BARELY LEGAL

thoughts of an almost (lawyer) and a (wannabe) diplomat

  • Spiraling

    One night as I was heading home from a reunion with friends over the holidays and was mindlessly scrolling on TikTok, I came across a video showing how the planets actually moved around and with the sun. The video was far different from what we were taught in school where the position of the sun is fixed. In fact, the video showed that the sun was also traveling through space while bringing all eight (or nine, if you’re pro-Pluto) planets with it.

    There is a certain unpredictability that is somewhat reassuring in learning about celestial bodies. It puts matters into perspective and places value in predictability and routine. One afternoon in September as I was about to meet friends for the screening of Past Lives, I took a quick detour to my then-newly discovered coffee place to grab an iced coffee.

    My friends surprised me with a care package that contained my go-to comfort food, culled from an extensive, elaborate list provided by my siblings with interesting entries: Ding-dong mixed nuts (black), meat loaf and corned beef for breakfast, what I order in Jollibee and McDonald’s, and about five different types of iced coffee, including, coincidentally and in between bouts of incredulous laughter, the same exact cup of iced coffee I bought right before meeting them.

    2023, especially for me, cannot be reduced into mere lists or bullet points, however detailed or abbreviated. In my five-year Hobonichi planner I tried to track the year based on what I was thankful for, by converting a section of each day’s entry into a gratitude journal of sorts. Reading through the pages was thoroughly enjoyable as I was confronted with my old, predictable self mirrored in recurring entries: naps, rainy days, naps during rainy days, fresh sheets, Nanyang, “home-cooked spaghetti”, and late night runs to Dangwa followed by visits to my Tita the following morning. I even tried tallying the entries by category: food (92 times), family (86), friends (101), and flying solo (47). I was rarely grateful about work (19).

    In defense of my predictable self, some unique appearances: winning in charades, an SNL episode featuring Aubrey Plaza, the overwhelming response from strangers when I asked for help for my mom’s medication, the Succession finale, my favorite 2-letter edition of NYT Connections, my first therapy session, buying a discounted office chair, a debate with a friend whether it’s cheesecake tiramisu or tiramisu cheesecake, and watching the Fleabag movie in a cinema packed with people who truly look like they are fans of Fleabag (you know who you are).

    In the spirit of passing on the kindness I received (as exhibited by how immensely thankful I was the past year), here are some tips I have for those who will be going through a major life event in 2024 which may or may not be related to the Bar examinations: (1) do not listen to anyone, never compare, and go at your own pace; (2) the human mind is a frail one, take note of every generosity that will come your way as the information will be handy during the darkest of days; and (3) it is okay to spiral.

    In the same TikTok doomscroll I also saw a video downplaying the celebration of the new year, implying that it is somewhat overrated to cheer a complete revolution of the Earth around the Sun because it basically ended on the same spot where it started- so nothing changed. Armed with scientific knowledge from another TikTok video, I can confidently say that a New Year celebration is in fact a lot more meaningful, because the Earth will never be in the same location at any given time in space as it spirals with the entire solar system across the universe.

    Happy spiraling.

  • “Positive” grudges

    My seven-year old pair of shoes just gave up on me.

    As a law school freshman, I bought these brown Oxford wingtip brogues at the Marikina Riverbanks Shoe Gallery which is no longer there, with a dear friend that I no longer speak with, and another friend who I recently reconnected with but stopped talking to me just last week. I first wore them for my friend’s wedding where I saw an ex for the first time again after breaking up four years earlier. After several trips to Mr. Quickie for routine cleaning, sole replacement, and recoloring to a darker shade of chocolate, my trusty pair saw its last big event when I matched them with a classic barong Tagalog weaved with images of palay and railroads to represent my hometowns of Talavera and Caloocan, respectively.

    I spent most of my childhood living next to the railroad tracks of the Philippine National Railways whose trains ferry people from Tutuban to Alabang and even as far as Biñan. Growing up as a proud, rowdy batang riles meant afternoons become small missions to escape the mandatory siesta to meet up with fellow kids from other streets to play in parked tricycles, atop mounds of sand and gravel, and inside whatever makeshift facilities in an urban poor settlement. School days commence with my maternal grandmother letting me choose from her offerings as a seller of streetside breakfast: champorado, sopas, lugaw, and pansit.

    Our extended playground of several blocks of informal settlers is no longer there due to demolition proceedings to make way for Skyway Stage 3 expansion. These shanties lining Brillantes Street are now government housing units in North Caloocan. This environment may be less than ideal in terms of safety and security, but it allowed me to interact with people from all walks of life, supplementing my parents’ upbringing and raising a young family struggling to make ends meet.

    Because (and perhaps despite) of this background, I never really shied away from engaging in difficult conversations with colleagues, benefactors, and friends to request support when necessary, that to some may be a matter of mere discomfort, but to me, means survival or failure. In fact, my single favorite across 236 episodes of FRIENDS is “The One with Five Steaks and an Eggplant” where the mainstays navigate the very realistic terrain of not earning as much as the others. Some habits seem to be harder to break, such as when I stare at plates with food remaining, after being taught that unfinished food is a practically a mortal sin.

    As an adult in his early 30s, I carry in my heart a strong sense of “positive grudges” (beyond simple gratitude) since I find it almost impossible to forget acts of generosity and kindness that I receive. I can still vividly remember a rainy night in Technohub when I had to reach out to a friend to borrow some cash because our salaries as contractual employees in UP were delayed by just a couple of days. In the years that follow (and I hope my friends attest to this), I make conscious efforts to return the favor as long as I can do so within my powers and the bounds of law.

    My black law codal on the Civil Code of the Philippines is about as old as my brown leather shoes. Both show clear signs of aging and overuse, though I can confidently say only one has completely served its purpose because the other still has one final boss to slay, so to speak. If you reached reading at this point, it means you already volunteered your precious time to this Batang Kankaloo whether I deserve it or not. I am once again (insert Bernie Sanders meme here) asking for your generous support for the last time, hopefully, so I can finally retire my duct-taped codal next to my worn-out shoes.

  • Washing rice

    The lockdown gave us all a rebirth: across generations, from boomers to Gen Z, we were all thrust back inside a metaphorical womb and were all transformed into a strange blob – a monolithic pseudo-generation that was glued to our screens doomscrolling, consuming escapist content, and in turn, trying out new trends from indoor workout to DIY home renovations to cooking techniques. I am sure at one point or another, we have encountered a video (or a reaction video to it) debating whether rice should be washed before cooking, which exposed me to many different cultures (even Asians) who do not rise off the starch. Magagalit ang mga lola nating lahat.

    I was washing rice when I received that call. As a thirtysomething, I can confidently say I have had my fair share of painful calls from getting confirmation that I lost my scholarship or getting rejected in a job application for a humanitarian organization, to less consequential ones like being denied a credit card application (more on these in future blog posts, hopefully.) But I can say with more conviction that the call I received from my dad last August 2021 was by far the most painful. I technically received the call while in line at Mercury Drug to buy medicine for my cousins, but for that short four-minute drive from the drugstore to our home in Valenzuela, I felt like I was suspended in a void, completely removed from the time-space continuum. I headed to the sink and proceeded to cook some rice, avoiding my mom who was clutching her rosary the entire time. That was when it sank in, my dad’s words ringing in my ears: “Iniwan na tayo ng Tita mo.”

    I tried my best to focus on washing rice, my heart heavy and not moving, yet feeling like it was beating in overdrive and exploding at the same time. I had the burden of breaking the news at home. I couldn’t see clearly because my eyes were awash with tears, I just know I had to keep running the rice under the tap, sloshing the mixture around, draining it, and repeating. As kids we were taught to wash rice off three times on average, or until the cloudy, starchy water disappears. I recall washing the rice at least seven or eight times that day, breaking all the norms because nothing was normal those days. I lodged the pot in the rice cooker and had to face my mom. Before I said anything, she said: “Huwag mo nang banggitin.”

    These days you will never see me washing rice the usual way. I always feel like seven or eight times is one or two washes short, and this little ritual I used to do so mindlessly and mechanically has been my own time to say a prayer for tita, and remember the woman who stood as my second mother and who would, without fail, advise me whenever I quarrel with my dad: “Hayaan mo na. Ikaw na ang umintindi.” The lockdown gave us a lot, but it took back a lot more.

    Before this week started I overheard my tito telling our neighbor, referring to me: “Paborito ‘yan ng misis ko.” I will always cherish your favoritism, Tita, as one of my life’s greatest accomplishments. It was your way of showing me your love, even when I was still a little boy who would jolt awake when you come home from overseas in a brown terno pantsuit the color of burnt rice. If only it was possible to wash rice excessively each time, and trade the starch that I let swim away for another meal I could share with you, I’d gladly rinse the grains tenfold.

  • Of kindness

    This is where it begins.

    Like most blogs, I will start mine with a vague and cryptic line signaling the creation of this online journal of sorts. I am, like most days and with most speeches, writing without a properly outlined draft. Just typing away like I’m chatting with friends on Telegram.

    The Swiss mathematician Daniel Bernoulli is credited for his work on Bernoulli’s principle which relates pressure and flow and has applications in modern transportation and aviation. However, it was a fellow Swiss Leonard Euler who translated Bernoulli’s theory into a mathematical equation. I distinctly remember our high school advanced physics teacher demonstrating Bernoulli’s principle as the feeling of being sucked into a moving train because the fluids (air) next to the train are faster and thus pressure in that area decreases. The pressure in the fluids behind you will thus be relatively higher and will cause that push towards the moving train. This is why you see those yellow markings on the platforms of LRT’s yellow and purple lines, amplified by the garbled announcement by the security guard over megaphones.

    My youngest brother has gifted me with an active Beep card that I use in the daily commute onboard the two light rail transits conjoined perpendicularly at the Doroteo Jose and Recto stations. For the first two months or so as a junior diplomat, I had to traverse more than 20 kilometers from Roxas Boulevard to Katipunan (Google Maps says it would take 3 hours 31 minutes on foot, all things held constant including one’s stamina). There are moments when I catch my self wondering if this is all a dream (or a nightmare, depending on the time) but at the end of the day, I still could not imagine doing anything else apart from this sweet spot between public service and international law. I’d say it feels like a pipe dream, being entrusted to take point in an international conference hosted by Manila while doing important work in ensuring that the national interests and the welfare of its citizens are protected in international agreements.

    I consider my self lucky to be assigned in the treaty and legal office, surrounded by lawyers and legal professionals who seamlessly code-switch from legalese to funny anecdotes while at post. In them, I see a workforce that inspires me and that I can proudly call Filipino, even at a time when most public servants fear what lies ahead. Fellow lingkod-bayans in my circles are unsurprisingly jaded with recent events, and who can blame them? Left and right it seems that patronage and affinity are rewarded over merit and fitness. But for me, giving up today is more unimaginable. If we yield the space that young, passionate public servants are occupying, we let others take our spots– others who may not have the same zeal and focus and (ugh) love that we have for Inang Bayan.

    When days get uniquely and terrifyingly difficult, I rely on the sentiment that the Bernoulli effect might hold true for working in government: that high pressure environments eventually equalize and diffuse into areas with low pressure, and that even the impetus of a small push, done consistently, may drag other bodies to move forward as well. And these small pushes may manifest even in small acts of kindness, such as when our maintenance staff saw that I failed to obtain my own ID lace because the merch stall ran out of stocks. She then rummaged through her things and unearthed an old, rusty one that she rinsed and shyly handed to me. “Sana ok lang ito Sir, medyo luma na.” It’s the same one I use today: a reminder of my identity being an amalgamation of efforts grand and minute, by both loved ones and strangers. I doubt I’ll be changing anytime soon. I hope not.

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