in my dreams

In my dreams, I had a Bullet C5 Chrome Royal Enfield for my ride in my new job.  A fashionable leather jacket and a half Kevlar helmet complemented my ride.  Aviator dark sunglasses completed my everyday get up. 

This reminded me of the protagonist in an old TV series I was watching in the early 90s, Dark Justice.  It was about a judge, who was a former policeman, which could not convict criminals because of their astute exploitation of the technicalities and loop holes of the law.  By night fall, he’ll turn vigilante and bring these felons to “dark justice” with the help of his cohorts, who themselves he had convicted of minor offenses, if my memory still works perfectly.

This is rare. I hardly remember any of my dreams in the past.  But this one remained fresh when I woke up the following morning.  Usually, I just know I dreamt but could not recall what it was no matter how hard I try.

Then it hit me.  There must be something in my inner psyche that caused this.

In my first three months since I resumed working after nearly eight years, I’ve been commuting from the Playpen—our house—to my place of work.  I typically wait for a passenger jitney to pass in front of our subdivision gate, pay ten pesos and alight in front of my office building near downtown San Fernando.  On rare occasions, when I’m running late, I would ride one of those tricycles parked beside the gate, pay the driver eighty pesos,  and ask him to drop me off near a Korean car showroom at the Olongapo-Gapan Road.  From there, I'll take a short jitney ride to my office.

The thing is, I’m always in a rush every morning.  

I always hurry since I don’t want to be late for work. This even if sometimes I would just sit all day in front of my hand-me-down laptop on my hand-me-down table pretending I’m busy writing or reading something.  This early morning routine is taxing me physically.  How I wished I don’t have to rush and just take my sweet time going to my work.

That’s where the motorcycle comes in.  Every morning, I envy the mostly young men, and a few women, that pass me by on their bikes going to their work places like myself.  Not a trace of worry can be gleaned from their faces sans the mandatory helmets.  Some, obviously friends, even had the time to exchange banters.

A motorcycle will indeed come in handy not only to free me from the daily grind of early morning rush but will also spare me from waking up much earlier when I have to monitor and attend some of the activities of public schools in far flung villages of Pampanga.

On my second month, I had to observe the joint school-community multi-hazard drills in a coastal barrio of Masantol.  I had to be up at 3:30 in the morning so that I could be in time for first jitney trip from San Fernando to that town’s center.  If I’ll miss it, I won’t be able to be at the municipal port at six o’clock to catch up with the school principal and majority of the teachers of Nigui Elementary School and hitch a (free) ride in their rented banca.  I would have to shell out more than a couple of hundreds of  pesos to rent my own banca to be at the school site for the drills. 

If I have a bike, I can go directly to that coastal barangay although I’ll have to take a circuitous route and pass through some Bulacan villages.  A motorcycle, especially an enduro, would also be practical to get me to Pampanga’s villages on the elevated strip of land along the western boundary of Zambales or to Candaba Swamp and Tagalog Region villages in no time.  More importantly, my two-wheel ride would allow me to bask in the comfort and beauty of rural Pampanga.   

I actually developed this fascination for a motorcycle while overseeing a community-based disaster risk management project in Dingalan, Aurora.  CARE Philippines gave me and my project assistant an enduro to facilitate our mobility to landslide affected and threatened barrios passing through steep former logger roads and navigating rivers.  I can only drive the motorbike, though, when my assistant, who was the designated driver, is not around. I really enjoyed trudging through these challenging paths and realized the versatility of motorcycles.

I therefore enthusiastically anticipated my stint as an international development volunteer in Mombasa, Kenya in 2007 knowing I would be assigned an enduro for my mobility.  I also can’t wait to try the official helmet issued to me in the Philippines, which all along I thought was made of Kevlar but, just recently, I learned it was just fiberglass when I search its specs on the net.  The British voluntary organization advised the issuance of Kevlar helmets, if available, to all volunteers from its member-organizations worldwide.

I really made an effort to bring it back to the country in 2008 thinking it was Kevlar when all the international volunteers were prematurely repatriated to their respective countries to escape possible harm from the election fraud-induced civil strife that engulfed the Kenyan society toward the tail-end of 2007.  The full-faced helmet was still practically brand new back then.

It actually remained unused five months after I arrived in Mombasa as my placement was not what it was supposed to be based on the description and information I received when it was offered to me.  There was no organization to speak of in the first place that I was supposed to advise and help in project development and fund mobilization to ease the poverty of sectors it avowed to serve.  I therefore did not see the need to request the Yamaha DT that was supposed to be my ride and I never used my helmet except when I applied for my Kenyan driver's license.  

That helmet has been lying idly in the Playpen ever since.  I was hoping I could buy a mid-sized motorcycle that I could ride to see the smallest and remotest nooks and crannies of Pampanga and other surrounding provinces.  I was dreaming I could do a Che Guevara-like motorcycle chronicles of rural Central Luzon.  To this day, I still cling to that dream.

But then, this is not the only dream that I still cling to.  Although I’ve long accepted the fact that I won’t see the reign of social democracy in my lifetime, I still dream of a better Philippines.  Like any right thinking Filipino, I cannot be content with a country whose political leadership is described as “reactionary, greedy and corrupt on a scale seldom equaled” in one of my readings. 

Moreover, while our economy was able to sustain positive growth for the longest time in recent history and registered the second best growth rate in Asia, behind China, under the current administration, it still excludes the poor and marginalized as there is hardly any nourishing food on their tables.  By pursuing the Conditional Cash Transfer program—Pantawid Pamilyang Pilipino Program—and increasing its allocation in the national budget every year, the government itself attests to the anti-poor nature of our economic growth.

Furthermore, as I was able to enter the public bureaucracy this late in my life, I did not only learn how corrupt our government is from the personal tales of the people I met but I also see how pervasive corruption has become in recent years. This, I’m sure, has not escaped my inner psyche.

Will you deprive this old man, then, to dream of seeing dark justice being served during his twilight years? (30)

losing my religion

“Believe in God, not the religious people’s God,

but the God who created the universe

and everything in it.”

     -  Allrock  (a.k.a. Carlo Torres)

This is not about the song of the same title by one of my favorite rock bands, REM.  I can’t just think of a title more appropriate than this.  And it’s not about God either.  It’s more about the practice of organized worship of the Almighty One.

As a young boy growing up in rural idyllic Potrero (Bacolor, Pampanga), my Sundays were not complete without attending the early morning Catholic mass with my late mom and my two siblings.  In later years, my late dad would join us.  Until I entered college, we would be at these Sunday rites without fail.

I still remember the times when the first pews from the altar were hardly filled by the handful families who never doubted the faith, so to speak, at that time.  This was not the case in earlier years, though.  This sad state resulted, according to my parents, from the unilateral (whimsical, too, if I may add) decision of the parish priest to transfer the seat of the parish from Potrero to another barrio.  The reason he cited was the conversion of some residents to Iglesia ni Cristo.

The people of course did not buy this explanation.  The bold and irreverent among the parishioners insinuated that the said priest was swayed into this by his secretary, who was from the other barrio, after she allegedly became his paramour.  I also heard my dad tell his reminiscing of old Potrero to fellow residents near his age that tended to support this assertion a couple years before he died—unlike my mom; he retained his lucid mind despite his very advanced age. 

My dad was one of the first residents to own a passenger jeepney and would drive this priest—and his predecessor—around every now and then.  That was the time when secular priests did not own flashy cars like the ones that we now have.  He was therefore privy to some of that priest’s “extracurricular” liaisons.  This, may be, was one of the reasons why he wasn’t with us during those masses that we’d attended early on.  Will you follow someone as sinful as, if not more than, you?  The other reason, he was, may be, also deep into his own dalliances at that time.  

Of course, this was non-issue to us few families even if some of our fellow barrio residents made fun of us.  The nasty joke then was there were more goats occupying the pews than us believers.   This was of course untrue but there were indeed goats inside the chapel especially when it’s raining.  It did not take long though when attendance started to pick up and soon the church pews were filled by human churchgoers.  This was when the concerned priest was transferred to another parish and a new one took his place.

My church-going days peaked when I was attending Don Bosco Academy (Bacolor) for my secondary education, where attendance in the daily mass at the school chapel is compulsory.  Then, it was downhill from there.  I just realized that I hardly visited the church and went to mass when I started attending UPLB in 1976.  No, it’s not because of activism or communism.  In fact, my activism only became full-blast when I transferred to GAUF in the summer of 1984.  It’s just that my religious fervor was not as intense as it used to.  

This was engendered by the liberal ideas that slowly permeated into my consciousness, which, in turn, brought about my realization that more than your regular presence in organized worships it's how you deal with and treat your fellow human and other beings that mattered more.  I won’t deny it though that my flirtation with Marxism at that time had led me farther away from my religious practices.  

The most frequently quoted, and most likely misunderstood, statement of the German economist and revolutionary socialist Karl Marx, “Religion is the opium of the people (Die Religion…ist das Opium des Volkes)”, impacted greatly on me.  This was despite the fact that I have not read the complete text of what was supposed to be Marx’s introduction to his proposed work "A Contribution to the Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right", which was never completely written.  This introduction was published though in 1844.

As I started to understand a few basic Marxist concepts, I was puzzled no end why various churches, including the Catholic Church, never howled protests over the evils spawned by unjust economic, political and social orders worldwide.  They never condemned the wrong doings and excesses of the states and their officials against their peoples.  The few prelates, priests and pastors who did were considered pariahs by their own churches in general.  Most of them, I’d heard, adhered to and practiced Liberation Theology.

Particularly in the country, they had the gall to openly endorse and support the Marcos dictatorship.  They were very sparing though in their condemnation, if not totally tight-lipped, over the barefaced human rights violations perpetrated by the various state apparatuses that were, in the first place, created and tasked to safeguard and uphold these very same rights of the people, including their followers. 

My great disenchantments continue to this day.  Church leaders of practically all religious denominations continue to be part of the coteries that surround the leaders and officials of the national and local governments.  And these are the very same leaders and officials who are linked to all the evils and wrongdoings in our politics and governance.  Without doubt, this is the greatest proof of the failure of religions to make man turn his back from evil deeds.

The most likely greatest Kapampangan thief, if convicted, who’s now on hospital arrest had been personally ministered no less by the Kapampangan prince of the Catholic priests.  And by other “great lights” of other religions, too.  But look where she is now.

Look also at the other members of the greedy thieving class.  Under the blinding glare of klieg lights, they acted out their profession of innocence either within or after religious rites especially administered by men of the cloth.  These men of the cloth appeared blinded by these klieg lights as they looked clueless on their sickening roles in the vaudeville that’s unfolding in practically all the idiot boxes in every home.  I pity these men for they still don’t—or are they just pretending they don’t?—realize that they’re to blame, more than other people, for how this thieving class has turned out despite the special attention they’ve accorded to them.

The true Almighty One is indeed the well of bottomless mercy for He did not strike them with lightning while deeply enthralled in their vaudeville.  How I wish that the blinding glare of klieg lights could follow them in their detention cells 24/7, so that they’ll be forced to make good their promise to read the Bibles while waiting for their exoneration.  Who knows, they might finally “see the light”, admit their sins and, more importantly, spare us from their unfolding badly scripted vaudeville.

Will you blame me losing my religion against this backdrop?  For quite some time, I wasn’t as candid and true to myself in admitting this.  I would reply Nominal Catholic whenever I'm asked what my religion was.  But if you’re a Catholic, you’re just a Catholic without any qualifier.   The moment you attach the word nominal, you’re in reality no longer a Catholic for you’re not subscribing to all what was expected from the faithful.

But I have my reasons for this, though.  One is I don’t want to get into arguments and explain why I don’t have one.  I found it more conventional and easier to explain the attached qualifier.  This is especially with people who believe that only through their religions that one can be saved and attain eternal life in the bosom of the Almighty One.  In the first place, I’m not motivated to live my life on earth to have eternal life in the Great Beyond.  I simply try to live my maxim:  live to do good (as much as I could) and not to harm (as much I could) any fellow human and other beings.   

This may sound simplistic but it’s equally as hard to follow as any dictates of other religions.

Two is I don't know how to classify and call myself.  I'm certainly not an agnostic; for I still believe in the existence of a Supreme Being that designed the universe we're in.  But unlike most, I don't find the need to worship this Supreme Being in organized manner they do.  The way I live my life is my way of worshiping that Supreme Being.  I therefore don't find the need to belong to a religious denomination and have no intention to join another one in the future. 

If atheists, as claimed by the current pope, Pope Francis, can be saved from eternal damnation, the more chances that I could be being not one.  There is therefore no urgency to belong to a new religion or to return to the old one.  In the final analysis, all religions are man’s creations based on his perceptions on how best to venerate Him and, in return, be assured of a place in Paradise.  

In the end, too, there are no such things as perfect and absolute.  Not even Almighty One’s creations.  Just look at man!  (30)

what it takes?

For the merry month of May, I targeted to publish three blogs; a 50 per cent increase from my April output of two. The target was set when I posted my second for that month.  Instead of an increase, there was a decrease of 50%.

All along I really thought I had the momentum and had established some sort of rote in my blog writing.  It turned out that I did not.

In my mental calendar, I blackened out the 10th, the 20th and 30th day of the month as the deadlines for my posts.  The 10th day came, but nada!  My article—“lasalista, lasalyanetan or aranetan”—was only a couple of paragraphs long.  I had a hard time finalizing its outline inside my mind.  I found my first couple of drafts suffering from TMI—too much information.  I had to revamp the draft a few times before I was able to come out with a satisfactory version.   After posting it, I immediately started a new one.  But after the first paragraph I set it aside and had not touched it since.

There was a pair of distraction that got in the way.  One was the information that I could possibly get employed in a government agency as project development officer.  The information came from my wife who was very careful when she conveyed the info.  She doesn’t want to sound like she’s badgering me to land a job after her earlier advice that I just formally retire instead of trying to earn a few bucks but be stressed out from frustrations over working with some mindless and incompetent bosses.

My wife of course saw how restless and bored I was in the past months; sitting idly around and practically doing nothing in the Playpen after I’m done with the usual house chores I voluntarily do.  She’s also aware that I wanted to pursue some personal interests but could not because I don’t have the basic wherewithal.  Although she wanted to, she can’t provide this for she’s still neck deep in financial obligations she incurred when she’s left alone fending for our family when I decided to look after my parents.

The prospect of being employed anew really excited me.  According to her, the government agency has yet to receive any tenders from applicants since it announced the vacancy late last year.  Although the salary isn’t that much, it would allow me to take the tab whenever we decide to have our favourite brew in coffee shops in nearby malls.  More importantly, I would not only be able to pursue a few of my personal interests but the job would also provide a venue where I could engage one of my cherished advocacies—education.

I therefore busied myself retrieving and updating my resume, asking former employers for certificates of employment, and requesting the UP Open University for certificate of units earned in my master’s program.  While making an inquiry on how to get the latter from my learning centre in UP Diliman, I also inquired on the possibility of being readmitted anew since I went AWOL when my mom’s conditions worsened and became bed-ridden. 

When I told my wife about this, she was all for it and encouraged me to seek readmission.  This, she said, would qualify me later to take on additional responsibilities and functions in my work, i.e., if I’m hired, or allow me to have something worthwhile to spend my time with, if I'm not.  

So, even if I really found it bleak to be readmitted because of the maximum residency requirement policy of the UP Open University, in fact, of the whole UP System, I still requested readmission in my Master of Public Management program.  My wife was right, there’s no harm and would lose nothing if I try, which was what she also told me about my job application.

After I’m through with my job application and request for readmission, I started to resume my blog writing.  It then entered my mind what ordeal writers and journalists had to go through just to meet their deadlines.  I also realized that I can never be like them, especially at this late stage of my life.  This realization made me to do away with increasing the number of posts in this blog and just be content with whatever I could.  Unlike them, anyway, this is not my bread and butter.

  

Of course, it’s better if I can come out with more posts.  This, I think, could be the needed exercise that my mind needs to keep it healthy and sharp and lessen my vulnerability of succumbing to the same woe—Alzheimer’s Disease—that tormented my late mom in her old age.  (30)

lasalista, lasalyanetan or aranetan

I recently renewed my contact with my alma mater, the Gregorio Araneta University Foundation (GAUF). Or, should I say its bastardized metamorphosis—as I'd written in a recent blog (http://raulgalangsarmiento.blogspot.com/2014/04/passing-on-at-sixty.html)—the De La Salle Araneta University (DLSAU)?  This was made possible by the invite of the DLSAU’s Supreme Student Council (SSC) to share my thoughts on Aranetan (GAUF) identity during the “Lasalyanetan Identity Forum” last January 22, 2014. 

In nearly a decade, that was my first public engagementJ, although only the first few front rows of seats of the Osmeňa Hall were occupied.  I was there as a resource person since I was the GAUF SSC president in Academic Year 1986-87; before that, the vice president for external affairs.  The other resource person was the DLSAU SSC president in 2008-2009.   I think I had become notoriously famous (to a small section of the student population) for being at the helm of the SSC and the most visible spearhead when the University President was ousted in 1987 through the concerted protest actions of the broadest formation one could organize in a university—the core of the protesters coming from the students, faculty and employees’ unions and alumni—that lasted nearly two months, if I’m not mistaken.

On hindsight, though, this historic first—ouster of a sitting university president—now appears to preface the transformation of Don Salvador Araneta’s “bastard son” into a member of the De La Salle (System) Philippines after a circuitous and calculated turn of events.  I was initially tempted to use the words deceptive and premeditated to describe the manoeuvres that led to its incorporation in the DLSP but opted not to in deference to the De La Salle brothers as a religious order.  As mentioned in another blog, “the noble bastard son” (https://raulgalangsarmiento.blogspot.com/2013/07/the-noble-bastard-son.html), I and the other members of the University Rehabilitation Task Force (URTF), which was constituted immediately after the resolution of the above protest, were made to believe that the university would really be rehabilitated.  As a “consuelo de bobo”, though, that event had somehow cautioned the De La Salle brothers and made them to work harder and shed some sweat for 15 years to snare a known agricultural university into their system to narrow the gap of its academic status vis-à-vis the UP System and its famous rival, the Ateneo de Manila University.

I was in a fix whether I’ll accept the invite sent to me through the Facebook a few days before Christmas.  But I found myself in a deeper fix after I accepted the invite a few days past the New Year.  As I reflected and really thought harder, I realized that I don’t really know what identity GAUF was able to establish since its founding in 1946 as Araneta Institute of Agriculture (AIA).  I realized this when I asked myself:  “Did GAUF, as an educational institution, able to establish an identity—some sort of a trademark—that when it’s mentioned people will automatically think of that trademark?   Was this slowly developed from its founding up to its eventual assimilation into the DLSP early on in this millennium?

A line in a pre-owned (the term before was second-hand) book I was reading then made me to conclude that it did not.  That line was: “If a business can be run from the grave, the Tribune was.”  The author, James D. Squires (1993:29-30) was of course referring to the Chicago Tribune in his book “Read All About It! The Corporate Takeover of America’s Newspapers”.  And the man running it from the grave was Colonel Robert Rutherford McCormick, grandson of Tribune founder, Joseph Medill.

That, to me, is the undeniable manifestation that that newspaper had clearly established an institutional identity.  According to Squires, the Tribune started out as a progressive social force dedicated to the abolition of slavery.  But its long association with the Republican Party and allegedly the Colonel’s hatred of Franklin D. Roosevelt had established it as perhaps the country’s most conservative voice.  He further noted that in the 1970s the “Tribune’s editorial page clung to the 40s and 50s and its political reporters continued to punish the Colonel’s targets as if he were still reading their copy” (Ibid: 30).  So, if you’re going to mention Chicago Tribune, before the corporate takeover of US media, the people, or at least those in the know, would probably chorus “the most conservative newspaper”; and that was the Tribune identity.  Its 1970s editorial page clinging to the 40s and 50s when the Colonel had long been laid to rest was the clearest proof of that conservative tag.  The Colonel surely had not just installed but institutionalized certain policies, systems and procedures that made this possible.

 

On the other hand, in my development work experience, if you mention the Panay Rural Development Center, Inc. (PRDCI) among Visayan NGOs, POs and GOs in mid-2000s, they would most likely unanimously say “community-based river and watershed rehabilitation”.  Cite CARE Philippines, you’ll probably hear various answers, if not, none at all.  And to think PRDCI was only founded in the early 1990s while CARE Philippines was set up after World War II (1949) as the US government's arm in its war reparation and reconstruction efforts in the country.  Obviously, PRDCI made its mark in river and watershed rehabilitation although it also implemented (and still implements) other programs and projects in its pursuit of holistic community-based rural democratization and development.  CARE Philippines, I believe, engaged in numerous development programs but failed to be identified with a particular project or program until it closed shop in late 2000s.

Following this analogy, was GAUF able to establish an identity throughout its existence?  If you’ll mention it to people who somehow knew what it was, will they chorus one answer?  To this I can offer a conjecture.  For those in the know, the most likely common relevant reply would be “the best private agriculture and forestry university” in Metro Manila.  But for the ordinary people—the masa—they would be unanimous in declaring “the university at the Balintawak Toll Plaza”, which is probably what DLSAU today is known, too. Obviously, “the best private agriculture and forestry university” tag failed to spread and gained wider recognition among the people.  Contrast this to the identity of UP, or, even of De La Salle University (DLSU) which are identified by specific tags.

I can’t claim I know Don Salvador Araneta for I hardly knew him.  But nobody, I assume, would dare to contradict me if I say that he envisioned GAUF to be the best affordable private agriculture and forestry educational institution in the country.  Given his knowledge and skills and the endowment he bestowed to his “bastard son”, there was no big reason why this dream could not be realized.  In the end, however, it did not only miserably failed to achieve this but, the saddest part, the most likely biggest legacy of his greatness as a benevolent man folded up at the turn of the millennium.  Why?

Again, I'll dare to forward a conjecture.  May be because of the many hats he wore as a man, he failed to do a Colonel McCormick.  He failed to mainstream and institutionalize his vision in the organization that will manage and run GAUF once he’s laid in his grave.  It now appears that not even his nearest kin shared his vision for his bastard son. Moreover, there were no mainstreamed, much less institutionalized, policies, systems and procedures that could have deterred his successors from going against his vision.  Or, in resolving problems revolving its operations the way he did while he's at the helm.

And, of course, the little that might still be institutionally installed was lost when his bastard son was assimilated into the DLSP for he would now have to play by the rules—policies, systems and procedures—of the De La Salle brothers.  True, the latter are a religious missionary order but that, I believe, is not a guarantee that they’re more humane and compassionate than Don Salvador.  After reading “GLIMPSES ON THE LIFE, PHILOSOPHY, AND ADVOCACIES of DON SALVADOR Z. ARANETA” written by GAUF old timers (Tadena, Callangan and Blancaflor 2005), I came to that conclusion.

I can’t imagine Don Salvador going to the extent of antagonizing and dissolving the student council and the school paper, Tinig, just to have his way, which was the strategy applied to facilitate the assimilation of GAUF into the DLSP.  Following his concept on Complete Education—the education of the mind, of the heart, of the will and of the body—he would have most likely considered the student council and the school paper as ideal venues for extra-curricular activities for students to “educate their hearts and their will” for he believed that “a perfect complete education produces a good leader” (Tadena, Callangan and Blancaflor 2005: 50).  He would most likely opt to influence and direct the rebelliousness of the student activists in particular, and the students, in general, toward achieving his vision of Basic and Complete Education instead of developing schisms between him and the students.

There were a number of more than anecdotal testimonies to support my claim.  Corazon D. Vicario, Ph.D., who joined the university when it was Araneta Institute of Agriculture and fresh from her graduation from UP Diliman more than half-a-century ago, remembered in her glimpses that “student organizations were encouraged, and campus socials were frequent and well-attended” and Don Salvador and Dona Victoria attended and participated in these (Ibid: 129).  She also narrated how Don Salvador handled the COCOFED scholars, whom he had given “free quarters at the Men’s Residence Hall, when they held a torch march to the White House to complain about their quarters.”  White House was how the old timers fondly referred to the family residence of Don Salvador.  Instead of berating and booting them out, a typical reaction of lesser school administrators, he was “pleased instead that they had the courage to speak up, as he had always encouraged everyone to do.”  Of course, the students went home when he bade them to with the assurance that he would solve their problems because they knew him as a man of action and one who keeps his words (Ibid:133-134).

This is not surprising for he had great faith in the youth that was reflected unequivocally in his “My Credo and My Votum”, where Don Salvador declared that the youth “may disappoint us many times, basically and essentially he is the same young Rizal, with an ambition for education, determined to win for himself a place under our tropical sun. . . may be irresponsible at times, but yet he is made of the stuff of heroes and martyrs when the call and the hour is come. . . he may reach college very formless and uncouth, but like all rough diamonds in the hands of artificer, it can be made to shine and become a material for leadership, unbending as steel. . . a keen and conscientious educator will discover, shape and direct his genius to what is noble and basic” (Ibid: 78).  

This is a timely reminder to all school administrators and educators, especially to the De La Salle brothers, which are now the controlling interest of his bastard son.  I hope that in the future I won’t be hearing students being barred from their graduation because of what to me is the knee-jerk reaction of DLSAU factotums over trivial juvenile pranks.  I sincerely hope they won’t turn out to be jerks because of their decisions.  I sincerely hope too that like Don Salvador they should dig objectively into the heart of the problem before coming out with definite solutions (Ibid: 133).

 After reading that book, how I wished that those who succeeded Don Salvador as University President had learned a thing or two from him; also, developed his innate uprightness and honourableness in dealing with the various constituents of GAUF.  Although this is now purely in the realm of imagination and what-ifs, it still excites me to speculate the extent of greatness GAUF could have become if it was run from the grave by  Don Salvador just as the Chicago Tribune was allegedly run by Colonel McCormick.  Will it still go under like the big newspapers if his successors followed his “formula”?  As we look back, the Golden Age of GAUF was definitely achieved when Don Salvador was figuratively at the driver’s seat, so to speak.

This and the residual good repute of GAUF that was passed through word-of-mouth, I believe, is what motivated a section of the student population to question their identity.  Are they Lasallians, Aranetans or Lasalyanetans?  A budding photographer in the school paper asked me during the forum my position on this.  My answer was they’re Lasallians but sans the “coňo” tag that’s associated with De La Salle University (Taft) students.  That the Lasalyanetan Identity will be temporary and will be replaced by a single identity  that will evolve from all the member-schools—including the DLSU Taft—of De La Salle Philippines.  The Aranetan Identity or what remains of it will be completely neutralized or erased with the passing of time, if this has not happened at this juncture.  Following the strategic direction set by the De La Salle brothers that can be gleaned from their vision, mission, goals and strategies (VMGS), this common identity will manifest in due time in all the 16 member-schools.

In my view, the Aranetan Identity could have developed further and strengthened if only GAUF had become a De La Salle Philippines-administered university where the DLSP’s best practices here and abroad in managing and running schools would be used to pursue and attain the vision of Don Salvador for his bastard son.   But his bastard son is now being run by St. Jean-Baptiste de La Salle from the grave.  Perpetuating the legacy of the bastard son, I believe, would speak better for the De La Salle brothers than subsuming him in their system to be at par with their rival schools.

So, unlike other GAUF alumni, including some of my colleagues in the national democratic movement, I cannot write DLSAU as my alma mater in my resume or even in my Facebook profile.  I don't need the Lasallian green tag to take pride in my Aranetan Identity. (30)  

levi's 503s and crispa white tees

This line from the song “Last Year’s Man” kept ringing in my ears:  “And though I wear a uniform I was not born to fight”.  The song was by Canadian poet and singer-songwriter Leonard Cohen, a favourite.  Truth to tell, I still don’t know what the song is all about.  I’d read somewhere in the net that it was one of his most profound songs and his fans can’t seem to agree on a common meaning.  It has passages about Jesus and Cain as well as on Joan of Arc and wounded soldiers and, Babylon and Bethlehem.  It’s the manner of how Cohen sang it that attracted me most to it—the same attribute that made me to like and repeatedly listen to his albums, especially his early recordings.  It was mainly that single line though that prompted me to write this post.

Cohen's 1971 LP

It was the late rock icon radio disc jockey Howlin’ Dave (aka Dante David) that introduced me to Cohen.  Day in day out my battery-operated transistor radio was tuned in to DZRJ, the Rock of Manila, when I was an aggie student in UP Los Baňos from 1976 to 1983.  It would play on as soon as I entered my dormitory room from my classes until the station signed off.  Sometimes, it would automatically play in the morning to wake me up if I failed to turn it off the previous night.  I think I’d spent more time listening to this radio station’s disc jockeys than my professors in the university; maybe that’s one of the reasons why I failed to earn my degree in spite of my seven-year stay.

Parading North Korean soldiers

What’s so significant about that line?  You see, one of the things I hated most about my college life was the compulsory military training, the Reserved Officers Training Course (ROTC), which every able-bodied male student had to attend for four semesters before he could graduate.   This did not only made me to stay long hours under the scorching heat of the sun obeying, mostly stupid, orders from the cadet officers but it also prevented me from growing my hair long—really long, which was an obsession at that time to look like a rock star.  The more underlying reason was my then growing resentment over military abuses and its role to prop up the brutal administration of then dictator Ferdinand Marcos.  The army fatigue-coloured uniform that we have to wear every training day (Saturday) came to represent some sort of a shackle that prevented me from doing and pursuing things I always wanted to do during what Bob Dylan sang as “times they are a-changin”.  This may sound trivial and senseless, even selfish, today, but for a restless and rebellious young man it’s all that counts. 

Mingo tired after playing with my flip flops

I only started hating being in uniforms on my first semester in UPLB.  Suddenly, I can attend my classes in whatever outfits I chose.  Some male students came to their classes in shorts, either athletic or cut-off denim, and wearing ordinary rubber slippers, very much unlike the pricey Brazilian flip flops of today’s youth.  I now can’t help but remember my bearded and hairy Spanish-looking mate—that’s how we call each other in our dorm organization, the Calma Bulls, instead of the usual brod—who loved to wear Adidas football shorts and would most likely elicit giggles from girls when he’s seating on the steps of stairs of buildings while waiting for his classes.  Football shorts from the late 70s were really, really short compared to the ones worn by players today and this was the cause why one of his testicles would dangle out to the full view of the incoming girls—thus, the impish giggles.  I don’t know if this contributed to why he was able to hook up with one of the most fantasized girls in the campus, which my juvenile mates had good-humouredly but politically incorrectly described as teeming with lady loggers and farm hands.

Some things remain unchanged

In high school at Don Bosco (Pampanga), it was well-pressed navy blue pants and white polo shirts and black leather shoes, except when we’re allowed to wear “civilian” clothes during very special occasions.  Denim jeans, no matter how blue and “unfaded”, were a no-no.  But even during these special occasions, I dreaded wearing “civilian” clothes because of an earlier incident.  I was attending a meeting of the Boy Scouts on a Saturday and I came beaming with pride wearing for the first time a printed polo shirt.  The feeling of pride was short-lived though.  As soon as I had taken a seat, a classmate deridingly commented, “hey classmate, nice shirt! It looks like it’s made from chicken feed sack!”  I was taken aback and shame overcame me and could not retort a reply.

Improvised flour sack blanket

At that time, of course, chicken feeds were bagged in printed cloths instead of the usual jute or plastic sacks so common today.  We may not be rich just like most students of Don Bosco but my mom would never buy empty chicken feeds cloth sacks and have these sewn into our—my father, younger brother and I— polo shirts.  More than a couple years later, though, wearing collarless shirts made from flour white sacks, with the name of the company prominently displayed, became fashionable.  These were the same flour sacks popular among poor families as baby diaper materials and sewn together into blankets.

Prettified shirt from flour sack 

I kept that incident at the back of my mind and had greatly influenced my choice of clothes to wear during my seven-year stay in UPLB.  I initially settled with wearing my “civilian” clothes of my high school years during my first semester.  Realizing these were so “baduy”, a slang during my teen years that’s associated with “low class” fashion, I started building my wardrobe of denim jeans and t-shirts—mainly Levi’s and Crispa.

My last pair of Levis, a 501

I would have loved to have Levi’s 501s but they were expensive, so, I opted for the cheaper 503s, whose fit I really loved, and bought these in the only authorized Levi’s outlet in Pampanga—Laus Men’s World in San Fernando.  The first ones that I bought in 1976 were less than, if not a little over, one hundred pesos!  I also did not want to unnecessarily financially burden my parents and requested my mom to just buy me Crispa white t-shirts—it’s not that I was a Crispa Redmanizers fan, it’s just that I found them simple, was comfortable wearing them and no one would mistake them for chicken feed sacks.  More importantly, this get-up helped me to blend with the crowd, so to speak.  A Sigma Betan seatmate in my Spanish language course once asked me: "Are you really a Kapampangan?"  Realizing my puzzlement, "you don't dress like one," she continued.  

Available after all these years

For seven years, I roamed the vast campus of UPLB in my Levi's 503s and white Crispa t-shirts.  Every Sunday afternoon or early Monday morning, you’ll find my backpack crammed with my clean change of clothes for the week—at least five white tees, five white under wears and at least a couple of denim jeans—as I travel back to UPLB and the same number of clothes, but this time dirty, as I go home to Bacolor, Pampanga for the weekend.  Isn’t it ironic, I was supposed to hate uniforms but I was practically wearing them for seven years in UPLB and for another three years when I transferred in GAUF? 

The truth was I did not see my outfits as uniforms.  They were neither prescribed by the university nor any person in authority but were my practical preference.  I was happy wearing them and, sincerely, I did not pine for any other clothes.  I was absolutely, and is still, happy with them.

My oldest Lee jeans

I’ve actually come full circle.  Lately, I’ve been wearing mostly white tees, although none of them was a Crispa.  Maybe, one of these days, I’ll ask my wife to buy me a couple. Levi’s 503s are now out of production.  But even before they did, I’d already switched to Lee’s when I started working.  Because of the really low pay in NGOs—which I really don’t regret as it was the most rational choice to continue my advocacies as a social activist—and one who’s starting a family, I realized I had to give up wearing 503s and searched for cheaper jeans that were equally, if not more, tough and durable.  With Lee’s, I could have button flys and still have a few change for a t-shirt.  And so, it was Lee button flys and mostly coloured tees when I roamed rural villages of Luzon while reporting in various Quezon City-based offices during my employed years. The same outfits I brought to my failed 5-month stint as a development volunteer in Mombasa, Kenya.

My fave Lee cargo

Up to now, my wardrobe is still dominated by my Lee denim jeans—not necessarily button flys—and cargo shorts and various white tees.  But this time, I don’t go places; I don’t work.  I’m just a stay-at-home aging man; a househusband trying hard to be blogger. (30)

passing on at sixty

“Doing the garden, digging the weeds,

Who could ask for more?

Will you still love me, will you still feed me,

When I’m sixty-four?”

            ─ The Beatles

              “When I’m Sixty-Four”

I’m back to my early morning and late afternoon ritual of sitting in our garden set, leisurely sipping my favourite local brew, and toying with my hand-me-down netbook hoping I could hook up with the Muse.  Well, there’s no reason why I can’t revive (again) this blog—from its hiatus after I posted my last article on 7 December—and help me put some diversity in my rather uneventful life now that my youngest daughter had handed me down anew her netbook.  Since I’m through with my caregiving chores to my parents and went on to live with my ex-girlfriend (who’s now my wife J and mother to my two daughters) in our Playpen, my life practically revolves around the new member of the household, Mingo, my youngest daughter’s dog left to my care while she’s earning her keeps.

Actually, my life’s circumstance has hardly changed.  This time around I’m looking after a playful dog, whose energy appears without expiration in contrast to the lethargic existence of my then nonagenarian parents, especially my wheelchair-bound mom.  Coming out with my blog with a semblance of regularity is the major lack in my life’s previous formula; and this, I believe, is a vital element to meaningfully embark on another phase of my life and meet head on my twilight years.  I’m now striving to get into the groove and gain the momentum to resume my blog writing.  Unlike the pros, I just can’t sit in front of a computer and start writing.

  The bigger challenge I’m putting myself in  is up my output, which were two articles per month after I recovered from the unexpected death of my mother in April until the equally unexpected demise of my father in early December last year.  Since his passing on, I was only able to come out with just one post, which was actually up for final editing when he succumbed from haemorrhagic stroke two weeks after it struck him.  This is my first for 2014.

Looking after Mingo is very much unlike caring after my parents.  It’s more laidback and fun; in fact, it makes me forget all the cares in the world.  This was unlike the latter where the act itself is already a major worry.  Moreover, I now have time to attend some personal concerns after making sure that Mingo has access to his needs when I'm out.  In fact, I recently touched base with my alma mater, Gregorio Araneta University Foundation, or, to be more precise, its bastardized metamorphosis, De La Salle Araneta University.  (See my related blog, http://raulgalangsarmiento.blogspot.com/2013/07/the-noble-bastard-son_30.html, why this claim.)  This was practically impossible before.  On the other hand, with Mingo around, staying at home all day has become more fun.

As I see it, there is no reason why I can’t increase my blog output.  When I was just toying with the idea to come out with this, I assumed I could easily finish an article a week.  I thought I was still the 32-year old committed and gung-ho development worker that can finish a project proposal in a week’s time or less when some colleagues and I tried to nurture a NGO that embodies our nationalist and development ideals.  But I found out blog writing was different and my personal circumstance was different, too; there was simply a plethora of distraction that kept on upsetting my efforts to meet that target.

Before thinking of increasing my output, though, I have to get into the groove first and establish a momentum.  More than other things, that’s my biggest concern right now.   I won’t be lacking in topics to write on even if I’ll just limit myself to writing follow ups on the two most read topics I’d came out with—GAUF/DLSAU and Potrero, the barrio of my birth.  I sincerely believed it’s high time to make an update on “the noble bastard son” in the light of new developments at the DLSAU and after reading a book on Dr. Salvador Z. Araneta—“Glimpses on the Life, Philosophy and Advocacies of Dr. Salvador Z. Araneta” (Tadena, Callangan and Blancaflor, 2005)—given to me by the outgoing DLSAU Supreme Student Council President Robert Gatbonton after I gave a brief talk on “The Lasalyanetan Identity Forum” last January 2014.

There’s also no more opportune time, I believe, to take an in-depth look into the reasons and events that led to my barrio’s sluggish rise from the ashes of Mount Pinatubo eruption nearly a quarter of a century after that cataclysmic, life-changing event.  This too is the most apt juncture to examine and investigate how the padding of the list of voters that came to the fore in the last barrio (barangay) elections was perpetrated.  This may be amateurishly undertaken but the thing is something is being done on this shameful, deceitful and immoral act. 

A look into the fiscal management, how the finances of the barrio were disbursed in the past eleven years is also in order.  The financial resources may be meagre but I sincerely believed more projects, even if small, could have been undertaken to uplift the social well-being of the most vulnerable residents especially in the light of dearth in physical projects that the previous barrio council could brag. Traditional politicians usually undertake physical projects to easily rationalize their SOPs or tongpats and the people hardly complained because they could see where their money goes, even if, sometimes, these projects would crumble easily like the savoury puto sekos of Cabalantian.

This is the more rational and inevitable thing to do in the absence of barangay assemblies where the barangay council could have presented financial reports on how the barangay funds were disbursed. 

At the rate the situation evolves, there are more and more issues of national importance that every Johnny, Bong and Jinggoy could sink their teeth on.  But I’ll leave these to the more seasoned and more competent commentators and political analysts to explore and elucidate.  I would rather delve on parochial concerns and try to link these with the broader and encompassing national issues.  In this same vein that this angry old man believes that national social and political maladies should be treated at the grassroots.  All acts geared toward reforming and redressing the status quo will all go to naught unless independent and strong constituencies are nurtured in every nook and cranny in the country.

But is this all that there is to the life of a prematurely retired old man who opted to pursue an unconventional career as a young lad?  For someone who retired without any retirement plan and has to rely—literally and figuratively—on his better half for his sustenance?  Surely my blog writing and looking after Mingo and, may be, my grandchildren later, are beautiful distractions of my twilight existence, together with the usual old age maladies I’d witnessed in my parents.   I’m also certain the love of my life would still feed me and would continuously shower me with the simple luxuries I’ve enjoyed since I retired.      

Actually, this old man is not whining.  It’s just that I feel I have to say (write) something.  The truth is I have accepted this fate.  In fact, I didn’t even bother to look for a job after both my parents were gone and resume my development career.  My wife was right; the few pesos I’ll earn would not be enough to recompense for all the stresses I’ll have to endure working either in the public or private sector, or even in NGOs.  I mistakenly believed that NGO workers are a breed apart, to borrow a Merrill Lynch tag, only to hear from the human relations manager of an international NGO if I’m not bothered working with and reporting to younger people before I opted to prematurely retire and take care of my parents after my aborted “adventure” as a development volunteer in Kenya in 2007.  

Surely I had previous misgivings and unpleasant experiences with my previous NGO employers but that question was the most stupid I’d heard and could not believe it came from an institution that openly declared, even boasted in its website, its non-discriminatory and equal opportunity hiring policy.  Working with people like that HR manager, irrespective of age, gender and religion, would surely not be fun in a supposedly progressive development institution that advocates humane reforms and changes in social structures.

In a macho society like ours, it's not the norm for the husband to be the stay-at-home guy; he's supposed to earn the upkeep of the family.  Though there are now more and more men, younger, healthier and more productive than I, forced into this situation because our economy, aside from being non-inclusive, fails to generate the number and kind of jobs to keep our ever growing work force gainfully employed.  But I've long shed my machismo, at least that's what I thought, and would be contented with this situation until I pass on, hopefully, when I'm still strong and not ravaged by the usual old age disorders whose symptoms I'm now beginning to experience.  I've repeatedly told my wife and daughters that I would be happy passing on at sixty.  In the meantime, I'll relish blog writing on selected social and personal issues, looking after Mingo, housekeeping for my family and the simple luxuries I'm accorded.  (30)