A Many-Splendored Thing

It was 1957.  The acacia trees lining the avenues at the University of the Philippines campus in Diliman were not as tall and leafy as they are now.   He saw her walking to class one day.  She walked with a certain spring in her step, clutching her books.  "Magarput" is his word.  It's an Ilocano word that's hard to translate, but it connotes a certain kind of vivacious girliness.  He kept an eye out for this "magarput" little Chinese girl from the sugar lands of the South, who mostly spoke English because she didn't know much Tagalog, the lingua franca of Manila.  She graduated class salutatorian from Negros Occidental High School.  In those days being an honors graduate automatically granted young students admission to UP Diliman.

She had no idea he was interested, until much later.  He was a good-looking Northern boy from the summer capital, Baguio City, and he was in UP to study mining engineering.  With other Ilocano boys he roomed at Narra Residence Hall and spent some of his free time with his fraternity brothers, or riding around in his friend's Volkswagen Beetle serenading young ladies at the nearby dormitories.  She stayed at the YWCA dormitory across the street, where, every Sunday, they served the best fried chicken on campus.  All the Narra boys dreamed of being invited to dine at the YWCA on Sundays!

My dad learned she was secretary of the youth organization at the UP Protestant Chapel, the Church of the Risen Lord.  Naturally he joined, too. She had two other suitors, one of which became a top volcanologist, and the other, a prominent judge.  But she only had eyes for my dad.

One fateful day he was returning to Narra Residence Hall from one of their dates, and came upon two fraternities fighting violently nearby.  In the ensuing melee one boy stabbed him in the side!  My mother brought him to the hospital, where she met my paternal grandmother for the very first time.   When the boy who stabbed him found out that it was a case of mistaken identity, he was mortified.  He apologized, and they later decided not to file charges against him. Oddly, a few years later, when my parents got married, he sent them a nice set of placemats.

My dad later joined an equipment firm, while my mom taught high school Biology at UP. They continued to see each other.  On Valentine's Day in 1967 he went over to her faculty room and said, "Let's get married!"  So off they went to Quezon City Hall.  The two witnesses were my dad's best friend and the judge's secretary.  They didn't have much money, so they went to Little Quiapo nearby and had a crushed ice dessert, halo-halo, to celebrate.   It was many years later that my mother was finally able to introduce my father to her mother.  My maternal grandma was fond of saying, "You know, I never met your father until after they got married, but he turned out to be my favorite son-in-law!"

Twenty-five years later they renewed their vows in church.  They've been together 46 years now, best friends and lovers and parents.   They are in their seventies.  My dad jokes that their marriage has survived this long because he is deaf in one ear.  My mom says it's because they each maintain their individual interests and yet support each other's pursuits.

But I think it's the romance, which is still quite strong.  My friend Ana called me on the phone one night.  The phone reception was very clear and she could hear everything going on in the living room, and even heard the doorbell ring.  She heard the clattering of my mom's shoes on the marble.  "Who's that? " she said.  "It's my mom," I explained.  "My dad just arrived."  Suddenly it was quiet.  "What's happening?  Why is it quiet?"  I laughed and said, "They're kissing!"

There are pink tulips in a little pot on the table tonight.  It reminds me of the time he first gave her tulips many years ago.  They were the exotic and fashionable imported flowers to give on Valentine's Day back then.  We were all stuck in traffic on our way to their wedding anniversary dinner.  After sniffing the tulips, she said with surprise, "But they don't smell of anything!"  So he jumped out of the car and ran after a vendor selling sampaguita (jasmine) leis, and ran back.  "Here!" he said, panting, giving my mother a lei.  "Here's the scent!"

Ain't love grand.

Little Girls, Team Sports

When I was a little girl I was bookish and not the least bit sporty. I did, however, love swimming, climbing trees, running with the dogs and playing games the neighborhood children played. I even endured hula dancing class. It wasn't until high school PE that I became one of the goalies of the girls' soccer team. I sometimes walked home all covered in mud. The only time I was goalie and we played against another school, it was a long, hard match that ended in a draw. No big deal - we had sandwiches and we had our stories, and we enjoyed ourselves.

I had a place in the team, a role and a goal, and I tried as much as possible to achieve it. The sense of belonging and pride in the team was exhilarating. For once I was the doer, not the watcher. Many people prefer to just watch, and never give themselves a chance to do.

Many years later, I watched my goddaughter Jassie play girls' Little League Softball. Their team won the right to represent the Philippines at the International Little League World Series that year. I cheered myself hoarse that day, and was so proud of my friends' little girl. I remembered thinking that when I was a little girl I could never hit anything on cue even if I tried. I was hopeless at shooting a basketball or returning a volleyball serve. The only thing I knew how to do was kick a ball in certain directions and block it with my body. I thought it was great that kids nowadays had all these organized activities that gave them opportunities to discover physical and social skills, activities that weren't available or fashionable when I was small. All we had then was a choice of learning dance, or a musical instrument, or art, or kiddie cooking class. Very few little girls then participated in team sports, unless you counted school patintero and Chinese garter games at recess.

Last Saturday I watched my niece Lilo play Little League T-ball. It was a very hot and humid day, but families gathered around the El Circulo Verde field, cheering on their kids. There's something so appealing about watching 6-year-olds running around a diamond trying to catch a ball. Each of them had a job to do. Lilo batted twice; later she had to exit the game due to heat exhaustion. They only played for an hour in the sweltering heat, but they all got their exercise, which is one thing kids always need enough of.

When Lilo started out with the International Little League Association of Manila's Major Holdings team, she was the smallest girl (and one of the youngest) in the group. They practiced once a week on a weekday and played virtually every Saturday in the school year. In the beginning she didn't understand the game rules. She cried whenever she was tagged out. Eventually she learned to hit a ball on a tee strongly, even hit a coach's pitch, and to catch a ball. And she learned to run as fast as she could. There were days she didn't feel like playing, but she played anyway. There were days she was more interested in daydreaming while in the outfield. But she played anyway. Her teammates didn't all go to the same school, but they all became friends.

A year later, some teammates moved into the next age group. Some stopped playing in favor of other pursuits. This year Lilo plays in a mixed boys and girls group. (More new friends!)

This sort of experience is so important. It's not about dressing up to look sporty, or so you have something to brag about (although some people do that). It's about learning to work with others, and to do your job the best way you can so you can contribute to the team's success. For most little girls, it's trying out what you initially think you're not inclined to do, with the hope of finding out that you really like what you're doing. And becoming the better person for it.

The last time I participated in a team sport, it was in Philippine airsoft, from 2001-2003. I was a member of the PPG, an all-girl assault squad of Team Wyvern. We participated in the first Kalis competition, where we had to successfully complete an assault module, a defense module and a hostage rescue module. We held a respectable middle place in the competition, not bad for first-timers. Here's a couple of photos from those days when I was 20lbs lighter and had sharper cheekbones:

That's Ria Miranda-Regis and me clearing out the first room of the FTI warehouse in Taguig.

The PPG disbanded at a time when some of us became wives and mothers. Those are important roles, too - except your team is your family this time. As for me, I passed my airsoft gear on to my godson Raffi, who uses it mostly for cosplay.

Those with young children should take advantage of opportunities for team sport. If you're thinking about things like the expense and the time it takes up, believe me, it's worth it. Let your children join something, have fun and learn to play well with others. There are many, many lessons one can learn from experiences like this, but playing well with others is one of those skills that you may not realize means a lot when it comes to living well in this world.

The Sky Was My Ceiling

I haven't attended a UP Lantern Parade in ages. I can't even remember when the last time was. Maybe it was when I was still an undergrad, when I was actually IN the parade, not watching it. Some friends of mine attend, like it was part of some great big pilgrimage. If I lived nearer campus, I probably wouldn't miss it. All that creativity! All that energy! The cold air!

Last night I was at the Christmas party of my high school batchmates. Across me was Ney, who this morning was attempting to break 60 minutes in her 10k run. That reminded me of January 2008 when I joined the UP Centennial Run, the 5k leg. It was still dark when we started running, and the fairy lights were still on in the bushes, and there was a huge swathe of mist in the air. It was cold. I was wearing two layers of running jersey. I was shivering. UP was beautiful.

It used to be that whenever I would dream of home, it would be of this place. I never dream of the place where I live now. They say the home in your head is the home of your heart - that is, of your childhood, if you had a happy one. Mine was extremely happy. I remember cool mornings, walking around campus with six dogs, with friends, chatting about everything and nothing. The air was clean. There was green everywhere. Time was slow under the acacia arches.

After the Lantern Parade people used to gather at the Sunken Garden for a concert, to grill some barbecue, to laze about on sleeping bags and have a forbidden (within school perimeter) beer. It would be the last day of the academic year, and people would celebrate. One morning I woke up, and the sky was my bedroom ceiling. Three of my close friends were snoring nearby on their sleeping bags. It was amazing we were not arrested; we were the only people left in the entire Sunken Garden. The sun was just about to rise. I looked around, with this sense that the dawn seemed unreal. I was shivering; UP was cold. And so beautiful.

UPIS 84WARD

UPIS 84WARD

Here's a slideshow someone made of UP Integrated School Class of 1984's Silver Jubilee and alumni homecoming:

Pacdal Dreaming

I woke up too early today. I then went back to bed holding Jeffrey Steingarten's The Man Who Ate Everything. True enough, I fell asleep after three pages discussing The French Paradox, particularly how red wine could be good for the heart.

I dreamed we were at the house where my dad grew up on Pacdal Road, in Baguio. There was a big reunion and Auntie Caring was serving her famous buko pandan dessert. I was minding three small children, when suddenly Lola Mama walked over and put her arm around me. She was speaking in a mix of schoolteacher English and Ilokano, and then she shoved a USD50 bill into my hand. I was surprised, and straightened up, and behind me there was my dad chatting with my two aunties Lota and Josie. At that moment the air smelled like pine resin, and I looked down at my grandma and smiled. She used to be taller than me, but today I was the taller one. I leaned over to kiss her and smelled her hair that had been brushed with coconut oil. That used to be my job when I came home from school, massaging her hair with coconut oil. I gave her back her money and told her to give it to Auntie Caring instead.

Behind me, Auntie Josie was pink with laughter. Lola Mama had gone to the kitchen.

And then I awoke. In real life this sort of gathering happened only twice - once when the Caccams and the Sisons went on a tour of Northern Luzon, and later, when Lola Mama passed away when I was 16; I hadn't dreamt of her in years. Auntie Lota passed away shortly after that, and Auntie Josie a few years ago. The dream felt like Christmas when I was a kid. The only thing missing was Auntie Josie's cookies.

Aratiles Memories

A while ago I received the email “Maalaala Mo Kaya”, and decided to see how much I remember of the things we used to do when we were kids during the early, early days of Generation X Pilipinas. I can’t answer all the questions in one post, but let’s start with a couple.

Nung ikaw ay bata pa, kumakain ka ba ng aratiles? (When you were a kid, did you use to eat aratiles?)

Aratiles? Of course. Running around UP Campus my sister and I kept mental maps of where every aratiles tree worth shaking and climbing just for the rosy-colored, marble-shaped fruit. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen or tasted a single aratiles fruit for ages.

Nasubukan mo na bang magpitpit ng gumamela para gawing soapy bubbles na hihipanmo sa binilog na tangkay ng walis tingting? (Did you ever try squeezing gumamela flowers to make soapy bubbles which you blew through coconut leaf ribs twisted into a circle?)

We used to peel off red gumamela petals down to their center, which was sticky and helped keep the bubbles we blew solid. The crushed gumamela petals when mixed in the bubbly water exuded lovely rainbow oils. For blowing bubbles though, it was better to go pluck a branch of papaya. We cut off the leaf and the other end for neatness, so that when you looked through one end of the stalk towards the other end you’d see lots of holes running through it. Then we’d swish it in the soapy laundry water and blow – and make several bubbles instead of just one! We didn’t throw away the papaya leaf though: we’d crush it and rub it on our skinned knees so that we wouldn’t develop scars. The enzyme was pretty effective; my legs are smooth and you can barely make out the scars of childhood. And speaking of skinned knees and other minor wounds, we were taught to chew young guava leaves and rub the resulting poultice on top of the wounds. The antiseptic qualities of the guava made our scrapes heal fast. It helped that young guava leaves actually tasted good. Fortunately our mom taught us which plants were poisonous and which ones weren’t.

In our wild backyard we found alugbati growing low on the ground, their leaves beautifully veined in red. It had these little red-black berries the size of my little fingernail, which contained a dark red pigment that we used to use as kiddie lipstick. In grade school I remember reading a book which said Jose Rizal used alugbati berries in his watercolors. I don’t remember the berries having any particular taste; all I know is we used it on our lips and threw the rest away.

Perfumed Timelines

I was browsing in CNN.com today and came across this article about a UK designer working with scientists to produce “smart” clothing that can deliver scent to the wearer as the need arises. Jenny Tillotson thinks that one day fashionistas will be able to get their aromatherapy fix or pheromones direct from her prototype outfit, whose fabric is lined with tiny veins of perfume that activate upon changes in the wearer’s body temperature. They might want to wear it to attract lovers at a party, for instance – just think of the market for this! According to the article, through this technology, asthma sufferers will one day be able to get their Ventolin directly from their clothing. It’s odd, but the article also mentions that there might also one day develop a future military application for scented apparel (to throw off bloodhounds in pursuit?).

Tillotson’s favorite scent is that of a newborn baby, which she says lasts for only three weeks. When my sister gives birth in October I think I’ll take a deep whiff of the baby. One of my childhood friends loves the smell of a puppy’s milk breath; something about it brings out her maternal instincts. Two real good scents in my book would be coffee and baking bread; I’ve heard real estate agents in the US either make coffee or bake bread in houses they’re trying to sell, to project the sensation of “home”.

“Smell is the most primitive sense and can remind us of all sorts of early memories,” says Tillotson.

Let’s take a little look back at my history in scents: Joy by Jean Patou came in a tiny black bottle with a red lacquer stopper and reminds me of my mom when I was growing up (her present scent is Lancome's Tresor). My dad smelled of Old Spice aftershave back then (his present scent is Armani). [Side story: In college I asked a male friend, “You smell good, what is it?” He said, “Old Spice”. I remarked innocently, “I love that smell! Reminds me of my dad!” Alas, he blushed and never wore that scent again, as he wanted to smell more “dangerous” and therefore more attractive to girls.]

In high school girls either smelled of Johnson’s baby cologne, or of "Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific" shampoo or were wearing Sweet Honesty, an Avon product. The original Paco Rabanne scent reminds me of my college English professor in UP, who gave me a grade of 1.0. My first boyfriend smelled of baby powder (yum!). My second boyfriend, who had a leather jacket a la Tom Cruise in “Top Gun” and drove a restored 1967 Ford Mustang, wore Grey Flannel. He was more vain than I and always had scented hankies. He was the one who introduced me to the fragrance shampoo Finesse (which I still occasionally use). Then came an assortment of Spanish citrus-based colognes which every girl wore, namely Denenes, Baby Gal and Nenuco. Shortly after this there boomed a market for local body sprays, but I don’t remember the name of the brand. Then I received Ralph Lauren’s Lauren as a birthday gift, the one in the jewel-red square bottle with a gold stopper. I stayed with that for a year or so.

Next, the college party girls started wearing Christian Dior’s Poison (which to me smelled of “rich old woman” and wasn’t appropriate for girls our age). Then Drakkar came into fashion. In small doses it smelled great, but could smell toxic when you’re trapped in an elevator with a guy who's slapped it on in lieu of a shower. My third boyfriend wore a cedar-based aftershave from St. Michael (which I gave to him). Then someone gave me a tiny bottle of Givenchy’s Amarige, which I loved, and promptly lost on a trip to Baguio. After graduation I worked in garments retail management and went through a couple of little metal spray bottles of Gap Heaven and Dream. A few boyfriends later: Mr. Nicole Miller for Men smelled absolutely yummy, Mr. Hugo Boss Dark Blue inspired lust, but in the end it was Mr. Ralph Lauren Romance I loved most. I did ask for the nearly empty bottle of Nicole Miller and stowed it in my suitcase so my clothes would smell good. Although those relationships didn’t last, at least I remember the boyfriends smelled good, and I therefore can’t think badly of them (yes, I am too nice).

By the time I finished grad school I had gone through Tommy Girl and Clinique Happy (both gifts, I never bought my own scent even up to that point), so at the Duty Free Shop in Sydney I bought myself a small bottle of Estee Lauder’s Pleasures and one of Davidoff’s Cool Water Woman. Back in Manila there were days when I would walk through Rustan’s perfume section after work and get one of those Japanese paper cones sprayed with scent and put it in my bra so that my body warmth would spread the fragrance. I’d come in looking bedraggled and later walk around feeling like a million bucks.

At present I still wear Pleasures, it’s such a classic. I confess, at times when I feel low I sniff it in the bathroom like glue, after which I emerge feeling all right. I alternate that with The Body Shop’s Cotton White eau de toilette (another gift), which has a lovely clean freshness.

Weather With You

It was with some shock that I read online about Crowded House drummer Paul Hester's suicide by hanging in a Melbourne Park last March. I had a similar shock reading about INXS frontman Michael Hutchence's suicide several years ago. It's sad when talent leaves the world that way, abruptly.

I've been a Crowdie since "Don't Dream It's Over" hit the US Billboard Charts at No. 2 in 1986. Recently I completed my Crowded House mp3's (both studio and live tracks), and came up with a playlist of my favorite 21 tracks from across four of their albums (Crowded House, Temple of Low Men, Woodface and Together Alone). Their music has been alternately described as pop, folk-rock and blues. I love the energetic and soulful guitar on most of these tracks, and I always find myself unconsciously singing backup to Neil Finn's amazing vocals. Been playing it over and over; if you ask me, it's the kind of music I'd bring with me to a desert island:

1. Don't Dream It's Over
2. Something So Strong
3. Mean To Me
4. I Walk Away
5. Now We're Getting Somewhere
6. Tombstone
7. World Where You Live
8. I Feel Possessed
9. When You Come
10. Into Temptation
11. Distant Sun
12. Private Universe
13. It's Only Natural
14. Fall At Your Feet
15. Whispers & Moans
16. Four Seasons In One Day
17. Fame Is
18. As Sure As I Am
19. How Will You Go
20. She Goes On
21. Weather With You

Naturally, I've also been collecting Neil Finn's solo work ("Try Whistling This" and "One Nil"). I love his voice, the same way I love Paul McCartney's and Paul Young's voices. I'm not the first one to note the Beatles vibe; one reviewer on Amazon.com says, "Neil Finn has a McCartneyesque gift for melody and a Lennonesque gift for lyrics." Imagine, for example, The Beatles' "Blackbird", segueing to Crowded House's "Into Temptation".

Crowded House's strongest album, in my opinion, is "Woodface". My favorite lyrics come from "Mean To Me":

So I talked to you for an hour
In the bar of a small town motel
And you asked me what I was thinking
I was thinking of a padded cell
With a black and white TV
To stop us from getting lonely

Crowded House remains underrated and tagged unfairly (outside of Australia and New Zealand) as an '80s band. I beg to differ; the songs in my playlist always sound fresh and undated, except possibly for "Don't Dream It's Over" (as a result of its relatively heavier airplay, because it's such a classic). They also performed really well live. I believe they could've been managed and promoted better in the US, but then that's moot. They broke up way back in 1996, holding a mammoth farewell concert in Australia, and releasing their greatest hits album "Recurring Dream". Fortunately Neil Finn has gone from strength to strength in his solo career.

My favorite songs? The heartbreaking "Better Be Home Soon", the romantic "She Goes On", the atmospheric "Private Universe" and of course the anthem "Weather With You".