The President’s men
Presidential spokesperson Cerge Remonde, after a long session with his teleprompter – his effort to smile pleasantly at regular intervals looked remarkably unpleasant – expressed his discontent over the persistent coverage of President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo’s excessive travel spending. In his briefing, Remonde said that it no longer mattered whatever the administration said, because there are people who would persist in finding the holes in the government’s explanations. “Their objective is not to seek the truth, or to pursue good governance. It is simply to make issues political.”
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In the court of the crimson king
When the doors open, the chatter stops, and the people rise as a body. There is silence as he strides up to the dais, grave-faced and sober-eyed. In this temple he is high priest, his is the way, the truth, and the light. He does not understand, however, that they do not rise only because he is Reynato Puno, champion of human rights, hero of the press, the anointed son of Holy Mother Church. They stand because of the dark robe that falls in heavy folds to his feet, because of the gavel he carries, because of the soaring ceilings, because of the compulsion of decades of other men and women rising to the idea of a judge, the man of unimpeachable character who has risen above all men to preside as the Chief Justice.
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The uncrowning of the ‘Komiks King’
On July 30, Malacanang announced that it had chosen to award seven individuals with the 2009 Order of National Artists. The conferment, signed on July 6, included four names that were not in the original set submitted by the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA) and the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP). Three nominees survived the whim of the presidential pen – musicologist Ramon Santos was not so fortunate. Four others took his place: Cecile Guidote-Alvarez, presidential adviser on culture and NCCA’s executive director, comic book novelist Carlo J. Caparas, architect Bobby Mañosa, and fashion designer Pitoy Moreno.
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After Cory
I was born in 1985, a few months before the revolution that flooded Edsa with tanks and flowers. Edsa was not my revolution. People Power is a series of grainy black-and-white photographs my grandfather pasted to an old album, a heading chalked into the blackboard in third grade history class, the yellowing reels shown in television specials.
Juan Ponce Enrile, M16 on his hip, crossing to Camp Crame protected by a horde of civilians. Ramos, carefully calm and unarmed, waiting for the bombs to fall, with a cigar at the corner of his mouth. Aquino, pale and resolute, as she is sworn President of the Republic of the Philippines
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Sona 2009
My name is Melissa Roxas. I’m 31 years old. I was born in Manila, but my family immigrated to the United States when I was young, right after Ninoy was assassinated. My parents said there weren’t many economic opportunities available in the Philippines.
Growing up, I knew I was different from other American kids. When I was older and had a chance to return to the Philippines, I noticed I was different here too. I didn’t have a vivid memory of the Philippines, but I remember questioning why we had to be separated – why we had to leave and immigrate. I wanted to find out more about the world: why there was poverty, why there was inequality. If you asked me what I wanted to be then, I’ll say I knew I wanted to do something that would be important, that would make – not necessarily an impact – but something that would make me feel that I was doing something good in the world.
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The talented Mr. Villar
The president is firm.
“Let me say, in no uncertain terms: There will be elections in 2010. There’s your headline for tomorrow.”
In a country where we doubt even the sincerity of the half-naked 6-year-olds who beg for coins at car windows, there is no word for the sort of morons we must be to unconditionally believe the nation’s chief executive, who is guilty of some of the most dramatic lies in national memory. And yet, just as she announced last Friday that she promised elections, President Macapagal-Arroyo also issued a threat.
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Column
Never take up with a writer, I tell you they notice everything, including the hole at the bottom of your argyle sock, the inconsistency in your choice of cheeseburger, and that confession you made one drunken dawn in 2006. They will stay awake at three in the morning, and insist on walking down stretches of street in the July rain. They are useless at parties, and either stare blankly into space or ramble about prepositional use. They will correct your every sentence, forget vital pieces of underwear, and will not hesitate to record your conversation on a scrap of damp McDonald’s tissue paper. They are afraid the sky is falling, and more afraid when it doesn’t. They conveniently forget birthdays and unpaid phone bills, will hiss at good friends who make the mistake of breathing while they pound away at what they mistakenly believe is the Great Filipino Novel, and have fits of moaning in dark corners when the voices in their heads refuse to go away. And there are voices, I tell you.
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The woes of Ms Marcos
Over a month ago, Imelda Marcos – longest running first lady of the Republic of the Philippines, the butterfly-sleeved half of the conjugal dictatorship, the woman whose signature had once led Sotheby’s to cancel a two-day auction after she bought the whole collection with a $6 million check (and then attempted to buy the apartment where it was kept) – announced to the national press that she was penniless.
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David’s choice
In the valley of Elah, twicea day for 40 days, Goliath, the champion of the Philistines, challenged the Israelites to send out their champion and decide the battle in single combat. The Israelites were afraid – except for one boy. David, son of Jesse, who refused his brother Saul’s armor and took only a sling and five stones taken from a brook.
And so the battle: the towering Goliath, armor glinting in the sunlight, David with his staff and sling. There was taunting, and the names of gods were thrown as curses, and David struck Goliath with a stone from his sling. The Philistine fell, and young David cut off the Philistine’s head. At Goliath’s death, “the troops of Israel and Judah rose up with a shout and pursued the Philistines as far as Gath and the gates of Ekron.”
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Franco’s war
Franco liked to dance. He loved cars, and called his Daddy’s Innova “Franco’s car.” He smelled of soap and giggles and baby skin. “Give me a kiss,” his daddy would say. “No,” Franco would answer. “Come give dada a kiss.” And Franco would pretend he couldn’t hear. “All right, don’t kiss dada.” And then the small body would launch itself at the laughing father, whose face would be smothered with Franco’s wet kisses.
His Daddy says Franco was expressive. “I’m happy,” Franco would say, when the sun was bright. And sometimes, on days that the world did not behave according to the plans of a three-year-old man, “I’m sad.”
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