Teaching my younger sister how to write

Before I did my laundry last night, I instructed my younger sister, with all the seriousness and a little cockiness of an older brother, and with a slightly modulated voice as if she is one of my students enrolled in the writing classes I teach at the university, to watch the film Il Postino on my computer and to write her thoughts about the film afterward. I even went on giving her some advice on tracing the plot, taking note of the characterization, the theme, and the striking dialogue lines said by the main actors that would help her make her work worth her readers’ time.

In this case, my time.

I checked her every once in a while whether she’s doing the things I instructed her or whether she started to look bored and tired watching that Italian film. I did this in between washing my two basketfuls of dirty tees and pants, while soaking them in the detergent solution or waiting for several minutes as stated in the direction on the back of the sachet of the fabric conditioner I am wont to use before wringing my clothes one by one to remove excess water until finally hanging them to dry. At times, when she caught me doing this, she would give a spontaneous comment on the lines uttered by Mario (Massimo Troisi) or Neruda (Philippe Noiret) or ask me random questions as to why Neruda’s poems are great and enduring.

I saw her enjoying the film. I wondered how she managed to make do with my poor copy of that 1994 classic by Michael Radford.

That afternoon after I arrived from Miagao, before I could even drink water to keep me from dying of heatstroke, I didn’t know where it was coming, but she just blurted “Yan, tudlui ko magsulat be,” asking me to teach her how to write.

I always spend my weekend in the city, away from the ghost town that is Miagao, distancing myself from its deathly quiet streets that give me nothing but melancholic mirages. During these weekends I spend in the city, I do my stuff and my sister does hers. We try not to get in the way of each other’s paths. Her request, and of all, teaching her how to write, was something I least expected.

I know she reads my blog as some sort of a side trip whenever she does research for her requirements in school or when she’s facebook-ing to pass time. However, I did not expect that the things I wrote on my site will motivate her to try writing, that’s my assumption, at least.

When she said, “Yan, tudlui ko magsulat be,” I seriously tried to keep my composure intact and my voice unaffected although deep inside I was already unable to contain that feeling of unusual upwelling I only have if something life-changing is occurring before my eyes. I almost hugged her.

A writer is an ordinary person, perhaps he is more sensitive. People who are highly sensitive are often more frail. I am frail, this must have been my main reason why I write. As for my sister, much as I would like to keep her from suffering this frailty brought by hypersensitivity that writing will eventually bestow on her; I cannot bring myself to deny her that voice, that affirmation of her own self validated during the act of writing.

Looking back, I have unconsciously created a thirst for writing in her.

I know one can only write literature, or even to simply begin writing, if he or she is exposed to great writings. I realized all these time I have unwittingly left my books in her humble place in the city for this expressed purpose.

Whenever I finish reading my books, serious ones on particularly technical topics or works of fiction, I would bring them to her place in the city and leave them there hoping that she would find interest in reading all of them as much as I did. Although I never attempted to impose on her the books I read, or reading in general, I consciously, but more often unconsciously, made her know that I am happy whenever I see her reading or that she enjoys the books I leave at her place.

Sometimes, when I am gripped with what I’m reading, I would shamelessly tell her how enmeshed I am in the plot of the story, how involved I am in the lives of the character, or how passionately I feel about the arguments of the author, even discussing with her the main points of the book unmindful that I have not given her the shallowest of context.

I am of the opinion that good writing cannot be taught, it can only be nurtured. Based on her papers she submitted for her course, which I secretly read because she wouldn’t let me read them for fear of my harsh criticism, I suppose, my sister has all the promise of a good writer only that she needs a little bit prodding and confidence to share her honest attempts to express her thoughts in writing.

Il Postino has all the simplicity and lyricism to inspire anyone, even those who find writing mundane, to try experimenting with words, metaphors, and images.

“How would you describe a net?” Pablo Neruda asks the postman, Mario Ruoppolo.

“My father’s net?”

“Yes.”

His response, the simplest yet the most powerful:

“Sad.”

The first lesson I gave before she started writing: Write in the simplest of terms.

My sister, Gemini, is an AB English sophomore at West Visayas State University in La Paz, Iloilo City.

I’ll cast my vote this time

I am a registered voter in Barangay Calansanan Badiangan, Iloilo. I registered with my grandmother in 2004, traversing streams and rice paddies and riding a tricycle swarmed by young elementary school students just to reach the municipal hall located on the other side of a mountain. Although I am a registered voter, I never voted in any single election since I turned 18. Some crooks might have already used my name to vote for some corrupt politicians who can afford to pay, as is always the case in Philippine elections.

This barangay, located several kilometers from the nearest high way, is blocked by ephemeral streams from roads that would have connected it to other barangays for trading and other commercial endeavors, so until this time civilization is still at bay wondering when it will be allowed access. The place exists in a dream-like painting by Amorsolo minus the smiling lasses and able lads basking in a golden afternoon sun because the place is poverty incarnate. And the smiling lasses and able lads are either forced to leave and find a living in the city to send back money or they endlessly manufacture, so long as their hormones allow them, smiling lasses and able lads like them and hoping that these replicates of themselves go to the city and send back money someday.

For if somebody in the field of anthropology wanting to conduct a research using hermeneutics to live in a place where cycle of poverty mindlessly cycles or a biology major finding evidences to support the theory of spontaneous generation, as in this place babies miraculously sprout from any available space like mushrooms after a shower and thunderstorm, then the place is perfect.

I was asked by my lola to register in that place because my uncle, her son, was running during that time for municipal councilor. I agreed. He won without my vote because I chose to volunteer then for a radio station to cover the election in a district of Iloilo City.

I was not able to vote in the succeeding election as well. That time my grandmother’s son found himself at the bottom of the list. By the third time, he failed to occupy a position. The last time I heard he was wallowing in memories of his failed career as a politician but was contemplating to do a grand political comeback in 2010.

I read in the news this morning about the forum organized by the businessmen of Makati that invited aspirants for the presidency in 2010. In the forum, the presidential wannabes we’re asked to give a presentation of their platform of government. It must have been a riveting gathering of five men and a woman. Both Noli de Castro and Manuel Villar declined. Ping Lacson (for reason that he has already given up his bid) refused the invitation.

Gilberto Teodoro is an untested yet imperious, cocky is a better adjective, guy from the Armed Forces who has deluded himself that he can win the election despite him standing in the shadow of Arroyo’s corrupt administration and his name that spontaneously appeared from a virtual anonymity. This, of course, is with the help of his wife whose take on being ambitious can only be described by the word overkill

Loren Legarda, a broadcaster turned senator tuned griping vice presidential loser has said nothing concrete in her entire life and who has mastered the use of politicalese to a high level of efficiency that nobody understands her anymore, not even she. “The absence of an integrated, unified, and coherent road map is the culprit for the snail-paced Philippine economic and security development. We need to fuse national economic growth with national security in the development of an integrated plan.” By integrated plan she means…

Richard Gordon needs to seriously consider changing his nickname, Dick. He is an idealist who speaks in sweeping and stirring declamatory style. I first heard him speak when I was fourteen, and I was awed, but after several times of listening to him my eardrums started to show signs of exhaustion. He delivers his speeches like a televangelist, which explains why he was the most applauded during the forum. He’s a cross between Bro. Edddie Villanueva and your favorite Amway sales representative. (I am considering voting for him, though.)

Manuel Villar is hounded by scandals of corruption even before he has held office. His paid interview with Boy Abunda that could have cost him millions is too long to be effective and too dragging to be entertaining.

Noli de Castro has not proved anything during his short stint as senator and his accomplishments as vice president are forgettable. He lacks enough political experience to run a country that is as complex as most complicated definition of the word complex is.

Manuel Roxas lacks charisma which explains his strongly advertised engagement with news anchor Korina Sanches, a case of basking in the newsreader’s masa appeal. He inspires in me an image of a henpecked husband once his union with Korina is officially consummated. Any of Mar Roxas’s accomplishments was obliterated by his Padyak ad; he should think of means to undo the damages the ad has caused in the viewing public’s psyche.

Francis Escudero may have exuded confidence and youth, somebody who can usher new politics in the country, but based on his recent media interviews on his platform of government, this man is all but empty rhetoric and vacuous monotone.

Bayani Fernando is a man who never strived to be popular in exchange by and give up the hard changes he viewed necessary. Manila may not be as organized or as livable as say Singapore (kidding) or as any Southeast Asian megalopolis but as chairman of MMDA he has made major strides to lessen the traffic jams and to make the people abide by the rules. Still so much is needed to be done. But Fernando is a no non-sense guy who walks the talk. (I’m also considering him.)

Former President Joseph Estrada. We cannot allow this country to be run by a thief, again.

The election in 2010 is as crucial as any other elections in the past. I do not agree that this is more important that the previous ones. This will simply give us a chance to change the way our country is governed that for the next six years. If we botch this one, it means another six years of again waiting in vain. That, I believe, is something we cannot afford.

A single vote, that is my vote, will hardly matter, but I am willing to tread several streams again, with my lola if she is still alive by then, to cast my vote this time.

Why there are no words for green, blue, orange; and praying to my God in English

“Nagasulat ako sa Kinaray-a tungud amo dya ang pulong kang akun mga ginikanan. Amo dya ang pulong nga akun namat-an. Sa pulong nga dya mas mapabutyag ko it klaro kag manami ang mga baratyagun, kaaram, kahadluk, kag damgo kang mga tao sa akun palibot-mga mangingisda, mga mangunguma, mga marinero, mga uripon sa iban nga pungsod, kag mga tawo nga balhas kag dugo ang ginapaturo makakaun lamang tatlo ka beses sangka adlaw. Sa Kinaray-a ako nagahigugma. Sa kinaray-a ako nagadamgo. Kag labaw sa tanan, sa Kinaray-a ako nagadayaw kag nagapangayo kang bugay sa akun Ginuo.”

– J. I. E. Teodoro kiniray-a.com

(I write in Kiniray-a [a language in central Philippines concentrated in the island of Panay; it has roughly a million speakers] because it is the language of my parents. It is the language I was born with. In this language I can clearly evoke good feelings, understanding, fears, and the dreams of the people around me –  fishermen, farmers, sailors, and laborers in foreign countries, and people who have to shed sweat and blood just to eat three times in a day. I love in Kiniray-a. I dream in Kiniray-a. And above all else I worship and ask for graces from my God in Kiniray-a)

blog writer’s translation

I was struck by a realization two days ago that the two local languages that I grew up with – Cebuano and Hiligaynon, both spoken by a majority of people in the Visayas and Mindanao do not have words for yellow, green, blue, orange, brown, and all the other colors of the spectrum except red, white and black (although white and black are not considered part of the spectrum because they are a result of  certain combinations of color).

When I was very young, I used to wonder why every time my father asked me to buy sugar for his afternoon coffee in the nearby retail store we call sari-sari he would say: “‘To bakal to kalamay nga pula.” (‘To, you buy red sugar.) If translated literally. But what he actually meant was for me to buy for him brown sugar. It never occurred to me to question why he didn’t call it brown sugar or why there is no word for brown in our language.

Moreover, when we describe colors in my language, at least in my family, we use the English equivalent, say for example, “Diin na ang kabo nga green?” (Were is the green dipper?) or “Tsk, tsk, gamit niya naman orange niya nga bayo ba” (You’re wearing again your orange shirt.).

I thought that it was possibly because I grew up in a multi-lingual community. My father who was born in Janiuay, Iloilo speaks Kiniray-a; my mother who grew up in La Paz, Iloilo speaks Hiligaynon; my playmates as well as most of my neighbors use Cebuano; I watched prime time news in Filipino (a language based in Tagalog used by the majority of people in Northern Philippines); and the story books, encyclopedias, novels my parents bought for us to read are in English.

Probably, there should be words in the local languages that I grew up with for these colors, but I couldn’t remember using them.

I tried to ask my college friend whom I thought is good in Hiligaynon but he couldn’t think of any. This realization caused me to be flabbergasted. How come?

According to Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis there is a systematic relationship between the grammatical categories of the language a person speaks and how that person both understands the world and behaves in it.

We dissect nature along lines laid down by our native language. The categories and types that we isolate from the world of phenomena we do not find there because they stare every observer in the face; on the contrary, the world is presented in a kaleidoscope flux of impressions which has to be organized by our minds—and this means largely by the linguistic systems of our minds. We cut nature up, organize it into concepts, and ascribe significances as we do, largely because we are parties to an agreement to organize it in this way—an agreement that holds throughout our speech community and is codified in the patterns of our language […] all observers are not led by the same physical evidence to the same picture of the universe, unless their linguistic backgrounds are similar, or can in some way be calibrated.

– Benjamin Whorf

This reminded me of a story that in the Arctic region where Eskimos live they have hundred names for specific kinds of snows because they encounter this crystalline, white precipitate every day of their lives while in Philippines, a tropical country, does not have a local word for snow (niyebe and yelo are both borrowed from Spanish). The same is true with a pastoral tribe in Africa where they have more that four hundred names for cattle.

It posits the impossibility of perfectly representing the world with language since language is limited by the experience of the speakers, and the thoughts of the speakers are limited by the language of the community where they belong. Although this might sound fallacious and begging the question when scrutinized, the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis gives a simple (and simplistic) explanation as to why some words are non-existent in a certain language.

But it’s not true for Hiligaynon and Cebuano; it’s not as if our eyes cannot detect green, blue, yellow, etc. But it puzzled me why we do not have words for such simple entities. Probably there is, but because English is too convenient, the local equivalent for these colors might have been lost in favor of the English words.

Too sad, I must say.

Before I could not imagine myself falling in love with a foreigner. The fact that I have to use a foreign language to express myself is just difficult since a language other than the ones I grew up with will never be able to capture the sincerity of my emotion. But for the past years, I’ve been seeing myself dreaming in English.

My Literature professor once told the class that one can only claim ownership to a language if that person  prays to his God using that language. In my case, although the idea of a god is very difficult for me to grasp, it’s even sadder because my thought are in English now, and in case one day I understand my God, then I’ll probably be praying in English.

Protected: When the old money starts acting like nouveau riche: redefining ‘class’

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password: