Why Manny Pacquiao’s defeat wasn’t that painful

For a nation obsessively in need of a hero, Manny’s defeat yesterday, had it occurred two or three years ago would have been catastrophic and irreversibly traumatic for us whose national psyche is too fragile it rests on one man’s ability to throw punches and draw blood from an opponent whose background is as sorry as ours.

The fewer number of Facebook status expressing dismay, hopelessness, and bitterness due to Manny’s loss to Bradley (at least on my page), compared to what I imagined it would be, had been glaring (at least for me). Have we become less sore of a loser? I have proofs to say that as a nation we still are.

Have the Filipinos become less interested in the legend of Manny? Have the Filipinos thought Manny has already become too moneyed they failed to see their hungry faces reflected in his?

Has his story gone too magically realistic it was rendered unbelievable and felt too scripted in a country were people  eat magic realism for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Have we as a nation shifted our search for a hero to something else? Or have we realized we did not need a hero after all?

Have we thought maybe Manny is just too much of an outlier he can’t be a Filipino? Or has his career like the careers of our many local movie stars’, after having burst into a bright supernova, is now on a road to becoming nothing but a black hole, the star a has-been?

We seem to have cared less now because we realized it is not wise to gamble our national sanity on a champion who, vicissitude they call, will sooner or later face defeat, and that it is far wiser to gamble on our institutions, on our future together as one nation, on a shared belief that this nation is on its road to greatness.

Maybe having a hero was important. But as in all epics, it’s the members of the army who carry out and win the war.

Para sa’yo na nag-enroll sa akin


Ang hirap magpasalamat sa iyo gamit ang Skype na sobrang unpredictable ang connection. Magkikita din naman tayo six days from now. Magsusulat na lang muna ako.

Magsisimula ako by saying ‘Thank you’ dahil nag-leave ka pa para lang pumunta ng UP at i-enroll ako. Salamat at sorry, dahil kahit hindi ko sinasagot ang tawag mo, ala-tres ng hapon diyan, alas-tres ng madaling araw rito, naipasok mo pa rin ako sa mga courses na pinri-enlist ko.

Kahit na sabi ng isang Chinese-looking prof sa iyo e hindi ako pwedeng hindi kumuha ng isang core course in a semester, nagawan mo pa rin ng paraang kausapin ang isang old-looking prof para mapirmahan lang ang Form 5a ko. Alam kong napaka-charming mo, pero hindi ko alam na ganun katindi ang charm mo.

Source: http://soloflighted.com

Salamat sa pagbyahe mo galing Makati papuntang Diliman, Babe, sa kabila ng init at siksikang MRT at nakakatakot na jeepney-ride from Quezon Ave papuntang Campus, di baleng magkawala-wala ka. Di baleng maluma kaagad ang bago mong sapatos. Nakaka-touch isiping nakayanan mong gawin yon, ayaw  na ayaw mo pa namang naglalakad ng mahaba at madali kang napapagod.

Salamat sa paghahanap ng Vinson para i-register ang iskolaship ko (at makakatipid ako ng kaunti ngayong sem), sa paghahanap ng OUR na nasa kabilang ibayo pa. Kahit na sumakay ka ng TOKI instead of IKOT, at pagsakay mo ng IKOT instead of TOKI. Ngumingiti ako kapag naiisip ito. Ngayo’y alam mo na kung bakit ako mukhang haggard kapag umuuwi ako galing UP. Naaalala mo pa ba nung sumama ka sa akin before? Dahil kasama kita, biglang ang ganda ng UP at biglang ang dali ng class? Ganun ata katindi ang ng epekto mo sa lahat, sa akin, Babe.

Salamat dahil kahit pagod na pagod ka na sa pag-i-enroll mo sa akin ay nag-sorry ka pa dahil muntikan nang hindi mo ako ma-enroll sa mga gusto kong subjects. Ayokong pumasok ng Sabado, gusto ko magkasama tayo ng buong Sabado. At ito’y mangyayari. Yehey!

Salamat dahil sabi nila iba raw ang pakiramdam ng mayroong kaibigang nag-eenroll sa iyo, ngayo’y naranasan ko na rin ito. Sa wakas. At di lang basta kaibigan.

Babe, miss na miss na kita. Tuloy, di na ako makapag-antay na umuwi.



Simple sentences and fragments

I woke up very early, at 8. It was very cold. The first thing I did was to wash my face and brush my teeth. I gathered my whites and washed them at the basement. Then I went to the kitchen. There, my books and computer were waiting for me.

It was drizzling outside. A gloomy day. Rainy days vex my spirit.

I boiled some coffee. It would have been in a samovar. If I were in Russia. But I’m in America. So it’s a whistling kettle. Between a samovar and a whistling kettle. There is no competition. A samovar is poetry incarnate. A Whistling kettle is prose.

And how I detest conditionals.

I cooked a cup and a half of rice. I washed it first. Thrice of course. It should be that way. My mother said. The bag of rice was imported from Vietnam. It’s the best variety. A little sticky. Not too wet. Moderately soft. Bright white. My appetite wasn’t with me, though. I approached the table. Opened a book and read. I realized. It was already 10. I stared at the view outside. The falling rain water mesmerized me. I closed my eyes and said a short prayer.


The prosaic whistling kettle announced the conclusion of its reason for being. I poured its briskly boiling content into my cup. Where’s the coffee maker? I seemed to have heard. In case you asked. It’s cracked.

I prefer my coffee black. It’s less fattening this way. I don’t like my coffee bitter, however. So today, it’s black. With a dash of Splenda. I’m already fed up with all the bitterness. Including the bitterness in my coffee. A little sweetness won’t hurt. I guess.

It rained the whole day. I stayed in. I was alone. Everyone left.