Illiterate Filipinos now 15 million, and counting (Repost)

Illiterate Filipinos now 15 million, and counting

Written by Lilita Balane

Tuesday, 22 September 2009

Out-of-school children, school dropouts pushing statistics upward The number of illiterate Filipinos, which has grown to 15 million in the last 6 years, is expected to further increase as more children stop schooling every year, education specialists said on Tuesday. The unabated stream of dropouts, they said, may prevent the government from fulfilling its international commitment to provide “functional literacy” or adequate education for all Filipinos by 2015. When the Philippines adopted the United Nations’ Education For All (EFA) in 2006, its initial goal was to make all Filipinos aged 10 to 64 functionally literate. This means bringing to zero the number of functionally illiterate population from the recorded 11 million Filipinos in 2003. Unlike basic literacy, which only requires the ability to read and write, functional literacy includes the ability to cope with the demands of everyday life, like problem solving and communicating. The Functional Literacy, Education, and Mass Media Survey (FLEMMS), a survey to determine literacy rate in the Philippines every 5 years, showed that 11 million Filipinos lacks functional literacy, while 4 million Filipinos have no basic literacy. Critical year From around 15 million illiterate Filipinos, the illiteracy rate is expected to increase with the more children unable to go to school, and with those in school dropping out, said Edecio de la Torre, president of the Civil Society Network for Education Reforms (E-Net). “2010 is a critical year for education. It marks the final stretch of the EFA 2015. Countries will be conducting its end decade-assessment to check the progress they had made. The Philippines will be conducting its own assessment and the picture does not seem to be rosy,” said Raquel Castillo, advocacy officer of Asia South Pacific Association for Basic and Adult Education(ASPBAE). In 2008, Department of Education (DepEd) reported that some 2.2 million children aged 6 to12 years, and 3.4 million aged 12-15 years, are not in school. Moreover, a 2003 Asian Development Bank report showed that out of the 100 children who enter grade school, only 65 graduate. After graduation, only 58 return for high school, and only 45 of them finish. To meet the EFA target, the Department of Education has carried out programs like adult education for old people who want to continue their education, and the alternative learning system (ALS). This month, it launched Project ReaCh (Reaching All Children). This program allows public schools to hold another enrolment in October to accommodate about 5.6 million out-of-school youth. The new students will be provided “flexible alternative modules,” which would help them catch up with their missed lessons. Center of debates There is also the DepEd’s Project EASE (Effective and Affordable College Education) and Open High School program, which will not require the presence of students in the classroom, especially those who are working. Instead, they will be provided modules they can study at home. “Despite Philippine basic education being free, we still have a staggering number of school-age children and youth out in the streets who face exploitation in all forms,” Education Secretary Jesli Lapus said in a press statement. For its part, E-Net launched “10 Days, 10 Voices,” a 10-day campaign that would place education as a center of election debates for the 2010 polls. The event hopes to highlight the situation of education as seen by teachers, parents, child laborers, indigenous people, and other marginalized sectors. Meanwhile, Literacy Coordinating Council head Norma Salcedo and E-Net vice-president Flora Arellano said that an increased education budget would help the DepEd invest in programs that would reach out-of-school youth and adults. Meager budget Arellano said that in the past years, the budget for education was only around 12% of the national budget, or 2.36% of the country’s gross domestic product. This is way below international standards, where 20% of the national budget goes to education. “The proposed budget speaks very little about quality, equity, the out-of-school youth, the illiterates, and the un-reached,” Arellano added. For 2010, DepEd proposed for P159 million budget for basic education, but the alternative budget initiative of E-net and other education advocates suggests P165 million. Arellano said the additional budget would fund the expansion of DepEd’s ALS program and other drop-out reduction projects. (Newsbreak)

Reminiscing about the NSPC - Reprint

This article was written by Kristine Panogot, an NSPC national winner in Feature writing representing South Cotabato then in Region XI. Reminiscing about the NSPC

Written by Tinette Panogot

Tuesday, 10 February 2009

Just how memorable a part of student life in the Philippines is the NSPC? Google the NSPC, or its former incarnation, the NSSPC, and blogs surface in which NSPC alumni talk about the NSPCs they've been to and aspiring delegates talk about the NSPC they are going to. Blogger Lourgen Therese Paderanga calls the 2006 Kalibo, Aklan NSPC her "most wonderful experience as a student" because her delegation later went sightseeing in Boracay. She divulges in her blog that although she dreamed about seeing other places, she thought that she had no chance of doing so because she lives in the southern part of the country. Then, "unexpectedly, a one of a kind opportunity comes my way -- to be able to have a trip to one of the places where I longed to visit -- the island paradise of Boracay," she gushes. Nor is she the only one. "(A)ng unang pagkakataon na nakasakay ako ng eroplano, at makatakas sa Luzon, ay nang palarin akong manalo sa RSPC noong nasa 4th year high school ako at ipadala ako sa National Schools Press Conference na ginanap noong Disyembre 1997 sa Tangub City. (The first time that I rode on an airplane, and was able to escape Luzon, was when I was lucky enough to win the RSPC (Regional Schools Press Conference) when I was in 4th year high school and I was sent to the National Schools Press Conference held in December 1997 at Tangub City)," reminisces Palanca awardee for poetry Edgar Calabia Samar in his LiveJournal blog. He remembers that the airplane landed at Dipolog and that they were able to stop at Dapitan to see the replica of Jose Rizal's house. To cap the experience, he then won second place in Editorial Writing. The experience is not just tours and sightseeing, of course. The main thing that drives the NSPC is, and always has been, journalistic training and competition. The delegates have undergone rigorous eliminations at the Division and Regional levels in order to reach the Nationals. Formerly, ten winners for the two language mediums for each Division would battle it out in each category in the Regionals. Five Regional winners per medium per category would advance to the Nationals, where again, ten winners per medium per category would be chosen: the best of the best young writers in the Philippines. At present, the standards are stricter: only three Regional winners go on to the NSPC, and only seven National winners are finally chosen. As blogger Ellaination recalls of her own NSPC experience: "(H)aller, reality check, imposible pa sa imposible na manalo ako sa Nationals. Jusmiyo, ilang manunulat ang kakatunggaliin ko mula sa iba't-ibang lupalop ng Pilipinas, ano naman ang panlaban ko sa kanila??? (Hello, reality check, it was greatly impossible that I would win in the Nationals. My God, how many writers would I be up against from the rest of the country? How could I win against them?)" But win she did. "Sa bawat paglapat ng ballpen ko sa papel noon habang sumusulat ako ng articles kahit ako'y inaantok na... sa bawat madugong draft na ibinabalik mo... sa mga pagpupuyat na dinanas ko para lang makapag-press work... (For each touch of my ballpen to paper while I was writing articles even when I was already sleepy... For each bloody draft that you returned... For the sleepless nights that I experienced just to do press work...)," she goes on to thank her school paper adviser, who has since passed away, maintaining that even now that she is already working, she still continues to write. Another blogger, Ako Si Pedro, looks back at his own bittersweet aspirations to the NSPC and pokes fun at himself: "...tiwala ako sa sarili ko. Alam ko na kaya kong umabot sa National Schools Press Conference. Tiniyak ko ‘yon sa nanay ko, sa mga kaibigan ko, sa punong guro namin, sa titser na gabay ko, sa mga kasamahan ko, sa takatak boy sa kanto na nagbebenta ng yosi, kending stork at vicks, kay mang carding na magtataho pati na sa alaga n'yang pusa na si mingming, sa mga harurot boys na traysikol drayber, at higit sa lahat, tiniyak ko ‘yon sa sarili ko. I'll bring home the bacon! Yeah baby! Yeah!---Ngunit nabigo ako, at kung ano man ang kadahilanan ay hindi ko na ikwekwento. Ayokong sabihin pa na isinisisi ko ang kabiguan ko sa ibang tao. (I had such confidence in myself. I knew that I could reach the National Schools Press Conference. I assured my mother of it, my friends, our principal, my teacher-adviser, my companions, the 'takatak' boy at the corner who sells cigarettes, Storck and Vicks candies, Mang Carding who sells taho and even his pet cat Mingming, the 'harurot (speeding) boys' tricycle drivers, and most of all, I assured myself. I'll bring home the bacon! Yeah baby! Yeah! --but I was disappointed, and whatever the reason was, I will not go into it in detail. I will not have it said that I blame my failure on other people.)" Win or lose, however, Ako Si Pedro credits his experience with giving him confidence and some sense of direction. He writes: "Marami akong ginulantang nuong mga panahon na ‘yon. Ultimo mga kasama kong kalahok at dalawang titser na walang silbing nagsilbi bilang coach sa'min sa kompetisyon ay hindi makapaniwala na nanalo ako. Hindi ko sila masisisi. Isa kasing pilyong palikerong gago ang naging imahe ko sa eskwelahan. Na-stereotype na ako, nailagay na ako sa isang kahon at nalagyan ng marka, marka na palatandaan na ako'y isang gago. Animo'y alam na nila kung ano lang ang kaya ko. Hanggang dun na lang ako. ‘Yun ang akala nila! (I surprised a lot of people during those times. Even my fellow delegates and two teachers who served as our coaches in the competition could not believe that I won. I could not blame them. My image in school was that of a naughty playboy jerk. I was stereotyped, put in a box and marked, a mark that signified I was a ne'er do well. As if they were sure they knew my limitations. That I could only do so much. That was what they thought!)" His Press Conference days awakened a love affair with writing that lasted through his college days and finally inspired him to start blogging. Inspiring and stimulating as it has been to those for whom it was a rite of passage, the NSPC has not been spared the impact of other events within the country. In view of its mandate of developing journalistic competencies among the youth, nothing could be more fitting. Media must, after all, have its finger on the pulse of current events. For some, however, supervening incidents that affect the NSPC could be irritating. In his blog KnowReadKnoWrite, Gilbert Yap Tan thinks back on his stint as evaluator for three NSPCs, particularly recalling "what happened to the scheduled NSPC to be hosted by SoCot in 1993. Then DECS Secretary Armand Fabella decided to change the venue to Baguio City when a bombing incident occurred in nearby Sultan Kudarat. This was made a week before the scheduled event in spite of the fact that everyone and everything in SoCot were prepared for the hosting." That year, the South Cotabato delegation boycotted the event in disgust. The next year Fabella was replaced by Ricardo Gloria, and the NSPC finally arrived in Koronadal. Even without disasters and catastrophes taking place, for other delegates it is a struggle to be able to go to the NSPC even if they have already qualified during the Regionals. Budget is a big consideration, as a school paper adviser relates in his blog. He and his students had to solicit funds from the community to be able to attend the NSPC. "I experienced it thrice in a row looking at my student's determination to compete in the national but it seems that budget would somehow obstruct their vision. But we were able to hurdle the difficulties when we banked on the generosity of friends, relatives, politicians, and the school. It is at this point that since the school budget was poured off in the production of the paper, and some were appropriated to the fare and registration during the Division and Regional Schools Press Conferences, the national level seemed to have ended up a dream hanging out there. The last resort was to solicit benevolent assistance from known resources," he recollects. Good or bad experiences notwithstanding, many agree that their NSPC experiences were memorable. Bicolano blogger Mitsuru, in particular, could not forget his own NSPC experience-- during the EDSA Revolution. "I was neither at home in Tiwi, Albay nor protesting in EDSA at that time," he recounts. "I was in the Visayas, Barotac Nuevo in Iloilo to be exact during the National Secondary Schools Press Conference (NSSPC) held in that rustic but charming town and if I remembered it correctly, some 30-plus kilometers away from the City of Iloilo. I was in third year high school in 1986 when I was chosen as one of the representatives of the Bicol Region (by virtue of me landing in 5th place in the News Writing Category in the Regional Secondary Schools Press Conference (RSSPC) held at the Camarines Sur National High School in Naga City of the same year) to the NSSPC where lady luck smiled on me in Barotac Nuevo for I placed 9th (only the top 10 were announced and awarded certificates onstage) out of 150- plus contestants nationwide and was the highest placed Bicolano in the News Writing Category." While world-changing events took place far away in the national capital, the delegates went about their lectures and competitions, and followed the news avidly. Mitsuru remembers the late Joe Quirino wearing a yellow ribbon, and how "(w)hen the church bells finally toll(ed) on the night the Marcoses left Malacanang, the entire auditorium went wild as the delegates from Regions II to XII and NCR whooped it up while the delegates from the Ilocos just kept quiet." Even an ordinary NSPC could be a major disaster or a major adventure, depending how you looked at it. To blogger Lily, who went to the 1994 Koronadal NSPC, it was both. She writes in her blog "Catching the Duma Virus": "Most of the teachers and parents were hesitant about sending us to Mindanao for the conference because they were terrified that this new terrorist group--- which the radio, TV, and newspapers were obsessing about--- might blow us up. I didn't like this Abu Sayyaf that people were talking about because they were ruining my opportunity to travel and bring glory to my family, my school, my city, my region, and most especially to my Darwinian instincts." After three days bus travel (which she remembers as miserable), they finally reached Koronadal. For her event, Feature Writing, the topic given was: "I would travel to the ends of the Philippines for an experience like the NSSPC." All she could think to write about was: "What? No Abu Sayyaf?" Lily ends her blog post: "(T)his essay should have been what I wrote in Koronadal. But it took me fourteen years and almost a week to write this." That shows just how long the NSPC experience can remain fresh in a delegate's consciousness.

What I would Write on my Moleskine (assuming I have one :))

Assuming I have a moleskine notebook, it will be the repository of the story ideas teeming in my mind which is no longer the reliable instrument it once was (hello, memory gap!). A moleskine will make a very fine storage for my story ideas - no viruses/bugs/worms/malwares to worry
about, no stml (short-term memory loss), no power interruption, no blue screen of death, - just add one finepoint pen. :)

Thanks Wifely Steps for the chance to join the Bloghopping Moleskine Giveaway!

What I've Read and Watching Now

Based on the book Freedom Writers Diary. The true story of an English class handled by Erin Gruwell.

Some People Need LOVE Spelled out for Them

Stanley and Iris, starring Robert De Niro and Jane Fonda, was based in part on Pat Barker's debut novel, Union Street (1995 Booker Prize Winner) by Pat Barker. It was Jane Fonda's "retirement" film before she returned to the silver screen with Monster-in-law. It was marketed as a love story, hence the blurb which I used for the title of this blogpost.

Not your typical date movie, Stanley and Iris serves a new twist to a love story. At the beginning of the film, when Iris learned that he was single, lived with his father and could cook, viewers jumped to the conclusion that he was gay. They both worked at a pastry factory: he in the cafeteria and she in the assembly line. Iris discovered Stanley can't read and write. The most moving part of the movie was when Stanley recounted to Iris what he had to go through because of his illiteracy. When the cafeteria boss accused Stanley of pilferage, Iris defended him and disclosed his secret disability which cost him his job.

Stanley's illiteracy caused him to lose subsequent jobs and he had to bring his father to a nursing home because he couldn't take care of him. Confronting his predicament, Stanley swallowed his pride and asked Iris to teach him to read and write. Being newly-widowed, Iris found in Stanley
qualities she never saw in her late husband. Stanley eventually learned to read and write and became a successful inventor. Spoiler: this movie has a happy ending.

Man builds no structure which outlives a book. This quotation by Eugene Ware is featured in a sign at the library entrance where Iris brought Stanley for his initial steps towards literacy. One cannot emphasize enough the importance of books to society and the world. The national goverment, through the Department of Education and efforts of non-government organizations, has initiated steps to address adult illiteracy through the Alternative Learning System (ALS). Manny Pacquiao, the famed boxer from General Santos City, was the recent graduate of the ALS. He took accreditation and equivalency tests to graduate high school. ALS also offers (depending on regional needs) various programs like caregiving and other livelihood training.

Let us not forget that adult illiteracy starts as child illiteracy. Despite free elementary and high school education here, poverty has forced many children to drop out of school to help eke out a living for their families. Many organizations including McDonalds and Jollibee are addressing this need by making books accessible to children in far-flung barrios. In our own little way, we can donate books and other reading materials to daycare and reading centers in our communities. Share your books with security guards, jeepney/tricycle/bus drivers and janitors. Wouldn't it be wonderful to see them reading during their free hours?

Papa, Can You Hear Me?

God - our heavenly Father.
Oh, God - and my father who is also in heaven.
May the light of this flickering candle illuminate the night the way
Your spirit illuminates my soul.

My Father was a quiet man, too quiet for comfort. During slow hours in our store, he was content to read his Chinese newspapers and magazines while relaxing on his rattan and wicker easy chair which had an adjustable back rest and extendable footrest (which I gave to him as a gift out of my first month's salary). We knew he was in a good mood if he hummed Chinese folk songs while reading. While immersed in reading, he would consume several pots of tea. Relatives on my Mama's side of the family taught me to read, but Papa was my first role model in reading as a hobby. He always looked calm and serene while reading. After closing the store, he would wear his favorite white sleeveless undershirt (sando) and blue boxer shorts and do some more reading before going to bed. When he found something delightful in the papers, he would call me and point out to me a picture or article and explain it to me. Then we would share a hearty laugh.

Papa loved to tell us his stowaway adventure. At the age of 13, he stowed away on a Compania Maritima ship bound from Iloilo City to Manila. During the trip he would ask leftovers from other passengers. Upon arriving at the port, he walked from Divisoria and found himself in Carriedo with its row of shops and stores. He found work in a grocery there owned by a Chinese businessman who hired him on the spot upon learning that he was part-Chinese. The boss taught him how to read and speak in Fookien and write in Chinese characters. His co-workers taught him the ABCs/Abakada using the brands found on labels of the grocery items they sold. When it came time for them to teach him the letter C, they showed him a Coca Cola bottle and told him to copy the capital C with a long tail (Coke calls this the dynamic ribbon, I think) on it.

Papa, can you hear me?
Papa, can you see me?
Papa, can you find me in the night?
Papa, are you near me?
Papa, can you hear me?
Papa, can you help me not be frightened?

Papa loved babies and toddlers. He would cuddle and played with them for hours but he lost interest in them once they could speak in sentences and walked on their own. I and my siblings assumed he was the same way with us. In our photo albums, there were lots of baby pictures with us in his arms. But in subsequent photos, the closest we got to him was to sit on his lap during the photoshoots. The gap between him and us widened when we became teeners. He became distant and uncommunicative with us. We only heard his voice when he had wanted us to do something in the store or when he gave us a scolding.

Looking at the skies I seem to see a million eyes
Which ones are yours?
Where are you now that yesterday has waved goodbye and closed its doors?
The night is so much darker.
The wind is so much colder.
The world I see is so much bigger now that I'm alone.

He was too silent for comfort. As the eldest child, I could sense his growing frustration over the lessening income of our store. Martial Law saw the plunging business incomes nationwide. The bank foreclosed the land and store building because we failed to make the amortization payments. In spite of low sales, during the Christmas season, he would ask me to bring grocery bags of goodies to family friends. He would also ask us to wrap rums, calendars and t-shirts for loyal patrons. On several occasions, I would notice the slight tremor in his hand when he handed the wrapped rums to soldiers who came in the store, placed their armalites on his desk and asked him for their Christmas gifts. He survived two hold-up attempts - the first on a weekend with us children around his desk in the store while he showed us some funny items in his newspapers and magazines. The guy with a gun just came up to us and asked for the day's sales. Papa gave it to him and then the guy ran out of the store. The second time, we were in school. The men came to the store and closed it up. Papa was hogtied by two men while Mama locked herself in the comfort room. Papa was able to untie himself and yelled for help from the neighbors. The men ran away with the day's sales. He wouldn't be as lucky the third time around.

Papa, please forgive me.
Try to understand me.
Papa, don't you know I had no choice?

Can you hear me praying, anything I'm saying,
Even though the night is filled with voices?

1981. The last year of Martial Law. Exactly two months after celebrating his 61st birthday, Papa woke up as usual at 3 a.m. He was supposed to brew some tea before opening the store in front of our living quarters. Leaving the master's bedroom, he saw two men carrying boxes of goods from our store. Using a .45 caliber pistol, they shot him twice. And the men and a small boy, whom they ordered to get inside our house through the jalousie windows and open the door for them, rushed out. Papa rushed back to their bedroom, locked the door and told Mama what happened. Papa never made it to the hospital.

I remember everything you taught me, every book I've ever read.
Can all the words in all the books help me to face what lies ahead?
The trees are so much taller and I feel so much smaller.
The moon is twice as lonely and the stars are half as bright.

Papa never saw his grandchildren. The kids were born after his death. And so as soon as they were a month old, they were brought to the cemetery and introduced to him and later, to Mama too. While there, we would recall funny times with Papa.

I would retell how, as a reward for my being an honor student in high school, he treated me to a movie of my choice. I chose Fiddler on the Roof based on a Broadway musical. He slept all through it while I sat watching. The songs on screen were punctuated by his snores beside me.

Mama would tell us about the time when she bought a framed poster of the Mona Lisa by Da Vinci from an ambulant vendor and hung it in the living room with the family photos. After closing the store and preparing to do his ritual reading, Papa noticed the new portrait and called out to Mama: Hey, who is this? Is she a relative of yours or mine?

My sister retold her embarrassing experience with a German customer. When Papa saw her with a foreign customer, he went to assist her. German (examining a local rum brand): Hmmm, good rum (pronouncing it as "room")? Papa: No room for rent! German (looking at my sister): Is she your daughter? Papa: No! He's my son, my son! (At that time there was a popular local sitcom named "My Son, My Son" which starred Pugo and Jay Ilagan). The German left the store shaking his head.

Papa, how I love you.
Papa, how I need you.
Papa, how I miss you
Kissing me goodnight.

Papa, to my eternal regret, I was not able to say I love you before you left us. Let me say it now: I LOVE YOU! And I MISS YOU DEARLY! Thank for loving us in your own silent way. Thank you for the quiet strength you had shown us during those critical times. Thank you for giving me the gift of education which was denied to you by poverty.

(Papa, Can You Hear Me? music by Michel Legrand, lyrics by Alan & Marilyn Bergman from Yentl. Click here for the clip from the film.)

Stereotyping Mindanaoans

The center of the Philippines is believed to be Manila; hence the term Manila-centric. Even now, Manila remains to be the object of every promdi's great Philippine Dream. Many Manila-based (as opposed to Manila-born) people consider themselves "superior" to people outside of Metro Manila (promdi as in from the -prom di- provinces). While Metro Manila may have all the comforts and amenities of a highly urbanized city, they also pay the price for it - pollution, high crime rate, shabby living conditions, etc. As they say, one needs money to go around Manila. To a promdi, Manila is Metro Manila, not just Manila City. Hear this - Bai, punta akong Manila. O? Saan sa Manila? Sa Las Pinas!

(Manila-centric. How else can one explain why national TV newcasts feature live Metro Manila traffic footages and reports which are of no consequence to the rest of the Philippines and the world?)

When national competitions like the Palarong Pambansa or National Schools Press Conference (NSPC) are hosted by Mindanao cities and provinces, the first thing that comes to the minds of school administrators, parents, teacher-advisers, students is: Nge! Nakakatakot dun! Daming bombing, terorista, Muslim! (Yikes! It's frightening there! Lots of bombings, terrorists, Muslims!)

We can't entirely blame these people from having these stereotypes of Mindanao as the mainstream media seem to write about Mindanao only when something bad happens. For every feel-good news coverage of Manny Pacquiao, there would be three feel-bad news of Bad Boy Navarrete's extra-marital woes.

The local government units and government offices based in Mindanao have to assure these people that the hosts won't dare volunteer their places for these national competitions if they thought the safety of the participants will be jeopardized.

To those "brave" enough to venture outside of their comfort zones, Mindanao offers a lot of eye-openers and new discoveries and lessons. Metro Manilans are awed by the abundance of fresh fruits and vegetables at prices they can only see in their dreams. In fact, one common illness experienced by participants in Mindanao is indigestion and loose bowel movement from binging on fruits and food. Try resisting fresh fish grilled over coals, not reaching for more servings of fragrant rice freshly harvested from the fields.

They discover that not ALL inhabitants of Mindanao are Muslims. There are Christians too and the Lumad (tribal people) as well. Many inhabitants are Ilocanos, Tagalogs, Visayans who flocked to Mindanao to better their lot. What the media label as War is actually a series of skirmishes between the military and rebels in the countryside far from the urban centers. True, bombings happen now and then, but these happened not only in Mindanao but also in Metro Manila and elsewhere in the country. In these terroristic times, no city, province or region is safe, at all.

Muslims are not the war freaks they were stereotyped to be. Nor are they the stab-you-in-the-back traitors. Every tribe, race and culture has its share of hotheads, trigger-happy gun-toters, and every variety of snake-in-the-grass traitors. Are there no war freaks and traitors among denizens of Luzon and Visayas? So you see, these are not monopolies of Mindanaoans. In stereotyping, it's the sweeping generalizations that hurt the most. As the Tagalogs say it, Huwag namang lalahatin. Some of my very good friends are Muslims and I have had the privilege of working with Muslim bosses and co-employees.

During their brief stay, the participants see, hear and feel for themselves the reality that their host place is not at all like the media present it to be. Their impressions of Mindanao change because of this realization.

There was one occasion when the Mindanao stereotype worked to our advantage. When I was asked to serve as head of delegation for the participants to the National Schools Press Conference (NSPC) at Rizal High School in Pasig in the 90s, we were met, not by the Filipino hospitality usually accorded guests, but by the haughty superior stance of a Metro Manilan. We were waitlisted at the Cebu airport the day before so we arrived at around 11 p.m. in Manila. We were led to our quarters on the top floor of one school building and told to register the next morning. The classroom teachers assigned to our quarters were so accommodating and immediately put all of us at ease.

At six the next morning, we were called to breakfast only to be blocked by a porcine Miss Piggy lookalike teacher in charge of our delegation's meals. She said, with her nose and chin up in the air, that we couldn't partake at the breakfast table because we were not registered yet. So I looked for the registration secretariat and was told by a janitor they would start registering at 8 a.m. yet. I went back to Miss Piggy and showed her the official list of participants and the cash for payment of the registration. NO WAY! she told me. And so I asked the rest to eat breakfast outside the school premises. I waited at the secretariat and when registration was opened for the day, I told them in a loud voice, WE went HUNGRY because the teacher in charge of the meals of the MINDANAO delegation wouldn't let us for being unregistered. WE did not COME ALL THE WAY from MINDANAO to gatecrash this conference and get free meals! If that TEACHER is still AROUND at LUNCHTIME TODAY, she will GO HOME HEADLESS!!!

The secretariat, without my asking, deducted the cost of breakfast from our registration fees and profusely apologized for such treatment. I told them, YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES! You pride yourselves for originating Filipino hospitality. When you go to Mindanao, you act like first class citizens entitled to all and everything you desire, but when we Mindanaoans come here, and just because we are promdis, you treat us like shit!

Suffice it to say, Miss Piggy was nowhere to be found from the time the snacks were served for that day until the time we packed up to go back to Mindanao several days later.

I have two hands . . . or why ambidexterity matters

As a teacher and a writer, I have always advised others to make use of their other hand - the hand they don't use for writing. Whether right- or left-handed, we are used to doing so many things with our dominant hand.

Imagine this: you lift the phone receiver/cellphone using your dominant hand to answer a call, then the caller tells you to jot down something, what do you do? Either you put down the phone and look for paper and pen or you transfer the phone to your other hand, then use your dominant hand to look for paper and pen.

How about this: During an exam you are writing down your answers then you come to a problem solving question which requires a calculator. So you put down your pen, take out the calculator and compute. Then you pick up your pen and copy the answer.

What's wrong with these pictures?

You're taxing your dominant hand and wasting time!

If you answer the call with your non-dominant hand, you can use the dominant hand to look for paper and pen and jot down the message.

If you use your non-dominant hand to compute with the calculator, you can take down notes and answer with your dominant hand.

I've seen young people texting with both hands on their cellphones. It's a safety practice specially if they text in public - makes it harder for snatchers to take off with a cellphone held by two hands. But I wonder what they will do if they receive a text message that needs to written down.

I've heard stories of left-handed people who commit the mistake of offering platters of food to their Arab friends using their dominant hand. In Saudi Arabia and Muslim countries, the left hand is used for cleansing themselves while the right one is used for good and polite acts.

Training programs for police, military and security guards emphasize the need to leave the hand used for holding a gun free. If they use that hand to hold a cigarette and an armed enemy approaches, the seconds wasted on dropping the cigarette can spell injury or death to them.

It's never to late to teach ourselves to be ambidextrous.

I've looked at clouds that way . . .

I've been deliberately writing in simple terms. One writing principle that guides me as a writer is write to express, not to impress. I steer clear of jargon or specialized language (language understood by certain groups of people only). If I have to use it for a mixed audience, I also have to explain it lengthily. I borrowed a book once written by a Filipino philosopher and I couldn't understand a single sentence in it! The philosophical jargon in it was amazing. I guess I need to have a master's or doctoral degree to understand it. There's a column in a national daily written by a medical doctor and readers who want to know more about the disease discussed in it end up more confused than enlightened. Maybe its proper place is in a medical journal?

Beginning writers make the mistake of using big words drawn from their overdeveloped vocabulary that will make readers want to run to the nearest dictionary. If you're using MSWord, enable the readability statistics in the spelling & grammar check under Tools. This is a useful tool for you to find out who can read what you just wrote. When writing is clouded by jargon, how else can the writer communicate? The last time I checked communication is still a two-way process.

So, my gentle blogreader, take out your pen and paper and try your hand at deciphering what proverbs were obscured in the following:

1. Persons of imbecilic mentality navigate in parameters which cherubic entities approach with trepidation.
2. Pulchritude possesses profundity of a merely cutaneous nature.
3. A mass of concentrated earthly material perennially rotating on its axis will not accumulate an accretion of bryophytic vegetation.
4. It is not efficacious to indoctrinate a superannuated canine with innovative maneuvers.
5. That prudent avis which matutinally deserts the coziness of its abode will not ensnare a vermiculate creature.
6. Everything that coruscates with effulgence is not ipso facto aurous.
7. Visible vapors that issue from carbonaceous materials are a harbinger of imminent conflagration.
8. Domicile, not salty, not sour, not rancid, abode.
9. Members of an avian species of identical plumage congregate.
10. Eschew the implement of correction and vitiate the scion.

Bonus - Guess this nursery rhyme:
scintillate, scintillate, globule of vivific
fain would i fathom thy nature specific,
loftily poised above the capacious
closest resembling a gem carbonaceous.

I compiled these from various sources.

Answers: 1. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread 2. Beauty is skin deep 3. A rolling stone gathers no moss 4. You can't teach an old dog new tricks 5. The early bird catches the worm 6. Everything that glitters is not gold 7. Where there is smoke, there is fire 8. Home sweet home 9. Birds of the same feather flock together 10. Spare the rod and spoil the child
Bonus: Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are, up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky.

If you get 7 or more correct answers, quit your day job and run for public office.:-D

1989 Dumaguete National Writers Summer Workshop

Every year in May, the National Writers Summer Workshop is held at Dumaguete City for three weeks.

I've heard about this writing workshop in the 80s from one of my mentors, Tita Lacambra-Ayala. Bringing typewritten manuscripts of my short stories, I would travel three hours by bus to Davao City to see her. She took me under her wing, egging me to drink several glasses of rum-coke while she read my stories. Half-drunk, I would listen as she critiqued my work. She would also regale me with her literary exploits. She would bring me to exhibits, poetry readings, meetings with the local literati like Lydia Ingle and Wenzel Bautista. I would help her out by selling sets of her Roadmap Series featuring the works of fictionists, poets and painters.

When my short story, Crimson Crescents, won the grand prize in a Mr. & Ms. magazine contest in 1988, Tita urged me to join the National Writers Workshop. I was apprehensive about the workshop at first, fearing that whatever natural writing talent I have would not withstand the panel critiquing. She gave me the list of requirements and volunteered to write the requisite letter of recommendation to Mom Edith Tiempo.

And so in 1989, I took the circuitous route (dictated by the meager travel allowance given by the Workshop administration) of bus rides from Gensan to Davao City to Cagayan de Oro City where I took a boat ride to Cebu City and another boat ride from there to Dumaguete City. Upon arrival at the narrow wharf, I asked a vendor for directions to Silliman University. With her pouting lips, she pointed to a large mansion by the sea. After a short walk, I walked between the portals of the University. A Workshop staff led me to Sampaguita Residence where the workshoppers were billeted. In the afternoon, the 16 of us were present and raring to undergo the workshop. At 6 p.m. a chorus of screams emanated from the ladies room followed by the sound of slippered feet clambering down the stairs. While doing their ablutions, the ladies from Manila got the scare of their lives when they heard the disembodied sounds (TUK-oo, TUK-oo) made by a tree gecko. Their horror elicited hearty laughs from the promdi (from the provinces) workshoppers.

The next day, at the start of the workshop, we were given a hefty compilation of our works with our bylines in absentia. A schedule of what works would be tackled in the workshop was also distributed. The panel was introduced to us and vice-versa. Dad Ed and Mom Edith Tiempo were the chair and at various intervals, we had lively discussions with Francis Macansantos, Cesar Ruiz Aquino, Merlie Alunan, Marj Evasco, Anthony Tan, Ophelia Dimalanta, Jimmy Abad, and Beth Day Romulo.

The workshop sessions were held in various venues. The panel was generally encouraging in their comments. But there was no drama especially during the critiquing. The workshoppers were often surprised by the insights drawn from their obra maestra. Always there were bursts of applause when the writer was introduced at the end of the session. Lakambini Sitoy's star shone the brightest, according to panelists and they were right.

The group was quite laid back. Some of us took early morning or late afternoon dips at the Silliman Beach, watched Blue Velvet at the only cinema in town, enjoyed the night breeze while sipping beer by the Boulevard, browsed old used books at the mezzanine of a store, trekked to the Overlook, strolled inside the vast campus, chatted about the sessions just finished while feasting on Jo's inato chicken and halo-halo, joined Cesar Ruiz Aquino in a chess game on a downtown sidewalk. Jose Wendell Capili took some pictures of us.

We held a dinner poetry reading session hosted at poet-musicologist Dr. Albert Faurot's campus residence. But the most memorable to me was the luncheon hosted by the Tiempos at their home. After the luncheon, Dad Ed took me aside and with his arm on my shoulder, gave me the lowdown on fiction writing. He said I was a natural story teller and that I should continue writing short stories. For that, I am eternally grateful to Dad Ed, one of my literary heroes.

All in all, it was the most cerebrally stimulating summer I ever spent.

After that, being one of only two from Mindanao, I sort of lost touch with my fellow fellows. However, in 1999 (ten years later), I would have an unexpected reunion with some of them during the launching of Relasyon edited by Rolando Tolentino and Luna Sicat at Ateneo de Manila University.

The Pencil Parable

Here's a short parable that inspires me as a writer and a person:

The Pencil Maker took the pencil aside, just before putting him into the box.

"There are 5 things you need to know," he told the pencil, "before I send you out into the world. Always remember them and never forget, and you will become the best pencil you can be."

One: You will be able to do many great things, but only if you allow yourself to be held in Someone's hand.

Two: You will experience a painful sharpening from time to time, but you'll need it to become a better pencil.

Three: You will be able to correct mistakes you will make.

Four: The most important part of you will always be what's inside.

And Five: On every surface you are used on, you must leave your mark. No matter what the condition, you must continue to write.

The pencil understood and promised to remember, and went into the box with purpose in its heart.

And, if you haven't already, go back and reread this with God as the pencil maker and you as the pencil.

Author Unknown

Dear FutureMe

Dear Gilbert in the year 2011,

I know you are not surprised why I would write you in the year 2011 when you're 55. So wipe that smile off your face because I admit, it is no accident at all - the letter and the choice of year.

We were born on November 11, 1956: 11th day of the 11th month in the year of which the last digits add up to 11. That day was a Sunday and that makes us a Sunday's child (according to an old nursery rhyme: Sunday's child is full of grace). Parang tayong si Mama Mary. :-)

In numerology 11 is equivalent to 2 (1+1) and in our life, we noticed the emerging pattern that we ran the gauntlet of our first experiences:

• first grade had to be postponed for 2 years because we were too young at 5 to be enrolled (remember how Mama used to tease us about not being able to reach our left ear with our right hand because our arm was too short going over our head?)
  
• being the firstborn son, nephew, and grandchild of our Mindanao-based clan (remember how we rebelled in sophomore college against the family simply because we got tired of being a role model for our siblings and cousins and wanted to lead our own life and assert our self and personality?)
  
• first graduation from grade school (we cried our eyes out because our parents did not make good on their promise to give you the exclusive Tupperware blue bag with multiple compartments that would have made us the envy of the freshmen class in high school)
• first love and heartbreak (our girlfriend Mae was not welcomed by the clan because our elders feared we might be forced - by shotgun - into early marriage. Remember how they would tease us about seeing her - which made our heart skip a beat - and then tell us how kinky her hair was, show short she was and how she waddled like a duck? If only they could hear our heart breaking into pieces. . .)
• first career choice and frustration (all through grade and high school, we wanted to be a doctor or writer/journalist only to be frustrated to learn that these courses were offered only in Manila-based universities and our parents couldn't afford to send us to study there)
• first college course (hunched over the astigmatism-causing accounting ledgers and worksheets in class while our teacher was busy taking furtive peeks down the blouses of our female classmates, we realized how b-o-r-i-n-g a day job as an accountant could be and promptly shifted to Management the following sem)
• first job and tyrant boss (true, we were recruited a month before graduation to work for a multinational company only to find out that the payoff for the generous pay and prestige was a slave driver of a boss who acted like a brown American to the hilt)
• first trip out of Mindanao to Manila (the Compania Maritima ship we boarded was in the eye of the typhoon lashing at Manila and tilted dangerously to the left when we approached Corregidor Island, and upon reaching Quiapo, we had to wade through waist-high floodwaters while trying to balance a large suitcase on our head and hold on to Papa's hand so we wouldn't get lost in the mad rush to ride a jeepney to Balic-balic)
• first teaching job in a private college (we had to write features for Mod and Mr. & Ms. Magazines to augment our meager income and found ourselves being suffocated by the compartmentalized thinking of the administration which refused to acknowledge that we could be a good Management teacher and writer/journalist as the same time. Remember our disbelief when all the published articles we wrote got no credit in our ranking and promotion?)

Strangely enough, after those first experiences, the ones that followed were easier to deal with. Sure, we can laugh about these first experiences now. But be assured that I brought these up because they are a significant part of the first half-century of our life which I lived through and survived, with grace, if I may say so. :-). They were my badge of courage. And I have survived those growing up years.

At 55, you are now well on your way to enjoy the second half-century of our life, your growing old years. Your face and body now bear the marks of the passing of the years. Remember that each scar, line, ache and pain are well-earned and well-deserved.

Unlike me, you will be guided by the lessons accumulated from my first half of our life. I can not give you any assurance that your second half of it will be any better than mine. But I believe in you, in us.

Always remember our ultimate goal: way beyond being a good teacher, writer or journalist, we want to be remembered as a good person.

As you start the second leg of your trip through life, I leave with you the last few lines of Desiderata: And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery & broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

I love you, I love us!

A big bear hug from

Gilbert in the year 2007

Julia Campbell: A Kindred Spirit Moves On

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on:
nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it

-- Omar Khayyam

I do not know Julia Campbell personally. I'd known a few Peace Corps Volunteers in the years immediately preceding 1972 before Martial Law was declared in the Philippines. One of them is Alvin Hower who taught at Notre Dame of Dadiangas College and eventually married a local girl I also know, Prima Guipo. I am familiar with the volunteer work being accomplished by the Peace Corps in third world countries such as the Philippines. But, sadly, I hardly knew Julia Campbell before she made the headlines.

But I feel a certain kindredship with her because she taught kids how to read, write and speak in English and teens the rudiments of campus journalism. She was a freelance writer/journalist for the New York Times and People and Star Magazines. She maintained a blog. She was a kindred spirit indeed.

Irony ruled over her life in the Philippines. At 38, after surviving the terrorist attacks in New York, she decided to "drop from the rat race" and joined the Peace Corps. Her last blogpost was titled, Buhay pa tayo (We are still alive) because she noticed that whenever she asked Filipinos in Sorsogon and Legaspi where she was assigned how they were, the usual answer would be: Eto, buhay pa. In it, she wondered if during the onslaught of Typhoon Reming in Legaspi last year, she would be drowned by the rising flood waters in her small apartment away from her family and friends.

She was reported missing April 8, Easter Sunday which traditionally marked the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Ten days later, her body was found in a shallow grave in Banaue, known for its rice terraces. This Peace Corps volunteer who loved communing with nature met a violent death.

Her pictures flashed on TV screens worldwide showed a woman with a warm smile which must have won over a lot of Filipinos who love to smile at the slightest provocation. Her volunteer work at Donsol, Sorsogon and at Legaspi had certainly touched a lot of lives there. After her unwarranted death, her caring and endearing ways and generosity with her time and talents while assigned to this country must have surely touched a chord in the hearts of people like me who came to know her, albeit belatedly. To me, Julia embodied the essence of the Peace Corps - volunteers who genuinely care about the people they work and live with, see the need and rally every resource they can find to meet it, and put a lot of passion in everything they do.

Her family and friends may find consolation in the fact that Filipinos are now bombarding the heavens with prayers and saying decades of the Holy Rosary for the repose of soul of Julia.

Thank you for caring, Julia. Vaya con Dios (Go with God), my kindred spirit.

I'm Getting On with the Years and So are You . . .

Before I turned Golden Boy last year, I prepared myself for it by buying and reading up on books dealing with the middle age (reckoned by various sources as between the ages of 35 - 65, so I'm right smack in the mean, or is it median? However, Chicken Soup for the Golden Soup is meant for those sexagenarians - 60 year olds for you). I sure need a roadmap to navigate that part of my life's journey. If, as they say, life begins at 40, then I will be 11 this November. :-)
Time Flies by Bill Cosby. Filled to the brim with wit and wisdom. A sampling:

• I wear glasses, primarily so I can look for the things that I keep losing.
• I am just like any typical nuclear physicist. My office may look messy, but I know where every atom is.
• "Don't worry about senility," my grandfather used to say. "When it hits you, you won't know it."
• I remember my wife's birthday because she announces it well in advance and momentously, the way astronomers announce Halley's Comet.
• Instead of writing it (a message) down, I decide to keep it in my head, perhaps because of all the room for it there.
• I am not a physicist, but I'm sure that the theory of the conservation of energy was discovered while watching an eight-year-old pretend to work.
• In my old neighborhood, a boy stopped playing when he began to lose his pulse. And then he became the referee.
• Never let the younger people know that you think a compact disc is a sturdy spine; and never say to them, "That was before your time," because the last full moon was before their time.
• In spite of the profound love I have for my wife, sex at my age has become exhausting, which leaves me yearning for a younger body, or longing for a good nap.
• If you put a boyish face on a man of seventy-three who can't bend over, you have a new kind of centaur - and the horse's ass is the man who had the surgery.
• What I pray is that all the parts of me do not shut down all at once. What the man of fifty has to avoid is an orchestrated falling-apart.
• Immortality is a long shot, I admit; but somebody has to be first.
• There is a saying that goes: Youth is a gift of nature; Age is a work of art. Well, I hate to disagree with Confucius or Hallmark, but if age is a work of art, the artist is one who belongs in the subway and not in the Louvre.
• Memory has a sugarcoater and we can never remember pain. (If women could remember pain, we would be a nation of single-child families)
• You can teach an old dog new tricks. You just don't want to see the dog doing them.

When My Parents were My Age, They were Old (Or Who are You Calling Middle-aged?) by Cathy Crimmins. Very funny justapositions between our parents' middle age and our middle age like: while our parents start to go gray and dye their hair, we begin putting highlights in ours to enhance its natural shine.

Body checklist for the mature: you use tweezers in places you've never thought before, you notice that dim lighting makes you look at least three years younger, sucking in your guts starts to feel natural, when you play sports you care less about winning than about finishing the game without getting hurt.

The Big Five-Oh! - Facing, Fearing and Fighting Fifty by Bill Geist.
Bill Geist takes comfort in the statistics that everyday 11,000 hits the big five-oh (one every 7 1/2 seconds). He starts his book with 50 ways to tell you're 50; here's some :
takes three times to call own kids by correct names, can't read menu, plays air-guitar to unplugged songs, ear hair, can't see own dick, leaves turn signal on, says "eh" and "huh" a lot, falls asleep (rather than passes out) at parties.


Ten Things I Wish I'd Known Before I Went out into the Real World by Maria Shriver. Armed with her Kennedy toothy trademark, Maria Shriver gives us a mouthful to wish we'd known before it's too late for us: pinpoint your passion, no job is beneath you, who you work for and with is as important as what you do, your behavior has consequences, be willing to fail, superwoman is dead...and superman may be taking viagra, children do change your career, marriage is a hell of a lot of hard work, don't expect anyone else to support you financially, and have lots of laughter in your life.

Kurt Vonnegut Jr., 84 (A Literary Hero Dies)

One of my literary heroes, Kurt Vonnegut, just died (April 11) from irreversible brain injuries caused by a fall several weeks ago. Read the New York Times report here.

His books were my oasis on the way to self-discovery amidst the intellectual desert. His books were friends I would never tire of. Palm Sunday is Vonnegut's hodge-podge autobiography which i read in paperback. His writing style always enthralled me.

Vonnegut was a student paper editor, soldier, news reporter, teacher, and artist/designer. We share the same birthday, November 11.

He was celebrated for the Wear Sunscreen commencement speech he never wrote or delivered. In fact, it was written by Mary Schmich who wrote about the funny confusion here.

Vonnegut's son Mark (named after Mark Twain) wrote The Eden Express: A Memoir of Insanity.