keshyre

[keshyre]

this week marked the opening of classes in public schools around the country, and the first onsite classes in nearly three years. i teach in a private, progressive institution now - we are a quarter of the way done with our school year and piloted f2f classes as early as last year. but i never let the opening of the new school year pass without reflecting and always, without fail, sitting, ruminating, with a profound sense of failure. 

tonight, too, we celebrate 10 years of teach for the philippines. amidst the news of lack of chairs, long lines for education assistance, teachers spending personal money to turn bodegas into classrooms, sixth graders who can barely read - it is so, so hard to find reasons to celebrate. my own career, and commitment to the education sector, began here at tfp, almost 10 years ago too. so little has changed. we have gone forwards and backwards, everywhere and no where, and i can’t help but feel like despite all of it we have barely moved the needle. 

i think of the two years i spent at sto. cristo, determined to teach these students how to read (the word and the world, as freire would put it). the big goal (i learned this at tfp too, the idea of big goals) then was to end illiteracy. two pandemic years later and learning poverty is at an all-time high.

i think of my time in deped, the near-obsession everyone had over building classrooms, closing the shortage left behind by the previous administration. the school visits when we would meticulously check that each student would have a place to sit, training principals on how to face the media scrutiny on opening day. today, a headline read: “teachers view opening week as a complete disaster.”

i think of marikina, the days (nights) we would spend personally signing, sealing and delivering letters to financial assistance beneficiaries. mayor’s strict instructions to make sure every person in line was cared for. seven sundays blasting on the LED screen as we distributed food and water to the crowd. posible naman maging makatao ang pagbibigay ng ayuda - why haven’t they learned?

and i think, wow there is so, so much still to do. the easy part is admitting that we simply have not done enough. 10 years of hard work cannot and will never on its own defeat a rigged system - no one who signs up for this work ever believed that it would.

the hard part is accepting the simple truth that this is as much a personal failure as it is an institutional one, and gathering the courage, the strength, the humility - to begin again.

[keshyre]

“Why do these things happen? I cannot find the answer. I can only try to lay the question in its proper place.

But what is proper? Perhaps the proper place is where the cry cannot comfortably settle. It is a continuously contested place where it can breed more queries. It will not allow us to rest and be complacent.”

- Merlinda Bobis

[keshyre]

hbd, taylor <3

[keshyre]

still not over inside. 

[keshyre]

i remember sitting at a bar with some friends after the 2019 senatorial elections (and defeat). someone had the courage to muse, "did we waste the chance we had in the last admin? did we waste our youth, energy, hope - on this?"

i met some of the best people, the most sincere public servants and leaders, working in government during pnoy's time. i never particularly liked pnoy but his government was stacked with great people who entered public service because of him. many of them are not in government anymore, for good reason. some have stayed, and fought, and struggled. i tried to serve in other ways, but there was an unmistakeable stench of duterte’s leadership wherever i tried and i did not have the heart for that. there has been a lingering and overwhelming feeling of regret and failure ever since. guilt, too. 

today my feelings are weird and complicated. they are also extremely unimportant, in the grand scheme of things. the work continues - with whatever youth, energy, hope we have left. 

rip, pnoy. 

[keshyre]

For our junior high students, the first quarter of online classes are about to end. My schedule says we are now on Week 8. Everyone is always surprised by this fact - it’s been eight weeks? These eight weeks have gone by excruciatingly fast and unbelievably slow, all at once. Everything they said about how much harder online teaching would be, has turned out to be true. It requires twice the preparation, twice the effort, double the time. I think about the days (because there have been quite a few) when I would be in three zoom calls at once - and honestly that feeling of being pulled in all different directions, my mind half here half there, a different conversation in each ear, is a good metaphor for what this whole quarter has felt like. Way too much effort for what feels like a whole lot of nothing. (Well. Not nothing. But maybe, barely a something.)

I planned out my final assessments last week. As reference, I looked up my assessments from the year before. And wow - what a difference. All in all, I must have taught half the content material that I was able to in the same amount of time last year. I have much less time with the kids too, I get a reduced amount of “synchronous” classes now that we’re online. And I understand that. No one should have to sit through more than 4 hours of zoom a day (says the girl who sits through 4-5 hours of zoom a day, everyday, lol). 

But that doesn’t even begin to account for all the other lost face to face time - the moments in the hallway, in the gym, in the library. I have lost so much time with these kids. Everyday, I wrack my brains to think of how to make my lesson as engaging as possible, how to get them to open their cameras and speak up on the mic. I know that good internet connection is hard to come by, and sometimes it’s just annoying to have to put on your best face for a zoom call. I get that, completely. 

But I justify it to myself by saying, well this is the only time they get to interact! This is our one chance for meaningful discussion! How else will they learn! And so we try it all - breakout rooms, jamboards, collaborative slides, annotations, mentimeter, quizizz, kahoot. Para mag-usap sila. Para mag-isip sila. Para masulit ang oras at effort nila. But if I’m being honest, I do it for me too. I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I crave the company just as much, if not more. As a teacher who loves, loves, loves being with her students, there is nothing more isolating than speaking into a webcam, into a silent zoom call, a black hole, the abyss. And so I click the unmute button and I insist, please please please talk to each other. Talk to me. 

Online teaching is such a challenge that it has me admitting the most selfish part of teaching: it’s as much about me as it is about them. Sorry. Oops. There it is.  

My advisory class, Idyanale, is about halfway through their second to the last semester of high school, ever. How ridiculous, how awful, how unfair for them that THIS is how they should spend their final year in Raya. Everyday that I turn on that Zoom call I just want to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I know this is not enough, I know this is stupid, I know am barely teaching and you are barely learning, please bare with me. I was so excited for this school year. I had so many plans.

Do I believe online learning is possible? Of course. Am I trying my hardest? Absolutely. Are the kids doing their part? So much more than I could have ever hoped for. They are brilliant. If the previous paragraphs have made it sound like online teaching has been a failure, then that’s me exaggerating because everyday these kids show us new and amazing things about themselves and what they’ve been learning. It’s just hard not to mourn the could have and should have beens.  

I know that school - like life - is just as much about connection, about love and about service as it is about downloading as much knowledge into your brain as you can in a school year. And there’s only so much love that can translate through a screen. There are only so many ways we can be there for each other when the recommended screen time for adolescents is 3-4 hours. But we try, and we persist, and we make do. We teach. We learn. And selfishly, we cling on to those additional 2, 5, 10 minutes after class when the kids insist we stay on call and just chat. Because what else can a teacher ask for, but the chance to still feel like she matters, like she’s doing something right?

Selfish. But there you go. 

[keshyre]

oh, a cover (a bad one, but a cover!)

[keshyre]

the anniversary of our last days in deped passed a few days ago, and i barely felt it. it was another lifetime ago: the optimism, the energy and the passion we all had for service - “para sa bata, para sa bayan-” feels like it was something out of a dream. it was a dream - a dream fulfilled, to serve alongside such amazing people. of course, the dream ended when the duterte administration began and pnoy’s (ours) ended. 

today, duterte signed into law the anti-terror bill. what a sick joke. this, after four years of terror after terror after terror brought about by duterte himself. 

after working in deped, i served briefly in local government. i tried to pretend that it was different, disconnected from the duterte administration - but it wasn’t. we felt the aftershocks even in our small city hall. the corruption, the politics, the misogyny, the violence - it seeped down from malacanang to our smallest streets. we all felt it. in many ways, i am still trying to process all of it. maybe one day (maybe tomorrow), i will write those stories. 

but today, duterte signed into law the anti-terror bill. the first person to notify me about this was a student. another student sent a message to tell me she was angry, but unafraid. another assured me, “tuloy lang ang laban.” nothing, nothing fills me with more hope than their rage. 

i have always believed: ang kabataan ang pag-asa ng bayan. kaya naman ako naging guro. kaya naman ako naglingkod, kahit sa isang sandali lamang, sa kagawaran ng edukasyon. at kaya naman tuloy lang ang laban, kasi ang laban ay para sa kanila. kasi ngayon, lumalaban na tayo kasama sila. 

this is the work worth doing, the work we do for and with the people we love. 

today, we fight terror with hope. 

“When we worked here together, we fought, scratched and clawed to make people’s lives a tiny bit better. That’s what public service is all about: small, incremental change, every day. Teddy Roosevelt once said: “Far and away the best prize that life has to offer is to work hard at work worth doing.” And I would add that what makes work worth doing, is getting to do it with people that you love. Soon, a new unknown challenge awaits me, which to me even now is thrilling because I love the work. Not to say that public service isn’t sexy, because it definitely is. But that’s not why we do it. We do it because we get the chance to work hard at work worth doing, alongside a team of people you love. So I thank those people who’ve walked with me, and I thank you for this honour. Now, go find your team. And get to work.” - Leslie Knope, Parks and Recreation

[keshyre]

rude awakening: there are so many ways to die. 

i already knew this, of course. i’m not dumb. and you would think after spending over a hundred days in quarantine due to a global pandemic, i should have been acutely aware of the possibility of death anyway. 

and - yet. 

over two weeks ago, i was terrified (almost debilitatingly so) by the possibility of coronavirus wrecking my family. it took a total of five swab tests - two in canada, two in taguig and one here in my home before i felt like i could breathe again. before i could walk around my house without wanting to scream, again. 

but there is more than one way to die. tragedy is insistent, rude, imposing. “it blows through your life like a tornado, uprooting everything, creating chaos.” (that’s my top coping mechanism for you: quote veronica mars when words fail.) 

another coping mechanism is desperately trying to find patterns, clues, research, pseudoscience - anything to put a name and face to the tragedy that so rudely came knocking down your door just when you thought you were in the clear. my mom has repeated the same thing over and over again this weekend: he was a victim, too. he’s just as much a coronavirus victim as the rest of them. 

i get it. death makes no sense naturally, so we make sense of it in any way we can. would he have survived his heart attack if the doctors didn’t have to wait days for a negative coronavirus before even seeing him? would mom have been able to say goodbye, hold his hand at least, if the ICU wasn’t roped off and on lockdown because of the pandemic? would his “second lease on life,” as he called it, have lasted longer than a measly 24 hours, giving everyone false hope, if we hadn’t been living in coronavirus times? i don’t know. but it makes the pill easier to swallow. he was a victim too. i guess. we insist.

my coping mechanism is different. like any normal person, i’ve had several people around me die. but i can count on my hand the number of deaths of loved ones that have literally ripped me apart, and i can also remember the ways i dealt with them then (and i guess, now too). in the space between the ceremonies, the novenas, the pleasantries between far away relatives, i like to unravel the threads, trace back the lifeline and feel the knots where our lives intersected. this weekend, every moment that we weren’t moving to get him cremated and interred, was spent remembering. it meant i got absolutely nothing done but it was necessary - i needed to sit here and remember, relive each moment because otherwise what was the point? that one summer we used to pick garapatas off of our dogs’ backs. you would joke that you would eat them, and several summers later when i had already become a corny, self-obsessed teen, you still made the same joke: garapatas for lunch, anyone? that brief window in time when i taught in cubao es and passing by your home was part of my daily commute. the way you used to register my car for me, always a few months (or years) late because i am a shitty car owner. how you were always the kindest face at the christmas eve dinners. you loved strawberry ice cream, even if you were diabetic, and i would watch in horror every time you went for a second scoop. i never knew where you were (except when you were here), but mom said you were always out somewhere travelling. i knew nothing about you or your friends or the life you lived, only these mundane moments that have stuck with me like snapshot b-rolls and yet i know too how profoundly you must have affected my life. mom called you her angel, the kindest man she knew. so you must have been mine, too. 

do words count, after death? i don’t know. i can’t know. they probably don’t. but in case they do: there are so many ways to die - i’m sorry that this one was yours, tito robert. you deserved better. you deserved batanes and rolling hills and all the garapata (i mean, strawberry ice cream) you could eat in a lifetime. but thank you anyway for my childhood - you were always my favorite one. love you, and goodbye. 

[keshyre]

Let justice roll down like waters.

“I must make two honest confessions to you, my Christian and Jewish brothers. First, I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to "order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: “I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action”; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a “more convenient season.” Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection. I had hoped that the white moderate would understand that law and order exist for the purpose of establishing justice and that when they fail in this purpose they become the dangerously structured dams that block the flow of social progress. I had hoped that the white moderate would understand that the present tension in the South is a necessary phase of the transition from an obnoxious negative peace, in which the Negro passively accepted his unjust plight, to a substantive and positive peace, in which all men will respect the dignity and worth of human personality. Actually, we who engage in nonviolent direct action are not the creators of tension. We merely bring to the surface the hidden tension that is already alive. We bring it out in the open, where it can be seen and dealt with. Like a boil that can never be cured so long as it is covered up but must be opened with all its ugliness to the natural medicines of air and light, injustice must be exposed, with all the tension its exposure creates, to the light of human conscience and the air of national opinion before it can be cured.“

- Letter from a Birmingham Jail, Martin Luther King, Jr.

[keshyre]

at 3pm today, chel diokno spoke to the raya faculty about patriotism, democracy and our role in forming a “national conscience.” he talked about patriotism in the verb-sense: a conscious, deliberate vigilance, the act of protecting our democracy, exercising our democratic rights, defending our democratic institutions. he talked about the vital role educators play in shaping the youth to be critical thinkers. 

i had the chance to ask a question - so i asked the question that has been burning me up inside since day 1 of 50 something and counting of this quarantine - how do you overcome the intense feeling of powerlessness we have all had to endure a) since the start of this administration and b) since the onslaught of this global pandemic?

chel talked about martial law, the feeling of powerlessness when his father was arrested. he talked about the same feeling of powerlessness when EJKs started - that sinking, awful - is this really happening again didn’t we learn from our recent past- feeling i’ve become all too familiar with too. and he said, there is nothing to do but to overcome it. because we must. for our country, its people, its youth. we cannot let ourselves be taken in by feelings of powerlessness. we fight when and where we can. 

at 5pm, i finally had time to check twitter and i saw that news had broken about the cease and desist order on ABS-CBN. i couldn’t believe it - they wouldn’t, there was just no way - 

at 8pm, i watched as ABS-CBN anchors gave their farewell speeches, so empowering and sobering all at once: Nangangako kami sa inyo, hindi kami mananahimik sa pag-atakeng ito sa ating demokrasya at sa malayang pamamahayag. they played the lupang hinirang, waved the Philippine flag on air - i cried, of course - before displaying a final screen declaring that they were signing off - and then, silence.

we cannot let ourselves be taken in by feelings of powerlessness. 

i am running out of fingers now to count the times i have felt this way, but let me try anyway. the 2016 elections. mayor dapat ang mauna. marcos’ burial in libingan ng mga bayani. kian’s death. that incident outside the us embassy. the fishermen at reed bank. my entire stint in the marikina lgu. the 2019 senate elections. i could go on. ang dami na. but we persist, we fight on - right? 

a friend messaged me just a few seconds after the screen went black: nakakapagod na magalit. mas madali atang madala sa kawalan ng pag-asa. i knew exactly what she meant, the fine line between the bursting dam of anger and the calm still of hopelessness, how carefully we straddle both. it is an out of body experience: knowing how full of anger you truly are, so full you could almost feel yourself break, but also watching yourself from the outside looking in, contemplating - huh, so this is how history is made. this is what it’s like to live in the pages of your textbooks - this is what’s like to watch democracy die - with a cold, tired indifference.

and then at 10pm the questions came. 

they really only started coming because i swore on social media - which is taboo for my students who only know me as their teacher - prim, proper, teacher kat. but each message chastising my putangina came with question after question. ano ang nangyayari? bakit? paano na pamilya ko? paano na pamilya ng iba? ano ang pwede kong gawin? gusto ko magsalita, pero natatakot pa ako - paano ba lumaban? 

hope springs eternal.

there is nothing new or historical about a feeling of powerlessness. it speaks of my privilege that i can pinpoint the days when i have felt it, that i even have moments of hope to compare them to. it also speaks to the damage this pandemic has caused on my psyche because in normal circumstances, i can fight it. on any normal day, i might have soldiered on.

but it is worth it, too, to sit in the feeling and remember why we fight. to see the black screen, hear the silence, and remember - 

there is nothing to do but to fight it. because there is hope. 

i know it because i see it in these kids so full of hope and love and compassion, with their brilliant questions and huge hearts. there is hope because i know and they know that that are deserving of so, so much better than this.

we cannot let ourselves be taken in by feelings of powerlessness. we fight when and where we can. because we must. 

so we do what we can, and we do what we must.

we write overly dramatic blog entries to get the feelings out of the way. we get some sleep, let our tired hearts rest. 

and then we get up again, and we get to work. 

[keshyre]

Since Adam Smith’s time, the theory about economic man has hinged on someone else standing for care, thoughtfulness and dependency. Economic man can stand for reason and freedom precisely because someone else stands for the opposite. The world can be said to be driven by self-interest because there’s another world that is driven by something else. And these two worlds must be kept apart. The masculine by itself. The feminine by itself.

If you want to be part of the story of economics you have to be like economic man. You have to accept his version of masculinity. At the same time, what we call economics is always built on another story. Everything that is excluded so the economic man can be who he is.

So he can be able to say that there isn’t anything else.

Somebody has to be emotion, so he can be reason. Somebody has to be body, so he doesn't have to be. Somebody has to be dependent, so he can be independent. Somebody has to be tender, so he can conquer the world. Somebody has to be self-sacrificing, so he can be selfish.

Somebody has to prepare dinner so Adam Smith can say their labour doesn’t matter.

- Katrine Marcal, Who Cooked Adam Smith's Dinner?

[keshyre]

Gloria Steinem says feminism wasn’t about women getting a bigger piece of the pie. Feminism was about baking a completely new pie.

This has proved to be easier said than done. We added women to the mix and stirred. An entire generation interpreted the slick proclamation ‘You can be anything’ as ‘You have to be everything’.

‘Having it all’ became ‘doing it all’. 

Otherwise, you’re worthless.

We talk about ‘work–life balance’ as a concept built on the idea of a private sphere sharply divided from a public sphere. You can travel between them, but can you change them?

Women are still fighting to gain equal access to the world of economic man. A woman must work harder to show her commitment in the office, in order to fight the assumption that her place is really in the home. At the same time she is judged on her ability to keep the home and family in order in a way that men are not. The resulting work–life conflict is portrayed as a women’s issue. It’s her responsibility to resolve it. Be more assertive at work, reduce your work hours, find the right partner, make better to-do lists, simplify your life, declutter your handbag, do more yoga, and keep your eye on the clock!

She is encouraged to see her body not as part of what it means to be human but as a ticking fertility bomb set to explode at the same time she’s going to be up for a promotion.

Because then she will be exposed for what she is: a woman.

- Katrine Marcal, Who Cooked Adam Smith’s Dinner? 

[keshyre]

2019.

i started this year by quitting my job and ending my short stint in government service. i remember sitting in mayor's office that first week of 2019, my resignation letter in hand. of course we had a last minute emergency budget meeting that i had to sit through before he even had time to pay me any mind. he assigned several key responsibilities to me that meeting - awkward. so when we finally had time to speak alone, i was terrified. but to be honest it was one of the few times we spoke to each other as humans. he said thank you. we talked about his daughter. he addressed me, as he always does, as teacher kat. it felt right. because it took everything for me to leave that job, and in doing so, i got everything back.

in 2019, i reclaimed my identity as a teacher. i took the LET, finally, and passed it. i finished half of my MA Educ thesis (and pointedly ignored the rest, but that's what next year is for lol). i returned to the classroom. and you know how they say, when it rains, it pours? this year, i made the decision to teach again and suddenly the world brought me back to the students who taught me how to love in the first place: omar, jerol, allen, christopher. it brought me new students to love: pumbakhayon, aliguyon, magwayen. it brought me new co-teachers to call family and a new school community to call a home.

this year was a homecoming. it was a blessing. it was an outpouring of love when all i asked for was a chance to serve anew. and above all else it was proof of who i am and who i've always known i should be: teacher kat.

[keshyre]

Today, my dad sat me down and showed me a map. I hate maps. I'm shit at geography and most things involving spatial reasoning. He started tracing the edges of a hexagonal (octagonal?) little shape and explained how that bit belonged to me. He wrote my name in the center - Katrina's. I struggled to fathom the x by x square meters my dad described to me. Struggled to imagine what a few intersecting lines on my dad's mini blueprint could possibly look like in real life. Struggled to picture the magnitude, to imagine the color of trees, the smell of the grass, to conjure the sound of the river running right along the edge of "my land." I struggled to understand who gave my father, and his fathers before him, permission to write my name and claim ownership over a piece of land, thousands of miles away, that I would never come to know. For the longest time I've avoided confronting my family inheritance. The land, the wealth, the privilege - there is a discomfort there that I can only really face in small doses. But the older I get the more inevitable it feels. It is a weird concept, to inherit a title that states "ownership" over a plot of land I have never set foot on, never tilled, never labored over in my life. What is a title but a fragile slip of paper? A slip of paper that will fade, tear and decompose in a few years - seconds in time compared to the lifetimes this land has endured. Who says that I own this bit of the earth? A paper? Who says that I own it any more than the men who cross it everyday, than the kids who climb its trees and pick its fruits, than hardworking farmers looking for land to make a living off of? I am a teacher, a community worker. I listen to the stories of farmers and workers and their children everyday, or at the very least share their stories. Who decided that I, with my fancy slip of decompostable paper, should own the land and that everyone else in the community should not? That those who labor on it, who utilize it, who appreciate and value it more than I, a city girl, ever would, should pay me dues to cross imaginary border lines I can barely make out on my own map of the damn place? My dad told me today (as I frowned at him instead of thanking him for the gift of inherited wealth), that if I wanted to build a house on it I could. That's silly, I replied. I have a home, here. Who needs more than one home? That land is home to many others, but it is not home to me. Home is not land, or a house, but a community. There is no community in a piece of paper. Of course I'm not stupid, or being obtuse for the sake of. I know the answers to these questions in an obvious-sense. But are these really silly questions, or are they difficult questions that we refuse to ask and instead defer to culture, or law, or construct to avoid confronting them? Because human law says I own this land, but did anyone ask the carabao that grazes its grass what it thought? Did anyone consult the bugs, the flowers, the trees, did anyone think to ask permission of the earth - may I? May I make this my home? I've long avoided conversations of inheritance with my family because there is an implication, a hidden undercurrent, that I must confront the second I participate in these kinds of negotiations. I am not just inheriting a title, I am inheriting a set of ideas. A social contract, a structure that - when I think long and hard and deep about, I can barely fathom. The idea that humans are so extremely important and self-absorbed that we have allowed ourselves to believe that this earth is ours to divide, to conquer, to seize. And on top of that, the belief that I am of a higher class of humans - land owners - who have benefitted from years of arrogance, violence, land grabbing and colonialism. That a piece of paper says this land is mine, and everyone else who wishes to walk it, is beneath me. No. I refuse. This land is not mine. It was here before I was born and it will be here before I die. This land is not mine. There are others there that have made the land its home, that have given it life the way I never have. This land is not mine. These maps are not mine, these borders, these antiquated ideas, these centuries-old shackles are not mine. And I refuse to inherit it.

[keshyre]

‪”the shortest distance from one place to the same place is around the world.” -g.k. chesterton‬

paikot-ikot, pasikot-sikot, kung saan-saan napadpad hanggang tinawag muli, dito. sa paaralan. sa silid-aralan. sa pagiging guro.

nag-uumapaw ang puso ko sa galak at pasasalamat: sa wakas, nakauwi.

[keshyre]

“i’m interested in the way our voices sound when we dip below the decibel level of politics.” - tracy k. smith 

last monday was raya’s lakbay aral day for teachers. we went on a “humans of manila” walk, exploring intramuros and binondo by foot, with no itinerary or rules except to get to know old manila by talking to the people who lived and worked there. 

this was fresh off of election week. for months i had been drowning in campaign and election discourse - a whole lot of shouting and pointing fingers about the mess that is our country’s politics. even dinners with friends would turn into a rant session about how they “couldn’t understand how anybody could support a man like duterte.” the day after elections, i was shell-shocked and angry, and took a day to myself to process the losses of bam, chel, colmenares and akbayan. when i thought i was ready to see what the rest of my friends were saying about it, i got even angrier - i really, truly couldn’t believe how so many people in my private and specially curated echo chamber were so quick to blame the masa for what they considered to be a failed election. visiting manila and sitting down with people was a special kind of healing, and a reminder to always listen. 

“when i talk about politics, i am my most righteous, performative self. but when i talk about my life, my fears, my love, i am a person.” - sarah menkedick

a few days after this i attended an election debriefing event with some friends. we talked about wins in the local elections, our renewed energy to connect, educate and resonate, and our shared love for country. confronted again with the age-old question, why do you love your country? and in these dark times, how? -  i was reminded of our manila walk. because while i resonate with the abstract, social, philosophical and other presumed reasons for this highfalutin patriotism, talking to kuya nonoy, kuya alberto, ate reynalyn and so many others reminded me that i love this country most because i genuinely, genuinely love its people.

“It is not about politics. it is about saying, this is my life, and this is what i care about. this is not politics. this is us: who we are, what we believe in, who we love,” and “It isn’t just rants over beers with a friend. It is a thorny, painstaking conversation with a family member you fundamentally disagree with, remembering their humanity, and then trying to show them the humanity of the people you love.” 

after each conversation i had in manila, i would sit in a corner and write down notes on my phone. i’m copy pasting some of them here as a reminder- this, this is the humanity of the people i love:

Kuya Nonoy - PWD galing sa Rodriguez Rizal; nagbebenta ng rosaries sa labas ng Manila Cathedral. umuuwi twice thrice a week. Nilapitan ko kasi napansin kong marami sa mga co-teachers ko ay di siya tinitingnan nang diretso. Dahil ba PWD siya? O kaya ayaw siya bentahan? May halong awa at kuryusidad ang namilit sa akin nakausapin siya, at bumili ng rosary sa kanya. Nakikitulog daw siya sa manila sa mga kaibigan niya tulad ni kuya Alberto. Tinanong niya ako kung may tour guide kami. Rekomendasyon niya ay kunin daw namin ang kanyang tropa, si Carlos Celdran, bilang tour guide sa susunod na pagpunta sa Intramuros. 

Kuya Alberto - kaibigan ni Kuya Nonoy, nagbebenta ng mga straw caps. Yung caps daw galing sa Laguna. Natutuwa ang mga puti sa binebenta niya at yun yung madalas niyang customer. Must see daw ang Fort Santiago; favorite niyang puntahan. Lahat daw silang taga Manila pwede maging tour guide pero ID niya pang vendor lamang kaya sang-ayon siya na dapat namin kunin si Carlos Celdran. Hindi daw siya lumaki dito pero hangang-hanga siya sa ganda ng kanyang siyudad. 

Ate Reynalyn - natagpuan namin sa isang tindahan malapit sa manila cathedral. Siya daw ay isang “totoong” taga-Manila. Hanggang high school umabot (Manila High), at hiyang hiya siya sabihin sa akin na hindi na siya tumuloy sa kolehiyo. Buong buhay nakatira sa barangay 65, supporter (leader?) ng kanilang chairman. Dahil sinabi niyang totoong taga-Manila siya, tinanong ko kung ibig sabihin ba nito ay binoto niya si Isko “Batang Manila” Moreno. May konting takot siya na pag-usapan ang pulitika, pero susupportahan daw niya ang kahit sinong Mayor. Excited naman daw para kay isko. Mayroon siyang 3 anak, panganay pa lang nag-aaral. Asawa ay side car driver and tour guide. Hanggang ngayon nagandahan sila sa mga tourists spots, “pero dito sa amin madumi pa rin.” 

Kuya Rio - nag-aayos ng kanyang pedicab sa tabi ng Casa Manila. Umupo ako sa tabi niya at kinausap habang binebenta niya sa akin ang kanyang tours. “Di bale Ma’am, pag naayos na ang aking Lambo, pwede na tayo umikot sa Intramuros.” Taga Regalado Highway Fairview. Kapitbahay ng Raya! 13 kids, 4 wives. Currently nasa pang-limang asawa na siya pero ayaw na daw nila magkaanak (“pagod na ako.”) Tinanong ko kung paano niya masisigurado yun at sagot niya “alam mo na yun Ma’am.” Haha! Maputi daw siya noong bata siya kaya ganun, marami siyang nabuntis. Di na niya mabilang ang mga apo. Pala-biro si kuya. 

Ate Florentina - nakausap ko sa isang tindahan, habang bumibili ng pepsi. Hindi ko napansin ang dala-dala niyang kariton na puno ng mga basura. Taga Paco Manila, nakikitira sa kanyang babaeng kapatid. Araw-araw nangangalakal sa Intramuros. Dati daw, taga Iligan sila. Nascam yung nanay papunta Manila kaya nagtrabaho muna sila dito bilang mga garbage pickers. Nang magkaanak, bumalik siya sa Iligan kasi mas masaya magtanim kesa mangalakal. Pero dumating yung araw na inaway daw siya ng mga asawa ng kanyang mga anak. Mahirap daw pakainin ang isa pang tao - kaya pinabalik si Ate Florentina sa Manila. Galit na galit si Ate Florentina habang nagkukuwento, pero hinalikan ako nang ako ay magpaalam na. 

Kuya Ice Cream (forgot to get his name!!!) - nilapitan ko pagkatapos niya bentahan ang isang grupo ng mga chinese na turista ng ice cream (’bintsili’ ang tawag nila diyan maam.”) Nakuwento niya na dumami talaga ang mga turista mula sa china sa pagkapaupo ni Duterte. “Siguro maam nararamdaman nilang protektado sila dito ni pangulo.” pero okay lang ito sa kanya, dahil madaming pera ang mga dayuhan - di nga daw siya hinihingan ng sukli. inamin niya na doble ang charge niya sa mga hindi pinoy. marami siyang opinyon tungkol sa pulitika - sa maynila daw, itinuturing kalaban si duterte ng mga erap loyalists. kaya siya, ayaw niya kay duterte, bong go at bato. si bong revilla daw ang masipag, madalas umiikot sa manila kasama si erap at lim. “Pinapawisan siya pero tuloy tuloy pa rin ang pag-ikot niya maam.” Nalungkot daw siya na puro kandidato ni Duterte ang nanalo. Nalungkot rin siya para sa aking nang sinabi ko na hindi ako kumakain ng ice cream, “anong klaseng buhay yan maam?”

The Family Under the Bridge (Ate Janet and company) - kinausap ko dahil hinahanap namin ang isa sa pinakalumang gusali sa binondo, ang el hogar building. nabigla ako nang sinabi nila na ang gusali sa likod nila, isang madumi, abandoned at nabubulok na istraktura, ay ang historikal na el hogar. “opo maam. yan yung el hogar. ospital ata dati? o paaralan? basta maraming nagshosooting na artista diyan dati, pero ngayon ipinagbawal na. di na daw safe.” hiyang hiya ako nang tinanong ko kung bakit kaya pinayagan na maging ganito ka rumi ang paligid ng el hogar: “di ko alam ma’am, pero ito lang ang alam namin na tahanan e.” grabe ang kanilang pagpuri sa binondo, kahit na tilang tinulak sila sa pinaka-laylayan ng chinatown. “maraming luma at historikal building maam! palagi kami binibisita ng mga estudyante, propesor at artista.”