Good, but deceptive

A love that is not true will lust, a love that is true will last. Thats a quote I heard in a Christian gathering I attended last Valentines Day. It was the first time that I attended a Church-related event where young people are taught how to deal with the offers of the flesh. I asked myself then: Why only now? Why did they not teach us about it more than five years ago? Why were they so silent on sex? I believe that our 1990s generation is made up of transitioners. We witnessed how the modern era ate up traditional beliefs and cultures, leaving only memories. We were the victims of the close-your-eyes-theres-a-kissing-scene automatic syndrome, which left some of us innocent of the bitter taste of life, the cloth in a glittery, sumptuous wrap. More than five years ago, a period I have no way of gauging except by my own experience, teenage pregnancy was a big scandal. In typical cases, a girl gets pregnant, and the boy must marry the girl so as to cover it up. Other pregnancy cases are denied: The girls family sends her to the province for the preservation of whatever name it has. Still other cases end up in devastating situations: suicide, abortion, postpartum depression. But everyone was in denial that it was even happening. Its apparently worse these days: Younger and younger people are involved in premarital sex, resulting in their being parents at a very innocent age. Its a case of being in a situation where the body may be ready but the mind is too young to adapt to parenthood. People may say that it is our choice, that we are in our right mind and right age to know what sex is. The reality is, no. Because more than five years ago, when everything was just heating up, it was curiosity that was boiling inside a teenagers mind. And it was the period when the topic of sex was something that no one dared ask about because it was frowned upon by most traditional people. Sadly, no one dared talk about it, not even during faMEALy days. So we resorted to a different form of learning experience. And because there was no guidance on what and what not to do, curiosity led to broken trust, torn relationships, and changes in family trees. And now, seemingly in response to a growing society of beanstalk-like family trees, education on the critical subject is being promoted. Everyone is suddenly conscious and brave in saying the word sex. Did we need the Reproductive Health Law to be passed just for young people to be educated? I guess its too late. We are just applying some remedy, but the disease has gone too far, just because more than five years ago, a period I have no way of gauging except by my own experience, no one dared ask about it, no one dared discuss it. For almost three years now I have experienced how it is to be forced to think and act like a mother. They say that all women have that motherly instinctand I do not deny ityet I still have the singlehood instinct that seeks fun and adventure. I guess that gives me a double role in society. But it rips me apart: Do I catch up with the opportunities offered to do the things that I want, or compromise to do whats best for me and my angel? It is the worst feeling. It is as if one is robbed of ones dreams, of opportunities, of fun, of freedom, of many things that one should be enjoying. But with motherhood as my other role, I just cant do those things now, not ever. If sex education was as open more than five years ago as it is now, maybe a lot of me will be able to think of what should have been the right decision.

I am a single mother. I am not proud of it but it doesnt make me shy about it because I can never think of myself being able to speak this way without having that experience. I speak in behalf of those who were victimized by innocence more than five years ago. Lucky are those who are hearing lectures and learning now, because finally, traditional people have opened their minds to the fact that sex education is something that todays youth must acquire. Experience may be a good teacher, but it is deceptive. Gazelle O. Marcaida, who turns 22 in May, describes herself as a single mother to a very bright boy. She was features editor of the FEU Advocate in 2011-2012 and is now working as a researcher in GMA News and Public Affairs Reporters Notebook.

Keeping up the fight

When I first entered the University of the Philippines, the cost per unit was P300. So if I had to take 18 units, my tuition, along with other fees, would amount to almost P6,000. My biological parents werent there to pay my tuition. It was my grandmother who stretched her salary, borrowed loans from sharks, and did everything else in between just to get me through. We lived in the lowest part of the middle class; we couldnt be classified as impoverished because despite having barely enough to eat, we had a few appliances, including a TV set and a fridge. I saw how my grandmother struggled to face up to my financial woes, and there were a lot of instances where she could no longer give me more because all her coins had been swept to pay for my tuition, baon, readings, and projects. Of course, I felt bad, upset, and disappointed, not with her, but with the kind of life we had. Why did she have to bring me up, why werent we as well-off as others, why werent my parents there? And yes, aside from my schooling, we had other problems at home. But if there was anything my grandmother never ran out of, it was hope. Shed cry all night in despair, but in the morning she woke up hopeful. She was certain she could find a way to get out of the mess, to continue to live for us. And even if she couldnt meet all my financial needs, she made me understand that wed get through this, because life was a way bigger mess compared to what we were having at the moment. Thus, I found the drive to get my own bills straight. I worked. I went for some odd jobs that pay instantly, for some long projects that were big enough to pay for bigger needs, so that she wouldnt worry about me anymore. She still did worry, though, because she knew it wasnt my time to seize the world yetbut heck, I was already there. Years later, the day of haunting came upon us. My grandmothers worst fearof me stopping schoolcame true. She felt utterly sad, not because I had given up on my education, but rather because she knew I was already burned out. I wasnt able to tell her not to worry, because I still have plans of returning to UP to finish what we had started. I want to go back to school for her, and I will, when the time is right. After all, she was the one who taught me that giving up is never an option, and that what doesnt kill me will only make me fiercer. And yes, Ill be forever grateful: I would have gotten the shorter end of the stick if not for her. Fae Cheska Marie Esperas, 27, writes for 8 Magazine, a travel and lifestyle publication that focuses on Eastern Visayas.

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True home
Whenever I leave our convent to go to the childrens hospital where we have our apostolate, my prayer is simply to live the present moment and bring Gods presence to the people Ill meet. Surely, I thought, God would reveal himself to me through them. On the way, I would ask myself: How many children are dying of severe sickness every day? How many parents grieve because they can do nothing? How many children just cry over the pain they are experiencing? I have no answers. What I know is that we young people can do something. The world needs us more than computers, iPads, cell phones and everything else that concerns the world today. Seven months ago when we first visited the childrens hospital, I met Claire, a 17-year-old afflicted with cancer. She had a big smile for me, and so I approached her. I saw in her a longing for home. I want to go home, she said in Filipino. I get really bored here. She wanted to be home but I could only ease her boredom for a time. I asked her some questions, but she could hardly hear me. She was losing her hearing because of the medicines she was taking. She spoke a lot through her eyes. She had a lot of dreams, big dreams waiting for her. Every Friday, whenever we would visit the hospital, I would make it a point to talk with Claire and her mother. I would ask how she was: Kumusta, Claire? And she would try to smile. One Friday, while Claire was sleeping, her mother showed me a letter. It was written by Claire. She thanked her mother for taking care of her, and said she could not complain even if she was hurting because she pitied her mother: Salamat po sa pagaalaga. Kahit po nahihirapan na ako, hindi na lang ako dumadaing. Naaawa na ko sa yo, Mama. I kept my tears from falling. Pain, whether physical or emotional, is never easy, but love bears it all. At her age, Claire should have been busy with a lot of activitiesstudying, building relationships, fulfilling dreams, and many others. What a shame, I told myself. Sayang. Months later, Claire could barely sit up; she was weak and very thin, and had lost her hair. I smiled at her but she could hardly smile back. I tried to help her mother, who never left her side. I gave what I couldmy presence and prayers. How could I help in such a situation except through prayers? The mother told me that Claire was waiting for her birthday. She was to turn 18 in October! I think I was more excited than Claire herself. I prepared a simple card to greet her in advance. On the way to the hospital, my companion and I prayed hard. We believed that we could still sing her a birthday song. I imagined her receiving the card, but at the same time, there was a bit of fear. I hope shes still there. When we finally arrived, my gay mood changed to sadness. My heart broke into pieces. Claire had died two days earlier. On Claires birthday I prayed intently for her. I knew that she was now happy with God. No more boredom, no more surgery and injections, no more pain and no more weeping, but rejoicing forever with the Lord. I told her: Claire, youre now where you were longing to behome.

Its true that life is too short to forget its worth, too short to waste. The challenge to pick a choice and live it to the full is in our hands. We are full of opportunities to grow and change by living, neither the past nor the future, but today. I believe that even if Claires life on earth was short, it was worth it. Looking down from heaven, she would say, My life has not been a regret. Why do I say so? She inspired and shaped me to become a different person. And so, make a choice. The world is waiting for you. Make the world into its true home. Clarynse N. Subijano, 20, is a novice of the Teresian Carmelite Missionaries at the P. Palau Formation House in Quezon City.

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No longer a Catholic
As a kid, I never completely listened to a church sermon. A church, to me, was (still is) a sleeping avenue, what with the unfathomable words of the priest, the overall silence despite the worship songs, and the ever so slight breeze that the wall fans stirred. Going to church was never something I looked forward to in the week. The sole reason I went to church was my mothers insistence. But Id go without a word of complaint. I was, after all, a Catholic. When I was in high school, the trend was to join the organization called Youth for Christ (YFC). It was the cool thing to do. So one day in 2009, I became an official member of the YFC through the youth camp, a three-day process of evangelization. I was supposed to feel the Holy Spirit, that Ive been cleansed of my sins, and that I had people to whom I belonged. But that wasnt what I felt. Never in my life did I feel like having completely wasted my time than at that time. Not that it wasexcuse my languagebullsh-t. I just thought there was no way the group could help me, not with the people they let handle it at that time, anyway. I remember having to sit through hours of sermons from people barely older than me, and struggling to stay awake. I remember their making me grateful and at the same time sorry, when I already was. It was quite close-minded of me, but I didnt think they were credible, let alone mature, enough to be giving sermons. And believe it or not, I actually tried looking into myself (because thats what they asked), only to see things I had already discovered. I remember forcing myself to cry halfway through the sermons because it was the way we were supposed to react. I remember them singing to us, trying to comfort us, telling us to let it all out and let God come and be one with us. And all the while I was forcing myself to feel at least the slightest hint of grief of some sort. But there was nothing. What was most disheartening was the idea that I came searching for something that I had already found, that I came believing that there was something to be corrected in me, only to find that there was nothing wrong in the first place. Or maybe there was, but I didnt realize it. And how can you correct something you dont see? I guess it was the absence of any spiritual or emotional breakthrough that caused my frustration. Not once, while I was in the process, did I feel the Holy Spirit. Or did I? How was it even supposed to feel? And that was when I began to doubt my faith. About a month or so later, I became an inactive member of the YFC. Of course, I still went to church. I was still a Catholic, after all; I still believed in God. Whats funny is that I had never felt my faith more intact than after I had left

the YFC. I prayed every night before going to bed. It became my therapy, my release. God became an invisible friend lounging among the stars. Going to church on Sundays with my mother seemed to take away my burden; it was such a good thing that every time I stepped out of the church, Id feel newly born. For some reason, I was the most religious Id ever been at that timeuntil the night of May 24, 2011. I was with my older sister and I was to leave for home. We were seated in a coffee shop at the airport, waiting for my flight. We had consumed four cups of hot chocolate and two sweet buns, all the while chattering about sundry matters. We were so comfortable and unusually open to each other. I cant remember the longest tte tte weve had, before or since. We talked about friends, crushes, food, other stuff. It was smooth, careless banter, and I dont know how we ended up talking about our religion, our faith. And then I heard my sister say she was an atheist. It was a shock, of course. We come from the same conservative town where everyone knows everyone else, where perspectives are in black and whitea town that is a champion of the status quo. I had always thought of atheism as a bad thing. It was what I believed until that moment. But according to my sister, it is only love that we need to believe in. There are so many reasons to reject God, and the dispute over his existence will never end, but love, even without its physicality, is always present. And it is something we cannot run away from because it is felt in our hearts. Everyone feels love, but not everyone feels God. For the first time, I considered what was good and bad in atheism. When my sister and I separated at dawn, I promised myself I wouldnt, couldnt, lose my faith. Eventually, despite the promise I made to myself, I began to contemplate my faith. Of course, I had my doubts way before my sister confessed, but these didnt weigh so much on me until that time. I kept on thinking that if she was able to do it, it cant be that hard. To stop all tracks of religion in your lifeit mustnt be that hard. I hated the thought of being a nonbeliever, but at the same time, I started becoming critical of my religion. My mind was in turmoil. My faith was in a war, and I didnt know which side to take. But that war soon ended. As the saying goes, everything passes. It ended when I found Maria Doria Russells The Sparrow, a book with a science fiction theme, about a Jesuit who lost his faith because of a tragic event in his life. A character in the book, Annea middle-aged American doctor in a Brazilian slum doing work for the poor, an atheist really got my attention. In one scene, she says in effect: Just because you dont believe in a god doesnt mean you cant do good. It was as if a light bulb switched on in my head. And suddenly I was thinking: Do good for the sake of doing good, and not because youre afraid of ending up in some hell. I still believe in God. And I pray to him still when theres no one I can talk to. But I dont think Im a Catholic anymore. I did not stray away from my religion just because I think it is no good for me. You see, there are a thousand reasons to stay faithful to Catholicism, to any religion. Mine has taught me a lot. But just like finishing a book, you think about it a bit, close it and put it away, and move on with your life. To dwell on something you have outgrown is just stupid. Keeping the lessons you have learned is up to you. There are decisions that people dont dare make just because choices do not seem to be offered, but theyre there and worth trying, too. Life is much bigger than a religion. We can learn from a religion and we can let it teach us, but we cant let it dictate what life must be. To miss out on something you know is out there, right for you and just waiting, is like settling for an apple when theres an apple tree. A professor of mine once said, Religion has a way of closing peoples minds. I believe its true. If only we treat religion the right way, and that is universally, and only as a chapter in life, I think it can be more of good use. B. Sarmiento, 18, is a communication arts sophomore at the University of the Philippines Visayas (Tacloban College).

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Urban poor dreams

My fiance, Ritche, has a friend whose house was partly demolished without a court order on the behest of the family that claimed the lot on which the house stood. The friends house was somewhat saved when he quickly filed a case in court. After years of litigation, the parties came to a compromise. The lot claimant offered to dismantle the makeshift house of Ritches friend and turn over to him whatever usable materials remained. The friend declined, saying that he could not bear the sight of his house being torn down by other people. He said every crashing sound of a hammer or wrench of a crowbar tearing apart the house would be like a bullet ripping into his body. He couldnt leave the house behind. He couldnt let it be torn down by strangers. So finally, he asked for three days, and he personally dismantled the house, every part of it. He packed the parts in boxes and brought these to his new lot where he intended to live with his old and sickly parents. Thats where the house is now. This story is not unfamiliar to urban poor men and women, and children, too. They value their houses as much as Ritches friend did. The first step our society must take to help our urban poor people is to understand themto understand, first of all, their love for their dwellings, unattractive as these may be to us. Such an attachment cannot be measured. The sentimental value of a mans house is life itself. This was true in the case of Myrna Porcare, a community leader who was killed while protecting her house. I met her on the morning she was killed. I have her on video speaking about the piece of land where she had lived for more than 20 years with 1,000 other families on a 2.4-hectare site in Pechayan, North Fairview, Quezon City. Myrna wanted to stop the security guards hired by the land owners from fencing the land, because they were going beyond what was stated in the court order. When she tried to stop a guard, she was killed by a shotgun blast in the stomach. Her son came to her aid and was also murdered. There are many urban poor people who will sacrifice and even die for their houses. These are their treasure. The urban poor value everything around them, including their houses, in a very special way. No matter how bad we think they are, their houses are beautiful to them. A person doesnt need to be a legal expert to understand what these poor families live through, Ritche told me. You only have to be human to understand. In the Panunuluyan play that the urban poor presented last December with the Philippine Educational Theater Association, titled Maryosep, I played the role of Aling Hing, a poor woman pregnant with her sixth child and a victim of a violent demolition. It was a hard role to play. The characters thoughts were so different from mine, but after three months of rehearsals I came to think like Aling Hing. When the director told me that the demolition team was coming to wreck my house, it was not my own thoughts that made me angry and full of energy to act; it was the feelings of anger and love that Aling Hing would have had. I came to internalize her love and anger.

Another woman in that play was Maryjane. She is a real person. She had dared audition for the play although she has eight children. Her youngest child was then six months old, and she had to ask her husbands family to take care of the child temporarily. Her husband recently died of tuberculosis. Maryjane didnt need special motivation to cry; every time she began to deliver her monologue in the play about the hardships of the poor, she burst into tears. As I watched Maryjane, I reflected on the hard life that women like her have to endure, and how very few of us appreciate the way they carry on despite the difficulties of raising their children well. I have learned that urban poor women and men still dream. Poverty has shaken them, but they havent given up. Think of the poor man who took his house apart piece by piece and carried it away with him. Imagine Maryjane and her eight children in the slum, and her dream of becoming an actress. Princess L. Asuncion, 26, is a media advocacy officer of the Urban Poor Associates, an NGO that works for the housing rights of the poor.

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I am different
All my life, I have never been quite normal. If you look at me from afar, youd think that I am just a normal girl, but if you view me up close, then youd notice how different I am. Youd notice how different my skin is compared to that of a normal person. For as long as I can remember, Ive had atopic dermatitis, a disease that makes my skin chronically dry and leaves wounds and scars all over my body. My face is red in many places. My hands are like those of an old woman. My arms and legs are covered with scars and wounds. And if you touch me, Id feel like paper. When I was young, I didnt mind having a skin disease. I never tried to cover it and was not ashamed of it. I just tried to live a normal life. What made me different from the other kids in school was that I couldnt eat anything with chicken, eggs, or chocolate. Whenever it was snack time at school, the cafeteria lady would bring in food for all the kids except me, because I was allergic to a lot of things. But back then I didnt mind bringing my own food to class. I was even happy that I got to choose what I wanted to bring to class. The other kids never really noticed that my skin is different from theirs. We were just happy being kids, and were innocent and clueless about a lot of things. But as the years progressed people started to notice my condition, and every time they did I felt more conscious about it. I started to cover as much of my skin as possible. I wore knee-high socks to school every day, and jeans when I went out. I felt ashamed of my scarred legs, and I started to talk less to people. I rarely spoke in class. I had only a few friends. I was pretty much an outcast, but still no one dared tease me. I think they all just felt sorry for me. That was how it was in my grade school days. When I entered high school, I tried to socialize more and I did make more friends. But I was a late bloomer, so puberty largely happened when I was in high school and it made my

condition a whole lot worse. The hormonal changes caused the dryness and redness to spread on my face, and more people noticed. Almost everyone that I encountered would inquire about my skin. Whenever I made new friends, it wouldnt be long till they asked about my condition. It doesnt really offend me when people I know would ask me about my skin, but I hate it when complete strangers have the audacity to do so. There was a time when I was paying for something at a drugstore. When I handed the cashier my money, she stared at my hand with disgust. She asked me what was the matter with my skin. I explained my condition to her, but I dont think she understood what I said. She began suggesting what soap I should use. That really offended me. Its insulting enough for a complete stranger to ask about my skin, but when he/she presumes to give me suggestions on what to do, thats adding insult to injury. But what I hate most is when people say that I would have been beautiful if I didnt have this disease. I think people with that kind of mentality are shallow. I believe that beauty is not merely defined by physical appearance but, more importantly, by whats within a person. I remember a time when I was at my friends house and I was playing with her little sister who was about six or seven years old. She touched my hand, then asked me why my skin was different. I wasnt offended in any way because she was just a little kid and I knew she meant no harm. So I answered her question and said that I have a skin disease. I didnt expect her to react in any way, but what she said touched me so much. She said its okay and that Im still pretty. I wanted to cry. How could this little girl, who knew so little about life, actually know the right thing to say? That incident really inspired me. It made me realize that despite all the disgusted and pitying looks that come my way, there are still people out there who will not stare or treat me differently because I have a disease. It motivated me to accept what I am and what I have, and to not be ashamed of it. A few months after that incident, I began wearing knee-length dresses and made no effort to cover my scarred legs. That was a huge step for me. At first I was uncomfortable because I knew people were staring at my legs. But then a question popped into my head: Why should I even care about what people think of me? I mean, what is my condition to them? I continued to wear more dresses that exposed more of my skin than I was accustomed to. It now feels so liberating to go out in public and not be ashamed of my condition. Im tired of trying to hide it, and I now feel happier with myself. But while I feel more confident about myself now, there still are occasions when I feel insecure. Im only human. Im not perfect. I have insecurities and Im not ashamed of admitting them. A few months ago, I wrote a blog post about my skin disease. It was a bad day. My skin looked worse than usual and people noticed, so it stressed me out a bit. I wrote about how I hated it when people asked about my skin. Much later I received a message on my blog. It was from a girl who said that she had read my post about my skin and that she suffers from the same condition. I felt a sudden burst of happiness. I have never met anyone with the same condition as me. I discovered that I wasnt alone. We sent each other messages for the next weeks and exchanged information on our dilemmas. It felt good talking to someone who actually knew how I felt. At one point she told me about how she dreams of wearing shorts but cant find the confidence to do so. She said she always wears pants to hide her scarred legs because many people teased her about it.

I sensed her sadness and knew exactly how she felt. I wanted to somehow help her, so I told her to stop caring about what other people think because it wont do her any good. She thanked me and said my message inspired her a lot. That felt so good, being able to inspire someone. It was so fulfilling. We still send each other messages from time to time. She even sends me updates on how shes improving, confidence-wise. She says that she is able to wear dresses now, and that she feels happier with herself. Being acquainted with that girl made me realize something. Maybe inspiring others is one of my purposes in life, one of the perks of having a disease. Ive learned to accept my condition and be happy with who I am. I may not be totally confident with myself yet, but Im getting there. Other people with a similar condition should feel this way, too. I may be physically different from most everyone else, but Im still a normal person. I am no longer ashamed of how I look but, rather, embrace it because this is what makes me stand out from the rest. This is what makes me who I am. This is what makes me me. Catherine C. Talavera, 19, is a mass communication student at Emilio Aguinaldo College.

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When life begins

So what will you do when a dream that is about to be realized suddenly explodes? What will you do when people close to you start leaving because their expectation of you fell short? What will you do when clouds of insult push you to the corner, adding to your injury? Personally, I will gather the scattered pieces of my dream and continue dreaming. I will get my strength back, rise from the fall, step forward, and continue the journey. Quitting has no place in the heart of a champion. I will cling to someone who trusts me. I will draw strength from someone whose confidence in me persists. I will follow my instincts and, through the process of elimination, I will deselect those people who pretend to be perfect yet walk in rotten bodies. I will select a few who are imperfect yet real, and who show me that life is beautiful despite the odds. Being choosy is a must for a champion. I will welcome what other people say of me. I will let them grow tired of mouthing words. Soon they will feel weak, until they can no longer speak a word. I will not allow them to break my focus. Going down to their level is not good for a champion. I will persist. I will stay focused. I will follow my instinct. I will continue chasing my dream. I will be a champion. I was born in 1986 but my life began in 2011. My life is about my dream to become a priest. I was about to be ordained in 2011 but I let that chance slip from my hands. That was the fool me. That was not the best me. I almost let my dream be totally broken, like a glass hurled on the floor. It was painful to be hit by the shards. I bled. I cried. I almost gave up, until I regained my consciousness and had this clarity of desire: I will fix that broken glass.

And so it happened. I put the pieces back. I was wounded in doing so, but I did not give up. I pondered on the lessons it gave me and continued to chase my dream. But rebuilding a dream is not easy. Life is never easy. It requires hard work and patience. In life, therefore, be diligent, be patient. At that point in my life, I realized that I was surrounded by two kinds of people: the fake and the real. Both groups were part of my world. Both became like a family to me. I could hardly distinguish one from the other. Yet with the life that came in 2012, their true colors emerged. I found that people are not the same. Some are rude, others cordial. Some are judgmental, others progressive. Some think they are perfect, others are open-minded. The fake are rude and judgmental and believe they are perfect. The real are cordial, accepting, and understanding. These two groups are always with us. Be careful whom to be with. Be wise, distinguish your company, and do not be attached to them fully. Sooner or later you will realize that some of those with whom you share food are rotten bodies filled with worms. Life has taught me to be respectful and humble and to always be myself. I must never pretend and never do something just to please someone. After all, it is I who make my life. It is I who walk the journey. It is I who walk toward my destiny. Allow them to be themselves until they realize what they are doing. Somehow they will get tired of pulling you down, as my life will testify. Just be focused and be determined to reach for your goal. Whatever it takes, whatever the odds, follow your dream and live it zealously. Dont simply settle for what is there. Work your way and discover how to fulfill your dream even if it means taking the less traveled road. Believe you can do it and eventually you will. Most importantly, keep your faith and trust in Him. These are but a few thoughts on the year that was. This is the beginning of my life. I am ready to write the next chapters. Rev. Fr. Louiegene Arnold Q. Valdez, 27, is the assistant parish priest at St. John the Evangelist Parish in San Juan, Abra. Sickbed By Mark Alconaba Geronimo There you are, on your sickbed. You are imagining what you can be doing out there if you were not sick, if your head is not heavier than usual and the world seems not to be turning as fast as it should. At any rate, you want to banish these thoughts and focus on your well-deserved rest. At this moment, you are contemplating several things in your life: your relationship with your family and friends, your work, and your profession. This must be because there is nothing you can do right now but lie on your sickbed. An abrupt change of routine is basically a discomfort. You have been used to doing several things all at once, to multitasking, usually under pressure. Hence, memories from your childhood up to the present are crowding your mind. Its probably your brains own way to keep busy. It took several unfortunate experiences before you got to your sickbed. It was your first time to walk to the hospital alone from your workplace after realizing that what you were feeling was beyond your pain tolerance. It wasnt that easy to follow hospital protocols in your condition. It was a good thing that two of your work buddies came to accompany you in the first half of the checkup procedure. They had to leave you in the second half. But you understand that they have their own lives and engagements. Quickly, it sank in that you were on your own. Life is like thata metaphorical test paper, a test of courage and independence. You had to experience waiting for a seeming eternity all by yourself. Even simple chitchat would have been a relief at that time. You had to experience watching other people with really severe cases (it made you a lot sicker). A companions back could have been the best place to hide from what you were seeing.

You decide to send your mother a text message to inform her of your condition. But you do not like the idea that she will worry about you. So you decide not to give too many details. You finally understand that when you live alone several kilometers away from the family home, a situation like this can seem a lot worse than it usually is. On the bright side, you realize that your sickbed can be an opportunity to rest, to contemplate, to rejuvenate. A computer that malfunctions and is sluggish has to refresh or restart itself. You are more than a computer, but doing the same is a great help. When you stop to breathe in a gust of fresh air, you begin to realize your self-worth, or your importance to the people who love you. Like you, some people just need a restart to get going again. The next time around after this experience, you may be even better. Life is no joke. You have to learn from it from time to time. You also learn to frame a smile despite your condition, for people who believe that you can hurdle some things like this. Their encouragement and advice, more than the capsules and tablets that you are taking, can be the best panacea for your declining self-esteem. At last, the thread of conversation with yourself has come to its conclusion. The idea of waking up from this sickbed excites you so much. Mark Alconaba Geronimo, 24, is a mathematics teacher at St. Alexius College grade school in Koronadal City.

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Alien art and Annie

When someone asks me how many siblings I have and what each of them does, my response normally goes like this: I have three elder siblings. The eldest is my brother, followed by my two sisters. My brother works for my fathers business, one sister works in a university, and my other sister studies in a special school. She has mild autism. That last part of my reply, about my Ate Annie, usually catches my listener off-guard. There are instances when a curious, follow-up query is made, and there are times, too, when that conversation subject abruptly ends and awkwardly moves onto another. If my listener picks up on what I have said, a common question that follows is if Ate Annie has any special talent or ability. I understand that this query originates from the notion that people with autism are either geniuses or excellent in a particular field, thanks (or no thanks) to films like Rain Man and Temple Grandin. Unfortunately, and in contrast to what some expect, my sister is neither a whiz kid nor demonstrates a superb talent or ability. Sometimes, to defuse the serious and awkward tone of the conversation, I jokingly say that my family initially thought that I was the one with autism. Admittedly, in such a conversation, I find it difficult to educate people about Ate Annies condition, or even to celebrate her difference. She turns 31 this year, but her mental age is that of a three-year-old. We cannot hold a long conversation with her, and our verbal communication is limited to asking what she wants to do or have. She understands basic commands such as open, close, push, wash, and write, among others, but her attention span fails if we engage her in lengthy and complicated tasks, such as paper folding or physical exercise. She is independent to a certain extent, so that she eats by herself, cleans after herself, and performs routine chores like setting the table, washing the dishes, and sorting the laundry. However, we cannot trust her to go out by herself

or stay home alone. In a conversation with any of us she speaks in a soft and sing-song manner, as if we are in a musical. Although we do have communication with her, it can be frustrating and worrisome especially when she is unable to tell us if she is feeling ill or uneasy, like those times when she suffers pain because of her monthly period. In addition, she has certain odd habitsfor example, when we introduce someone to her, she smells the persons hair instead of offering a handshake. Perhaps one of the major difficulties of a family in such a situation is when the special child has a fit. In Ate Annies case, the possibility of her throwing a tantrum often brings us great anxiety, particularly when we are in a public place or even in a private gathering. Sometimes she sobs out of the blue, and people get concerned: Did she hurt herself? Is she feeling lonely? Of course, among her immediate family members this is nothing new, and in most cases her crying stops as soon as we pay attention to her. However, what keeps us most on our toes is when she suddenly pulls someones hair. This episode has happened countless timesat home, in her school, in church, and at family gatherings. When I was around seven years old, an incident occurred in a grocery store where my sister pulled the hair of a young girl. My father was able to restrain Ate Annie, but the girls mother was furious and told my dad that my sister should not be allowed in such places. I remember, too, that a bagger boy witnessed the incident and gestured with his handdrawing circles on the side of his headto indicate that my sister is crazy. Although I was embarrassed by what Ate Annie did, I was mad at both the mother and the bagger boy for knowing so little about autism and for immediately judging my sister. Understandably, most families do not find it easy to immediately accept having a family member with autism. My mother once told me that when I was young, I would complain to her and my father as to why they made me the bunso (youngest child), and not Ate Annie. Apparently, I so wanted then to be the ate because I thought I was superior to her in many ways. At family gatherings, I am often asked a hypothetical question by a relative: What if Ate Annie were born a normal person? There are times as well when I sense our relatives pity for her, and although they do not say it aloud, I am aware that they think of her as our familys misfortune. I suspect, too, that behind our backs, she is at one time or another the butt of their jokes. Once I was surprised to discover that until now, my grandmother could not accept Ate Annies autism. She miserably remarked that my sister is my mothers lifelong burden. It is difficult to educate people about Ate Annies condition because I myself know little about autism. It does not help when some people tend to be aloof toward her, or stare at her with a wary or judging look. Similarly, I find it hard to celebrate her difference, especially when most people expect every person with autism to be exceptionally gifted. To us, and perhaps to a number of similarly situated families, seeing children with autism being able to perform small things, such as expressing their wants clearly, feeding themselves, and sitting still for the camera, among others, are major feats. In my family, we are delighted whenever Ate Annie is able to recognize and name our uncles, aunts and cousins during gatherings. We praise her whenever she says thank you and sorry, and we shower her with hugs and kisses for every little task she performs. Recently, Ate Annie and I started working on a small art project. Each day we draw a couple of images of an animal or insect such as a dog, a turtle, or a butterfly, and then post these on our bedroom wall. Interestingly, our little project is developing into an amusing wallpaper of an animal kingdom that showcases extraterrestrialor, I daresay, highly evolvedspecies like a mercat (mermaid cat), a walking fish, and a molar-shaped elephant. Needless to say, Ate Annies artworks are not for those with little or no imagination. Yet her approach to art evokes a lighthearted and warm feeling; this, I believe, emanates from her genuinely serene spirit. Perhaps in the near future I will show her works to people who ask about her. This act can serve as my little contribution to helping people

become more aware of the condition known as autism, as well as my way of honoring the families who quietly strive to come to terms with it. Oma Janessa B. Guatno, 27, holds a masters degree in policy and human services from RMIT University in Australia. She says she is still looking for a job, preferably in Davao.

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The Underdog Club

Lifes sweet revelation came to me in the form of blinding car lights. It was nothing close to cinematic, unfortunately. I was not surrounded by heart-stopping scenery. I wasnt in any fine-dining restaurant with champagne at my fingertips. I wasnt anywhere special at all. It occurred in a humble fast-food joint, with Lady GaGas music thumping and the brutal air-conditioner spewing icy air. The smell of a cleaning agent filled the place. It wasnt a setting worthy of a scene in a movie. But for me, it was nothing short of spectacular. It was around dinnertime. The streets were filled with vehicles rushing to God knows where, and the cashiers were frantic with waves of people washing in. It was a Third World take on downtown New York, so to speak. The world was in a rush. But there I was, freshly drained by brainstorming over our research paper, with nothing left to do but stare blankly into space. In a world that was rushing to get somewhere and trying hard to accomplish something, I was a solitary soul. Still. Silent. But revived. That was in my freshman year in college. Four years have passed. Things have changed. The bright-eyed student who was excited to earn high GPAs and acclaim got burned out, gave himself a break, and found more happiness in living passionately than in living abundantly. The hot-blooded freshman surrounded by different people with different backgrounds and niches got turned down, was forced by life to deal with thingssmall thingsall on his own (like attending a seminar, applying for a summer job, and having a hipster dinner); he weeded out relationships that didnt work and friends that failed to function like friends. The curious virgin got bored with being good, tried various things, mingled with wrong crowds in wrong places, and failed to find nirvana there. The just entering became now leaving, and the once small world enclosed by university gates became a vast horizon with endless possibilitiesand huge fears. At 20, I wish I had the maturity to write about the 2013 elections, poverty in the country, rising crime rates, or even theocracy. Those are good, intelligent topics, of which I wish I could write strongly. But I am writing from the point of view of one who is facing battlesbig battlesthat being in college unfolded before me, and that real life will unfold some more. I am writing about reality that, though seemingly lacking in sociopolitical depth, is reality nonetheless. I am writing in behalf of the fearful college freshman who strongly believes that he has left the best years of his life. I am also writing in behalf of the clueless high school senior who has realized that high school can never hold a candle to the wildness that is college, and the lessons of life and love that can be found there.

Much has been written about a topic of this sort. But I will write about it again, anyway. Because college gates all over the country will soon open to spit out thousands upon thousands of graduates and welcome about the same number of newbies. Each group will be facing great years, amazing years. The length of time one spends in college does not matter. Within those years are lessons of a lifetime, and how one learns them is what will soon matter most. Im not an expert. But in college, Ive learned that: 1. It isnt always wrong to skip classes. Once in a while you have to walk your dog, watch the sun set, and experience afternoons the same way you did back in high school. Sometimes you need to recharge. Go on. Take a break. You deserve it. Most of all, you need it. 2. Making mistakes is essential to the learning process. Some people take pride in not making as many mistakes as others. But they dont grow as much. Youll go through a stage of recklessnessthats normal. Not everyone will go through it, mostly because of choice. But those who decide to take the plunge into deep waters find opportunities to expand their lungs and break through the surface with stronger stamina. 3. Silence is very much essential to being happy. And sometimes you have to get lost to find yourself. Youll grow weary. The mobile phone will beep endlessly. People will make demands based on their own needs, not yours. In other words, no one will care about what youre going through. When they want something done, they want it done. Amidst all these, go away for a while. Do something with that mobile phone. When I lost mine, I found relief. 4. There is a hairline distinction between just enough and having too much. For the studious, its the amount of time spent on books. For many, its the amount of money spent. And for most of us, its the fullness of love we give. We are not supposed to enter a relationship waiting to be completed. We should already be complete. But we proceed, anyway. 5. Life is and will not be fair, whether in college or after. Objectivity is but a fantasy, honesty just a motto, fairness but a theory. Its a sad truth. But take comfort in the fact that youre not given more than you can handle. Its been four years of excess. The accounting degree is just a final umph! away. Bidding goodbye to college will be painful. I have enjoyed it far more than I did high school. The little underdog is still an underdog, but now he has a degree. Underestimated, misunderstood, misinterpreted, overspent, stressed, overworked, hard-pressed but its all OK. The greatest lesson Ive learned in college is to fight. A lion that is bloodstained and scarred is the image of a king. Dont ever think that completing your college education will mean a world of difference. It wont. Youll be heartbroken regardless of your degree. Despite your GPA, you cant choose what your child will be like. You can walk away with a beauty title, too, but that doesnt guarantee fidelity in all relationships you choose. Life happens, and your defense is to bounce back, rise up, conquer. Traditionally, those who have been through a challenge pass the torch to those who are about to trek it, perhaps to symbolically light their way as they take a piece of the cake. Id like to think this piece is my way of passing the torch. Whether you are about to enter college or a soon-to-be graduate with a board exam to take, remember these four or so years. Whether youre 16 or 21, remember how far youve come. Things will keep getting better, and the best is yet to come. I wrote this piece with you in mind and with a silent prayer that you make it through. The fact that you are reading a Young Blood column speaks so much of you, your capabilities, and your bright future. You will move mountains. Some people will fail to realize that, a lucky few will. You are quite a force. But while others may not seem to be blown away, remember the people that believed and trusted in you, and wrote a piece for you. This is the Underdog Club, and I am its spokesperson. Its the club of those who sing ahead of the tune, dance behind closed curtains, write stories in the dark, and defy a standard, an authority, a rule. It was formed on the night I

was just describing, with blinding car lights piercing crystal-clear glass. Life showed me that there are many of us who wont get the fair end of life all the time. If that applies to you, welcome to the club. You, kid, are in good company. Heres a pat on the back and heres hoping well cross paths someday. Go conquer those seas. Go build that empire. Were all behind you. Michael Venegas Baylosis, 20, is an accountancy senior at the University of St. La Salle.

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Fat-girl problems
I hate talking about my weight as much as the next girlunless shes a Victorias Secret Angel, in which case never mind. Actually, I take that back. I dont know these models personally, so I wouldnt know if they, too, feel insecure about their bodies. What I do know is that tomboyish, feminist-of-sorts, all-embracing me doesnt need to hear your fat or skinny comments. No, thank you. Id rather you talk about my hair (both wanted and unwanted), height (or the lack of it), flawed skin, crooked teethjust dont point out how you think Ive lost or gained weight. Please. I wasnt always as body-conscious as this. I was slim for most of my childhood, and I never noticed when or how I began putting on weight. No one pointed it out either, until the first day of high school, when a boy classmate asked for my number and sent me a picture message of an overweight lady in a swimsuit lying on her side, flab hanging out. It seemed random until he laughed and cited the supposed similarity: Kamukha mo yung nasa picture. Pareho kayong mataba. I felt angry and embarrassed at having someone else point out what shouldve been obvious to me. Why did I leave it up to this boy to break the news? And its not like he was the only one. In the years to follow, I would be known as the fat girl in class. Well, I wasnt the only one, but I was neither the sexy nor the baby fat kind. I was just fat. Or chubby, which didnt really sound or feel any different. It didnt help that I stopped growing at 50 (51 if I bargain hard enough) and had awful breakouts. Most of all, it didnt help that I was surrounded by all those girls who I thought were just as smart, funny, and sweet as I amonly theyre pretty and skinny. I first tried dieting when I was 14. There were times Id eat very little or skip meals. The lowest point was probably the brief and inconsistent periods of sticking my finger, or sometimes a toothbrush, down my throat. I usually did it at home when I was alone or when everybody else had gone to bed. It was only years later that I discovered how dangerous that was. But what was an angst-y, fat girl to do? Not that any of it worked, anyway. You know how they say its shallow to equate self-worth with attractiveness to the opposite/same sex? I knew that, but it didnt stop me from feeling bad whenever a crush turned out to like someone else, someonesurprise!tall, pretty, and skinny. Short, acne-faced, fat girls like me seemed only good for friendship; I had been a friendzoned abanger long before the terms were coined. College was kinder, except when its not. I remember a boyfriend pointing out how my waist wasnt at all curvy. Once, he pinched some of my belly fat and told me, We have to get rid of this. We. Like it was he who decided when and how my body should change. Rid. Like having a flat tummy was vital to our relationship. I learned about Eve Enslers V-Day campaign during my sophomore year. I then took active part in events that raised awareness on gender equality, violence against women and girls, and body-image issues, among others. I was

determined to help women in my circle and around the world fight any and all forms of devaluation. I was on fire. I wasnt going to allow anyone to feel bad about their being women. Well, almost. While I was busy championing the cause for others, there I was still secretly hating (and punishing) my body. Its been nine years since I realizedor was made to realizeIm fat. Ive tried countless weight-loss methods and the numbers on my scale have been fluctuating since. Ive never fallen short or over my normal body-mass index, but normal just doesnt feel right or enough. I can tell how my friends sometimes get annoyed with how much I complain. Some probably think Im only tweeting my #fatgirlproblems to solicit attention or compliments, but that cant be any farther from the truth. I genuinely feel fat. I honestly wish it werent so, but its something I cant help, something I see when I look at myself in the mirror. I feel awful knowing that by complaining publicly and online, I may be responsible for somebody elses low body image. For that, I am truly, deeply sorry. I would never want anyone to feel theyre less beautiful than they really are. Im not going to lie: Even in my moment of self-awareness, I still mind being called fat. I hate it and I hate myself more for being affected every time. But, more than anything, I hope we try to be kinder to each other even when it comes to superficial things such as looks. What may be mindless teasing can cause scars uglier and more permanent than acne and stretch marks combined. I hope womankind understands and forgives me for the times Id hate my body. I cant boost my self-esteem overnight, but I can always work on it. Finally, I hope that whoevers reading this acknowledges how beautiful s/he is from time to time, if not always. Send out that kind of energy to the world and fat girls like me just might catch on. This I pray in Victorias Secret Angels name. Amen. Mariekhan S. Edding, 22, is a communication arts junior at Miriam College.

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