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First dispatch
A few days ago I finally received my diplomatic visa as an accredited agent of the Philippine government here in South America. The host government is inflexible insofar as speaking English as the perceived universal diplomatic language, but the very welcome unintended consequence is that we are forced to learn Colombian Spanish, deemed the superior version because of distinct and clear enunciation.
Until then, I am stuck with elementary 1-to-1 translation, and Gmail has graciously recommended that I switch on the auto-translate function for emails written completely in Spanish- an AI-generated life vest, so to speak.
So when I opened the email from the Foreign Ministry forwarding my visa, the auto-translate function inadvertently, yet somewhat accurately, listed my surname as “LONELY.” My Ambassador thinks it’s funny. I do not disagree.
Inside the “lonely” sink of the new apartment patiently lie the following: a singular frying pan, a singular coffee mug, a singular plate, a singular glass, and maybe 4 pairs of utensils because that is where I draw the line for daily dishwashing. I have a dishwasher and a baking oven, but the YouTube tutorials on how to use them are still on my “Watch Later” list.
My apartment in Makati suffered a similar fate. A week after I left, my siblings helped me tidy up the place and salvaged what was left: some preserved frozen meat in the fridge (how I miss the red hotdogs of Purefoods), bottles of white Safeguard liquid soap, the Mandaue Foam study desk without drawers, and various other clutter that found its way to Los Baños, Valenzuela, and Mandaluyong. Some law books (used and unused) are bound to be sent to Kalinga by summer.
On our final night in Boracay, a week before I left, my siblings and I stayed by the beach and enjoyed the starry night sky. We all waited for the wind to blow out the thin clouds like curtains, and stared at the moon. I heard my younger siblings google the colorful halo surrounding the moon- apparently it’s called a moonbow.
As a kid I’ve always seen the moonbow and didn’t think much of it, I just felt like it was always supposed to be there. But sharing that very familiar experience with my siblings who are apparently discovering it for the first time is a sobering reminder of how different we have been navigating the world, even if we have been laying down shoulder to shoulder all our lives, figuratively and well sometimes, literally.
In Colombia I don’t recall seeing the moon as often, as there have only been a few opportunities to stay outside at night. Most evenings I stay in bed, relieved that I survived another day, and thus I am closer to stargazing in Manila once again with the people I hold nearest and dearest.
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Leap of faith
My dearest M,
It’s over. It’s finally done. I have gone through the sole bottle of Irish Spring body wash that I purchased in the nearby CVS on my first week in DC. I have dusted off the shoes which had little stones stuck on them from the shore of Lake Erie. And along with my carryon luggage filled with dirty laundry, I finished washing my sand (or is it camel?) colored windbreaker which I used on our first date- the first time I saw you in person since we started talking in the middle of the lockdown in 2020.
I walked to the Starbucks a few blocks away from my hotel on Bush corner Powell Street. We agreed to meet right after I recorded a podcast with my Sri Lankan colleague, because it will be one of the rare afternoons free from programming. I turned the corner and saw you leaning by the wall, wearing your usual beanie, acting cool and calm. I was screaming inside, but I leaned in for a hug and whispered, “wow, finally.” Hands in your pocket, you asked if I have any place in mind for a bite, but I yielded to your expertise as a local.
You said we will grab a drink first, which I found unusual. You warned about the slopes of the streets of San Francisco, perhaps hinting at how unfit I look. I confidently said it’s no problem. Minutes later, I was sweating in the cold, crisp air of the early evening, panting like a maniac. You laughed at me but had the grace to ease into a gentler pace until we got to a bar on top of the Intercontinental. Your second warning was about my trusty Birks, and how they might be not allowed inside. You advised your sweaty, panting, bald friend to play it cool and head straight to the elevator. I obliged.
You ordered a beer (which I didn’t know was an option), so I ordered a fancy cocktail which I can no longer recall. I was engrossed in your mundane stories of transferring apartments, transferring jobs, and transferring priorities. It’s been four years. We had access to a great view of the city skyline. You pointed at a neighborhood with a bright red brick church where you used to live. You told me, “never go there.” I nodded and agreed, temporarily forgetting that I grew up in the streets of Caloocan and Tondo. That night, I was a ward under your care. You picked up the tab at the bar, and I promised to cover the next meal.
It was my turn to ask- where are we getting dinner? You sheepishly told me you had In N Out in mind, half expecting I’d turn it down because of how uptight I have been conducting my self that evening. The truth is, the burger joint was actually part of my bucket list on my first trip to America. The lie was that I already made plans with my Mongolian and Indonesian colleagues that we will all try In N Out together the next day.
You booked one of those self-driving Waymo cars to show off, but also perhaps because I mentioned in passing earlier how I wanted to try riding one. I couldn’t contain my excitement. We arrived at Fisherman Wharf where the sea breeze was too much for my tropical upbringing. I remembered that I needed to get pasalubong for my parents. You helped me pick out the pink sweater that I eventually gave my mom. Before heading to get burgers, I had to look for a washroom (In N Out did not have a functional one) because the cold is not helping my tiny bladder. We stumbled upon an ice cream shop ran by an elderly Filipino couple (Nanay Priscilla just started speaking to me in Tagalog- what a relief!). They have been living in the US for almost 20 years. We got Ghirardelli hot chocolate to combat the biting cold, upon the warm recommendation of Tatay Norman. Nanay and Tatay bantered with me in Tagalog as we made fun of how you couldn’t catch up as an amboy. As we all said our goodbyes, we took photos with them and Nanay remarked how we looked good together. I did not bother correcting her. Neither did you.
It was getting late. We walked back to the park as I shuddered in single-digit temperatures at this point. We sat on a bench and looked at the wharf. You recalled out that when we started talking, you would send me this same exact view, which I set as my phone wallpaper that time- a reminder that some day I’ll see these docked boats in person. And there it was. I was sitting on a park bench, hot chocolate in hand, wrapped in my windbreaker, listening to the waves crashing. It felt peaceful.
It was time to go home. We missed the final trip of the cable car so you suggested walking (again!) to a nearby bus stop and catch one that will pass by Powell. In the 17 minutes that we waited for the bus, you disclosed that we grabbed a drink so you could shake off the nerves. I never had an idea that this was a big deal to you as it was to me; you have been cool, and calm, almost dismissive (or nonchalant in Tiktok speak) the entire night. You even admitted talking to your therapist the day before so you can prepare your self for that day.
The bus finally came. I learned that nobody really pays for bus fare here, but I insisted paying because I was too scared to break laws as a visiting government worker. You used your card to pay for my fare, and just my fare. I pointed out how this bus ride is where Paddy and Richie first met in HBO’s Looking. You nodded quietly. It was our Paddy and Richie moment.
You walked me back to my hotel and casually mentioned a standup comedy show was playing the next evening nearby, because it was around the week of our national day. I said I’ll see if we don’t have anything scheduled. We never made it. You had to leave the next day to visit your mother and sister in San Diego, while I had In N Out with my colleagues, pretending with delight (and little success) that it was my first time.
It was the last time I saw you, as I watched you turn the same corner where we met earlier that day. That evening, I cried in my hotel room as I felt like a part of me died. According to Wikipedia, between 1937 and 2012, a total of 1,400 bodies were recovered in the vicinity of Golden Gate Bridge from people who jumped to their death. Eventually, I realized the tears were mostly out of relief, that finally the unresolved matters felt addressed. I am glad that I agreed to meet that day, and that the big, scary jump, in fact, saved me.
With love,
M
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Leaving alone
Last Sunday I received an IKEA air purifier from my brother, whose expertise at online shopping is infinitely better than mine. The purifier was mint green, with a bright yellow handle, and the size of a shoebox. Before I switched the purifier on, I had to make sure I vacuumed the place clean to give the small green box all the advantage it can gather to clean the air inside my tiny Makati apartment- a strange concoction of incense smoke, steam from boiled water for making tea, the smell of cheap shawarma, and the subsequent, inevitable, occasional mini fart.
I picked up around eight to ten deflated balloons with the size of a medium pear (even if pears here at home do not have the lopsided oblong shape). These deflated balloons were from when my family surprised me with a celebration after passing the Bar. I left them on the floor, under the living room’s glass table, and lying around the clothesrack made of inexpensive metal, which was also from online shopping care of my siblings. I jokingly told people that the balloons were my roommates because they carried a core memory and gave the place a semblance of being occupied by things other than my self. After half a year, they have grown old and withered, shrunk with wrinkles, and collected dust before they were laid to rest in a plastic bag.
Save for the balloons, I usually spend my work days and weekends in my lonesome, seldomly punctuated by visits to my parents’ in Valenzuela, or walks around Salcedo Park when I successfully guilt trip my friends into visiting me across the city. I used to dread the idea of living away from my family, moreso living alone, but the law school plus the pandemic made me confront many fears, just like everyone else. Suddenly, life at home in an informal settlement in Caloocan was incompatible with the focus, rigor, and procrastination required by my other life as a working law student. COVID made things worse, but it birthed my inner introvert who was clinging for dear life in a 55-45 extrovert-introvert split in earlier MBTI exams. Today I am happy to declare that I am a full-fledged introvert (despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary).
There is a silent delight to the luxury of disconnection. One rainy night I was walking inside the underground pedestrian tunnels in the city (proud Makatizen) and came across a woman carrying a paper bag of what seems to be a single serving of Burger King, she made eye contact and made the slightest nod, which I take to be recognition of a fellow solo city dweller. Her eyes quickly darted to what I was holding: 1-pc chickenjoy, burger steak, and jolly spaghetti inside a plastic bag covered by rain droplets. I did not have time to explain that it was actually all for me and that moment the single most important thing was for her to understand that I, too, was an urban warrior who will not have food waiting for me when I get home, or whose commute route home must take into account the fact that I am on my last serving of sinaing without ready ulam by its side and thus, a stopover at Andok’s is what will separate hunger from satiation.
There, too, is a little danger in solitary life, such as realizing the first word you utter each day is when you ask the bus conductor if the LRT Buendia bus will reach Leveriza or Harrison, a solid two hours from waking up. Sometimes it also means being okay with a slight deviation from the ordinary: such as finding the awkward timing to share stories of a failed love, seventeen years later, as you sit in a car on a cold, rainy midnight scouring Laguna for an open coffee shop, because the streets of Los Baños remind you of a younger self, who thrives in connection, even intimacy.
(Note: This first draft was made during an airport layover.)
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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.
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“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.
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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.
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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.
BARELY LEGAL
thoughts of an almost (lawyer) and a (wannabe) diplomat
BARELY LEGAL 