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gabbidocx · 2 years

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Never Again after 6 years: A letter for the future voters of the Philippines

My dear baby sister,

Do you remember when your teacher told you what we should look for in a good leader? I helped you make that assignment because you needed more than just a “kind” leader. If our parents knew about that assignment, they would’ve scolded us and said not to interfere with conversations meant for adults only. But here’s what they don’t want you to know: you have the right to ask for a good leader. Six years from now, ate Sandi will vote for the first time. And then another six years after that, it’ll be your turn. I know it’s going to be a long way to go and that the things that matter to you at the moment are to play and be with your classmates again. But when you reach a certain age, you will wake up one day and discover that it’s in our hands to determine who gets to lead the country and what they can do to help us out. I used to be like you. I never wanted to involve myself in politics. It didn’t matter to me because I thought it was only for adults. At one point, I was even an M-word and D-word apologist because our parents taught me that they were good. But that’s all conspiracy. I only learned the truth when reality hit me. I was around 16 or 17. I started commuting to school alone. Since then, I’ve faced sexual harassment on the train and the streets; I was even followed home and called our dad to come out of the house to fetch me. In the news, I watched kids my age die from tokhang (a raid where people are suspected to be drug dealers). Then when all of that happened, I couldn’t help but wonder, was I ever truly safe? Or did I just remain silent? What snapped me out of the loyalist lens was how he never honestly had respect for women. The only thing that mattered to him was his war on drugs and nothing else (that was never fully solved, thank you very much). I saw him kiss a woman on TV—a woman who was not his wife. Then it all came down to me like a stack of dominos. He was a killer, a liar, and he gave us so much debt that even our great grandchildren will have to pay when they’re older. That was when I knew I had the power to overthrow a big bad man like him. And I longed for May of 2022 to come. But that excitement went down the drain too. It still seems impossible that another Marcos won (along with him are his cronies too). It’s like we never truly learned from the past. While our parents celebrated in the living room, Ate Sandi and I were on the bed with rosaries. It was the first time that we truly got to converse with God and ask for mercy. And while the rest of our M-word apologist family slept like babies, I spent all night staring at the live results, angry and mortified. I cried out of spite that night. My friends, our cousins, were all cursing on the text chats. And our family just laughed at them. My relatives laughed at those who voted for the capable candidate—my relatives laughed at us. I expected them to party (even when their leader did not invite them), but I didn’t expect them to feast on the young voters who just wanted a brighter future. It has gotten so bad that for the past few days, our titas and lolas were willing to fight our cousins and me so that they could defend the son of a dictator. They told us to stop complaining and that we wouldn’t understand. Eventually, it affected my mental well-being too. I wanted to write about the fiasco that day, but I couldn’t. I felt weak the past couple of days, not because I was the only one defeated, but the entire Filipino people. Even those who voted for Marcos were already taken over when they believed in fake news. Our family kept pushing the narrative that Marcos’ upbringing would save the Philippines. No, they won’t. And it pains me even more that I can never change their mind about that crooked family. I admit that my powers weren’t enough in trying to change the course of our corrupt situation. But that doesn’t mean my vote was useless. I still advocated for the right despite the results. I helped fight disinformation by using my voice on social media. I know this might be harder to fight now that big-bad man is about to take his seat in the Malacañang but don’t worry, my dear baby sister, it doesn’t have to be this way. We don’t have to fall for misinformation like our family, and I might be able to help you to break that generational curse. All I ask is that you please try to see the world for yourself when you grow up. And when that time comes, here’s a list of the things you need to prepare for when it’s your time to vote: One, before the election day comes, you will have a couple of months to study. Yes, you NEED to review all the candidates and not just handpick them because they have a funny jingle (I heard you singing Mark Villar’s jingle, and you don’t even know who he is). Make sure that the things you read and watch are credible and come from reputable news sources. Remember that this is your future at stake. Choose the ones who can protect you, the ordinary people, without having to use violent force and leave a mountain full of debt. Write them on a piece of paper so that you’ll know who to shade when the time arrives. Second, when May arrives, please bring an umbrella and a fan. Wake up super early to avoid the freakishly long line and the possibility of the voting machines breaking down. Reject vote-buying. You know better than letting someone dictate your right in exchange for money. Third, never let anyone see your ballot. You’ll be a grown woman by then, so you’d know better than asking for someone else to insert a paper for you. Fourth, be proud that you exercised your right regardless of the outcome. At the end of the day, if you know that you voted for someone with an excellent background and a reliable platform, you did your part just right. And like the situation your ate Gabbi is in right now, I will never regret voting for the responsible candidate. I hope you won’t too. Love, Your ate Gabbi

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gabbidocx · 2 years

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Been, On, Do: A Personal Essay on losing one’s self in Manila

Jose Rizal, a national hero and notable Thomasian, was a flirt. He had at least nine recorded lovers in his life. And just like those women, I also had a Thomasian who charmed me. I used to think there was a possibility that he could tour me inside the oldest university in Asia and bask in UST’s ambiance. Though in this case, I was not a recorded girlfriend.

Most of the streets in Sampaloc consisted of names that were significant to Rizal’s life; to commemorate his heroic story. The most famous out of all was Dapitan Street: named after the city Rizal was exiled in. It is also worth taking note that Dapitan in Bisayan means “to invite”.

I was invited there for a secret little rendezvous.

Until I had a taste of my own exile.

I gladly accepted and embarked on my journey to visit him there. The first time I traveled alone, I was lucky it was the right way. To get to UST from my place, I had to hop on a jeep from Taft. I didn’t know it at the time, but not all jeepneys have the same route cards on their front window. I put my earphones on and set my music on full blast the moment I sat down inside. When Paramore was blocking the roaring horns and revving engines, I handed out my fee to the person sitting near the driver. I told them I was going to UST and looked back at the bumper-to-bumper traffic.

By this time, I could see Taft from a distance. The jeep should pass the City Hall and the highway, which split into two. When the jeepney arrived at Lawton, a populated bus stop, the vehicle steered left and headed up to the skyway. I paused for a moment. Was manong driver taking a detour? I glanced back at the surroundings and Quiapo was nowhere to be seen.

I took my earphones out and asked the person sitting in front of me if we were almost at UST. They laughed at me and told me they’d been calling my attention to tell me I was in the wrong jeep. The mini skyway led us to a bridge and a big oriental arch, and before I knew it, this route led me to Binondo: Manila’s center of Chinese affairs and traditional religions.

I was desperate to get down, but I didn’t know where else to go, even if I did. Manong driver told me to take another jeep back to Lawton as soon as we reached the plaza. I kept looking outside, my heel repeatedly tapping on the iron floors, glancing at my phone every second.

“Oh, yung mga bababa diyan, ayan na Plaza.” said Manong driver.

When you’re visiting a place alone, your eyes are most likely to wander around the environment. Binondo was crowded with shoppers and patrons. Buildings and electrical posts with their heavy untangled wires that looked as if they were collapsing surrounded every corner of the nearby plaza. I was panting, losing vision, and possibly because of the amount of pollution. I was frantically walking on garbage puddles and potholes. I had never been to Binondo before, and it was much scarier being alone. I’ve heard stories of pickpocketers and kidnappers who throw your body into the nearest stream once they’ve successfully taken out your organs.

I turned around and thanked God I saw a church. However, it didn’t look like the ones I’ve seen in postcards. The buildings made the landmark look out of place. But its linings were painted with bright red color on its antique brick walls. In front of the Church, you’d expect the plaza to look serene. But because of the worn-out cars, you could barely see the fountain.

I walked past the plaza and crossed the road to the church, where I stood by its threshold. It was at least 30 degrees outside. The others who stood next to me brought umbrellas and fans. Then on my left were children selling Sampaguita. I had no agenda of being here.

Attached to the wall next to the wooden doors is a semi-circle marble bowl where you dip your finger in, and dab yourself with holy water. This was my measurement of good luck. Because whenever a plan failed, it was probably because I did something bad. The reason behind my traveling was so I could sin (with him). I understood if God didn’t want to answer my problem. So it was time to use my intuition. I headed west, past an abandoned building where children and their families laid cardboard as sleeping mats. Men were catcalling, children were reaching out their palms for spare change; I had to walk at a steadfast pace.

Lunchtime was passing by, and I was about to lose my appetite. I felt like an alien, a foreigner with no direction whatsoever. I’ve been wary of the possibility that one of the parked vans on each side of the road would yank me in. So out of desperation, I saw a woman (who was minding her business, casually walking) and asked for help. She must’ve pitied me. I smelled like muffler smoke and there was sweat on my forehead.

She told me that once I’ve reached the small bridge, I’d be heading to Chinatown. She said I should see the e-jeep terminal soon. Thank God that woman was nice. My lonesome travel continued; walking past the bridge full of red lanterns dangling by the poles and its greywater stream, I was able to see the outdoor terminal just by the mall.

I could stay inside and contemplate on the hassle trip I made. Then I saw an e-jeep boarding passenger bound to Lawton just outside the mall. Hopping in meant I had to abandon my opportunity to go on a “date” with a UST student. I opened my phone to tell him that I couldn’t make it because I was lost. I guessed he wouldn’t be heartbroken if I said so. After all, a relationship like this was meant for Dapitan hangouts, not a stroll along lover’s lane.

But somehow, out of sheer stupidity, I didn’t cross the road to get to the mall. I texted him that I was on my way. Behind me was a line of pedicabs, and I got a ride to UST. Afterward, Chinatown disappeared from sight like an inconvenient detour.

At the very least, this could have been a funny story of the time I got lost for a guy with whom I shared no label.

A few bicycle stamps later, I arrived at Jollibee. Take that, universe! I still got what I wanted. “But did you really?” the universe said back to me. The Jollibee still stood in its usual spot, a reminder of how it became my waiting area. I made my way in to have a seat. Nothing had changed since the last time I had been there patiently. The A/C was blasting, which was refreshing. I sighed and thought of the trouble I made just to reach here. Partially I blame myself because I went the wrong way, and frankly, I would’ve gotten here in less than 20 minutes or stayed in Binondo. I would have enjoyed their famous toasted siopao that I saw on TV once. All that and more, if it weren’t for the fact that I had no sense of direction.

Regrets were thought of during my stay inside Jollibee. My mind was all over the place, mentally recapping Binondo until he texted me. He was on his way out of his building. We went to Dapitan moments after as if nothing happened to me. I told him the crazy tale, but it felt like he didn’t actually care. He only wanted to invite me to a place where no one knows what we’ll do. I experienced the most troubling commute in my life, and by the end of it, we’ve come to conclude our secret relationship.

Binondo was my place of exile.

I was just too stubborn to realize that.

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gabbidocx · 2 years

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Reward System: A Pandemic Essay on Online Writing Commissions (2021)

Prior to the year-long pandemic, a somewhat laid-back professor once told me writing won’t make me a fortune. It would’ve been contradicting because he of all people should at least give students like us a little bit of motivation. Though he may want to sound realistic by bursting our freshmen bubble, I’d like to tell him now that I’ve already earned a suitable amount for myself.

When I was sixteen, I never really had a standard for my grades. All I ever thought about during my days in junior high was passing and leaving the school. When I had the chance, the hour-long train rides to manila from the town I grew up in became my fresh start. I started taking my academics a little more seriously; from then on out came a montage of line of nines, speeches, and holding the leadership title for every group project I ever worked on. You can say a small-town girl wiped her past clean with a reputable facade. I surrounded myself with great and intelligent friends; we graduated, went separate ways, and prepared ourselves for another set of workspace.

Unfortunately, this didn’t last well. As deprived as we are now, college has been cut short into a minimized digital screen; illuminating the unsaturated room where I used to plop down still in my uniform as That 70s Show plays in the background when I drift off to sleep. Time is a continuous fleeting moment, and we must make use of it all while surviving. For many of us, it can be mentally challenging. When dalgona coffee was present, all I needed to do is finish homework and hope everything would go back to normal. Hope became a pet peeve for many by September.

Eventually, it wasn’t enough. The girl who I was before-- the Ms. President with good grades and running around the campus with papers, slipped into the same oversized and unwashed hoodie. Optimists say that it is rewarding to take care of yourself while in quarantine. Infomercials from perfectly healthy people encourage us to take advantage of homebound by re-organizing the room, exercising, and diet. I managed to do all three in 2020 but stopped midway. Shouldn’t self-care be more rewarding now that I have all the time to myself? The months beg to differ. I learned to isolate myself under my bedsheets staring at not one, not two, but four drafts wasted because I couldn’t nag myself to read another book and instead watch Netflix by the couch until I conk out.

The nationwide lockdown has kept us indoors for so long, I now have a photographic memory of every corner of our home; my toe has learned to avoid the rusty mold on the bottom corner of the bathroom door, my sixth sense tingling to remind me of the legs of the dining table must be twisted back and forth. I see pigeons clawed on electrical wires near the small balcony of our apartment, much more than I’ve seen people. As I let my hair down as my black roots started to overpower my once colored hair, it seemed to me that life started draining out of me.

Online businesses have really boomed for students who want to earn a little on the side. Did you know it’s modern common courtesy to comment “UP” on every post your friend in college makes? My writer friends hopped into the forums by offering their writing commissions to the public. I believe this to be a risk for us to do assignments for other people. However dangerous it might seem, students have widely acknowledged the need for literary help; unless someone reveals that their work was written by someone else, I don’t think there should be any problem. This shouldn’t sound illegal, should it? Writers get to feel like they’re the unsung heroes to those high schoolers and outsiders in crisis. Emailing an inquiry is the new normal approach to flashing the bat signal during finals week. Maybe I missed that feeling of heroism. On-the-dot lifesaver of any student needing guidance or something like that. I steered into the skid with my block mates and boy, have I met a lot of interesting people.

November 2020: typhoons Rolly and Ulysses had their fair share of catastrophe through cascading floods washing over towns as families were forced to stand idly by the wobbly roof of their homes. With the number of donation drives opening as a call for help, I felt that it was appropriate for me to do my part. Sure, I haven’t published in years and this pandemic continued to rust the skills that should have been restored, but I had my history with prioritizing other’s needs more than mine. Perhaps it has been a default setting in my birth order. Being the eldest, I knew that helping the little guys comes with it a token. That night I rose from the dead (or simply from my bed) to open myself to those who are willing to hire me to write their paper. For the purposes of this story, I have the right not to disclose anyone I worked with (and if you’re wondering if I fished any Thomasian in the sea, I’ll spare you with the thought: they’re busy doing the same thing I’m doing). I sit and wait by the open window of my computer screen, waiting for a tired soul reaching out to be rescued from waves of nearly overdue homework.

It was around ten in the evening and I was able to take over the dining room table in single lighting. My fingers worked their way through each tick of letters per minute as the scalding caffeine coursed its way to the veins in the back of my hand. The phone at the other side of the table lit up; two messages from two new clients I had that time. I figured if they closed the deal with me by tonight, I might be able to reach the goal for my monetary donation.

“Please po... sana po tanggapin niyo yung isa pa na pinapagawa ko,” the first one said, along with three PDF files of her schoolwork; all of them containing a research requirement, which would take me a month or two to finish each lengthy, well-thought-out paper. I tried setting her straight that I am also a student and that I cannot work in a one-week condition for all her requests. Have you ever seen a ghostwriter decline help? The guilt in the back of my mind started to wonder. Maybe she seemed lost as if she were fairly new to her university. She kept saying how her professors spare no time to get to know each other via video meetings. To answer and submit were the only thing she needed to do if she wanted to be in-level with the rest of the class. And with a double back, “I think I can only do one of your papers,” I reassured her with no intention of giving her a higher expectation. “But forgive me; I really can’t do your research within a week.”

The only time I find “WRITE MORE” to be motivating is when I used to piece fanfictions when I was younger. This client of mine would eventually stick with me for months. It felt like a safe space at first; being able to have a steady conversation with a regular. It wasn’t until she had a way of saying, “Gandahan mo ha!” along with a half-price for a rushed work. Like a mean girl from my sixth grade masking as my ‘friend’, only to buy her food at the cafeteria.

Anonymity gives power to many, and responsibility to some. My second client taught me to treat people with kindness, even when patience is being tested. They never gave away their info, they were only in need of someone to critique an article. They even thought about telling me they already donated to the victims to get a discount. I wanted to tell them it doesn’t work like that but I knew I couldn’t risk saying it without sounding money-hungry. After all, I was trying to donate half of my profits.

I have no problem with presenting a portfolio for them to have an idea of my capabilities; they asked me what course and school I was attending. “Creative Writing po sa UST,” I said as I put a smiley emoji at the end of my sentence. How do you respond with a series of banters from a stranger? “Sana all magaling mag english,” they said; even though I’m not the best in grammar, it’s still not something I would be comfortable receiving. Regardless, I put on a cheerful emoticon at the end of every sentence like a customer-service smile.

Having the ability to be unknown is quite terrifying for artists and writers alike. I had a friend who told me to stay away from people who push to pay anything less than the minimum. Unlike me, she’s fiercer and knows when to reject an offer when it’s unfair. I told her about this one person who asked for samples of my work. I should’ve reached out to her first before I pasted the link to my collection. As it turns out, a lot of people will try to take public texts as their own. The person asked me if they could pay to own one of my pieces, but I had to refuse. The deafening silence was scary; they stopped reaching out to me after that conversation. Who knows where my articles have gone and signed off by someone else? I may not be the best at writing, but I sure wouldn’t like to encounter an online version of a Quiapo thief eyeing to copy and paste.

Since the night I posted the ad for my ghostwriting service, my laptop has been packed with readings, revisions, and papers of those I helped. Every time I open my screen, a small warning sign would come up on the lower right of my desktop, telling me I have no storage left. I agree. I have no storage left, not even for me. Still, I wasn’t about to give up on this side job despite my devices and schedule hanging in the balance.

You might be wondering, why do I do this if I’d rather complain over clients who underpay and knows no hour and place to drop a hefty commission? Aside from the more obvious reason that I need my own allowance, there’s the need to prove that crafting written discourse can be a well-honed skill for those who continue to learn it. I believe kids my age would still try to explain to Aling Marites and her lovely duster buddies that Creative Writing is a Uni program, and people make careers out of it.

At this point, I feel that some people who aid the broken are after moral dessert (and I’d be lying if I don’t speak for myself). It’s something I’d want to tell my future kids about the time I made fortune in college away from the pyramid schemes and such.

Of course, not everyone I worked with had a sense of attitude. It was the middle of the night and the storm hasn’t stopped thumping the pavement and knocking down my mom’s plants outside the living room. I received another direct message; he and his friend were asking if I have the time to ghostwrite both of their papers as their professor refuse to move the due date. It was difficult for both of them because a) their power’s cut off because of the storm and b) they were still bombarded with homework. It’s as if the heavens above sent me two kind fellows to be rescued from their mishap. We had a good agreement and for once, I was willing to stay up late and wake up around five in the morning to polish everything clean. Within a few moments after, the guy asked me if I knew his friend. It was the middle of the night when she approached me through email; she said we had met before when we were kids. Yes, I do remember her: she drowned me in a pool once. I would’ve thanked her for doing so because I accepted my fate at a young age. Who would’ve thought that writing can also reunite people in such an unexpected scenario? The flashback ended after hearing the cracking thunder taking a screenshot of the city. My body kept telling me to sleep every ten minutes, but since I had two new tasks due in the morning, I told myself I’ll sleep in the afternoon (I did not).

The week of commissioning for a cause has finally come to a close. I was fully booked, and it was the first time in months where I’ve felt my entire weekend stretched from forty-eight hours to an entire week. Forty-eight hours of my palms confined like velcro felted in keyboards, eyes swimming in a waterfall of letters. Forty-eight hours of my back nearly cracking as I bend down closer to the captivating empty page waiting for characters to fill them in. Time learned how to chain itself down when my mind double-look every grammatical error. Is it hyphenated? Am I doing well?

Once the dues were met, I was able to send the amount I’ve earned to local drives. In the end, my bank went down to its original numbers, as well as myself. Although, there were some things etched in me from writing homework for other people: I learned how to re-organize my tasks at hand, to continue training myself critically in texts, and nourish parts of my syllabus smoothly; I was once praised at how I could read five pages of a boring study in less than ten minutes (or twenty, if I humble myself), even when the font sized down to nine double-columned. Perhaps the credit’s due to the thought of receiving a prize when I accomplish tasks that were easier done face-to-face. Out of all the nights I’ve spent woozy staring at my computer thinking of how to make each request as authentic as possible, there’s no better relief than receiving “hulog ka ng langit!” as if my phantom presence guided their way out of the abyss before they completely drown themselves. It’s nice to find my purpose after each encounter.

The sun showed itself to the sky again, blowing the tears from the ground dry. Almost everything was back to the way it was. I’m still stuck writing in the same old apartment praying the internet won’t fail me. There would be certain parts of the day where I gaze into the spaces wondering if I were ever good enough to submit my own essays. But then I thought back to when I carried chunks of other people’s weights, highlighting their heavy notes and piecing together a perspective of someone else’s. If they put their trust in me, then I must belong to where I am now. I’ve hung my white cover to dust for a while knowing my money has gone to those who need it more than I do. It’s not that I’m waiting for the next crisis to involve myself in but if someone asks, I’ll be here (because I have nowhere else to be for now).

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gabbidocx · 2 years

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[ARCHIVE] Cancel Culture in PH: Why Filipinos jump one hate to another

Blogpost that I wrote back in 2020.

READ HERE: https://braveaao.wordpress.com/2020/06/18/cancel-culture-in-ph-why-filipinos-jump-one-hate-to-another/

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gabbidocx · 4 years

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Why Is Pride A Protest?: Blog

This blogpost is originally written in 2019 as a writing requirement.

https://braveaao.wordpress.com/2021/01/20/why-is-pride-a-protest/

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gabbidocx · 4 years

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golf day

A halloween short story entry.

LINK: https://twitter.com/sinigab/status/1322518780908507136?s=20

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gabbidocx · 4 years

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Poetry Practice

Links to the poems I’ve written last 2020.

1. 90 days before you LINK: https://twitter.com/sinigab/status/1291533786287464449?s=20

2. Secrets - song LINK: https://twitter.com/sinigab/status/1301473805928247296?s=20

3. Coffee-colored sea LINK: https://twitter.com/sinigab/status/1327518415158874115?s=20

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gabbidocx · 4 years

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Cancel Culture in The Philippines: Article

This article was written as practice in 2020.

Read here: https://braveaao.wordpress.com/2020/06/18/cancel-culture-in-ph-why-filipinos-jump-one-hate-to-another/

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gabbidocx · 4 years

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A Critique of The K-12 Program

This article is written as an application for the school’s website-based news publication in 2019.

In the early 2010s the department of education (DepEd) introduced a new curriculum that could change the standard Filipino education: the K-12 Program. It has been promised before that this plan should enhance students with their learning ability and mastery of learning. As someone who graduated from this program, I attest that the K-12 curriculum both has its own pros and cons, and I for one, think this is but an experiment.

When this was announced to us I had no idea this was going to be an official legislation. Our batch soon became the second to have experienced this program. By the time we were in the middle of 10th grade junior high school, there was a seminar held for us as the incoming senior high school students. It seemed as if the seminar was a tutorial for which track we should take. The tracks and strands seemed acceptable enough as it determined what subjects we like to hone and ones that could shape our college career paths.

When I entered the General Academics Strand, we were told that this is a place to exercise our writing skills—but isn’t General Academics supposed to tackle more than just writing itself? The description for the strand was slightly off from what the strand is offering. GAS has all of the subjects from other strands combined, but in a much summarized form; meaning GAS should have been a wide variety of career choices. Unfortunately there was this one occasion during the CETs season (College Entrance Exam Season) that there are some colleges who decline GAS in most courses, specifying that GAS students can only apply in a few courses (example, architecture is only for the STEM students given in some schools that offer the course)

There were occasions that our senior high professors also came from the junior high, and some are from the college department and that is perhaps because the teachers were not fully prepared for the Senior High Department. If supposedly expected that we get to practice our favorite subjects, must we be taught by someone who is trained for the senior high? Don’t get me wrong but I still have learned a lot from those two years. It is in fact once dubbed as a beginner’s trial for college. We were trained to be fully prepared for the upcoming level. We were also told that we can work after we get our High school diploma. Though we were lead to experience work immersion (OJT) in our final semester of grade 12, some companies and businesses won’t accept applicants who are at least college graduates as they now they have more experience in the work force than we have. Work application is not only an issue to us, but for the less fortunate as well—they need the job more since some cannot afford College tuition.

In conclusion, the K-12 curriculum is an experiment that needs to be more supervised by DepEd. The proposal was good enough at first because it let students determine which path they should take before entering college, but not all schools are equipped with the proper tools and applications for this program to fully function. We are seemingly not ready to operate the K-12 program, and should have given more time to adjust before being implemented.

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