unti-unting lumalabo ang kanyang mga salita, at dahan-dahan siyang lumalayo at tumatalikod dahil marahil bigla niya akong namukhaan.

In the Pensieve

SPOILER ALERT!

Harry Potter rose into fame when I was ten years old. It was his first year in Hogwarts, I was in the fourth grade. Everyone at school talked about him, his friends, and their adventures. Items were sold, and quiz bees held in his honor. Put off by the popularity more than not having friends to borrow from, I didn’t read the book, nor watch the movie.