In the middle of reading through this thread on how to show Filipino pride, I found myself uneasy.

At first I thought it might just be the odd disturbing comment (suggestions like posing with the peace sign and squinty eyes, which I hope was meant as a joke and will not be taken seriously) that was causing my queasiness, but I soon realized what was wrong.

Every ten comments or so, someone would say something like "rephrase the question in Filipino," or "Managalog tayo."

Suddenly it struck me as strange that I was writing about love for country - in English.

I was so disturbed I had to stop for a while and over-analyze the situation.

Memories of my unhappy childhood entered my mind, and then, in a moment of clarity I decided there was no problem.

I told myself that I don't need to speak the language to show my fealty, or any other aspect of my nationality.

Being Filipino is so much more than speech.

I'm not saying it's not important. It's very important, and if we were to have an educational system similar to the one in Malaysia, our language scholars would probably be very happy. On the other hand, our call center industry would not be as, what's the word? Booming.

I am in no way opposed to the Filipino language, but I don't think speaking Filipino is a simple method of showing Pinoy pride.

First of all, the word itself is derived from another language, just like the Panatang Makabayan.

Second, Filipino is not the only local language we have, not to mention the dialects. If there is a single characteristic definitive of our nationality, language isn't it.

I must admit, however, that I think in English.

This is the result of being raised in a house where no one speaks any other language, at least not to each other. It is such that when one of us says something in Tagalog, it sounds surreal.

I know that many people would have plenty of negative things to say about this, but here is my defense.

My parents agreed that we would learn English at home, because they figured Tagalog would be easily picked up at school.

While I recall being laughed at by my school mates and excluded from games, I don't regret my parents' decision.

Sure, I got ostracized, but I eventually got the hang of speaking in Tagalog, especially after my Grade 1 teacher, Ms. Cariaga, took me aside and told me I would have to learn, or else.

Nothing like a gently delivered threat from an idolized teacher to strike fear into a five year-old’s heart.

My parents reasoned that English is harder to learn in school, because to master a language, you have to be in an environment which requires its use. Pretty straightforward, isn't it?

It wasn't like we had fees at home for speaking in Filipino, it's just that English was what came naturally for us.

We had those in school, in certain subjects. Having to pay 25 cents for every Filipino word, now, that was wrong, I thought.

What was common in my parents' decision and the school's questionable policy was the well-meaning goal, which was to produce fluent speakers of the English language.

And why not?

Even the most rabid pro-Filipino activist cannot deny the fact that knowing how to speak proper English is an advantage. Job advertisements show just how much of an edge this is.

I think if it helps you improve, it's worth working for.

On the other hand, it goes without saying that your native language shouldn't be abandoned.

Still, nationalism goes beyond the words you use.

No matter what language, if what you say has no meaning, then you may as well just shut up completely.

While we were raised speaking in English, we were also raised in an extended (and constant) classroom. No matter where we went, we had a running commentary.

Whether we were crossing the street or riding the jeepney (which cost Php1 at the time), we were treated to a highly informational informal lecture on society and philanthropy. This is what happens when your parents are teachers.

My childhood memories are sorely lacking when it comes to street games, but they are rich with field trips to Pasig River and Smokey Mountain (Riding in a garbage truck was one of the highlights of my life, no kidding. Unfortunately, it cannot be said that my mother shared my enthusiasm, as she was in charge of the laundry department at the time).

We were brought up with a mission to be useful citizens — worthy occupants of the small (but beautiful) space our overpopulated country affords us.

The idea is not to be proud of your country, but to be someone your country can be proud of.

It's safe to say we do this, each in our own ways, however strange, or, forgive the word, foreign, they may seem.

Although I did get the hang of speaking in Filipino, I never mastered the language, and I still get laughed at occasionally for awkward phrasing and misused words, but it isn't for lack of trying.

In high school, when we were required to read Noli Mi Tangere, El Filibusterismo, and Mga Ibong Mandaragit, I made a pact with myself to resist the temptation of the comic strip versions.

I am proud to say that I read those books from cover to cover, and understood most of them.

When I was applying for admission into the Creative Writing program, a former professor told me to try Malikhaing Pagsulat, instead.

For a moment, I was tempted, but I realized it would be foolhardy.

The point of art is expression, and to force myself to write in a language other than the language in which my ideas are formed would defeat the purpose.

After all, doesn't a lot get lost in translation?

Speaking (and thinking, and writing) in English doesn't make me less Filipino.

I could even argue that the true Filipino is marked by an extraordinary ability to relate harmoniously with others, and my language skills enable me to do this in international situations.

That could, of course, be taking it a bit too far.

It's a continuing effort, this language mastery, and I consciously strive to learn as much in both languages. Still, I am more at home with English, but that doesn't mean I don't love my country.

This may read like an overly defensive obligatory EDSA post, but it isn't.

I wasn't there, not wholly, since at the time I was just three months in the making, but my parents were there.

They were there, in front of the tanks, among the thousands of people who wanted to be free.

So here we are, 24 years later. What are we doing with our freedom?

Which begs the question, are we really free?

Thank you, this is all your fault.

I am not superstitious. I walk under ladders, and black cats only worry me because I highly suspect licking one's fur does not get you clean.

I dream about losing my teeth rather frequently, and whenever I mention this, someone inevitably shakes a finger at me, or his or her head, and tells me this is ominous.

Some go as far as telling me to watch out for my loved ones, as dreaming about falling teeth, supposedly, means someone close to you will die soon.

I think this is silly, but a few nights ago I dreamt I lost my wisdom tooth, and recently, I learned my Tito Bobby died.

I hate learning about people dying, and I hate wakes, and I hate funerals. Hate is a strong word, I know, but sadness such as this, deserves a strong word.

It probably isn't "hate," but there are certain states of mind where you search for words and come up with measly grunts and monosyllabic attempts at human expression.

Tito Bobby is known by his students as Sir Bob, and he is famous for being able to crack green jokes without being offensive. That, I think, is an underestimated and unique talent.

Look at that, I ought to have typed was.

It is incredibly difficult to deal with tenses when someone you knew just died.

Just like that. His family thought he was just in his room.

The last time I saw Tito Bobby was in the faculty room of DLSU, where he taught batch after batch of students, most of whom became his adoring fans.

He grinned at me the way he always did, as far back as I could remember.

He had a grin like a cheshire cat, and it made me feel like he knew all my secrets but loved me anyway.

Tito Bobby loved giving me absurd "forced choice" questions, which I'd always be afraid to answer, paranoid as I was that anything I said would be subject to his “psychologizing.”

Tito Bobby did some pretty serious stuff, in fact, he is formally known as Dr. Roberto M. Mendoza, but for me, and almost anyone who knew him, he was a human laughter-dispenser.

Not only could he make anyone laugh, he himself had a wonderful laugh, the kind you hear on cartoons from not-so-evil villains.

He had just been awarded by DLSU for 25 years of service, last Tuesday.

He and my Mama were counting the days until their credit coop rebates and longevity pay this March.

I asked Mama if he was sick, and she said he drank like there was no tomorrow, was overweight, and had asthma.

I suppose he also lived like there was no tomorrow, and maybe that was enough.

Is life ever enough?

I hope it was, but even so, I know he will be missed by his wife Tita Marissa, his kids Gibo, Katrina, and Meg-Meg, his students, his friends, his colleagues, and even his enemies, if he had any, though I doubt it.

Tito Bobby wasn't even sixty.

When I was young, I had dreams of telling him "This is all your fault."

(Yes, I aimed pretty low. With overachievers in the family, I chose to be unofficial black sheep.)

The fact is, I wouldn't be here, at the office, writing this, if it hadn't been for Tito Bobby.

He was drinking buddies with my Papa, and my Mama's colleague, and he introduced them, some twenty-plus years ago.

That didn't quite work out in the end, but here I am.

I wish I had been able to tell him that this is all his fault, and thank him for it.

I still don't believe dreaming about losing teeth means someone close to you will die soon, but just in case, I'm going to start telling people what I want to tell them.

I once went on a date with Arvin Jimenez. That probably doesn’t register as significant, so let me rephrase that. I once went on a date with Tado.

At the time, which was almost a decade ago, he was known as that funny guy on Strangebrew, with a band called Big Time Tado (Big TT for short).

The thing is, I was a last-minute substitute for a contest winner who had better things to do than claim her prize, which was a date with Tado.

We ate at a restaurant which was not exactly fancy, but also not somewhere you'd go without your parents, unless you're employed.

We had vegetarian pizza, and Tado prodded at his black olives with a fork, asking me why there was barbula on the pizza.

(I remember that night fondly because it increased my vocabulary by one word – barbula, as it was explained to me, is the rubber fitting used in faucets.)

Later in the evening, the “date” was aired over the radio, and Tado, asked by the DJ if I was pretty, said “Hmm... maputi siya.”
This happened maybe eight years ago, and though I had told the story a number of times to get a few laughs from people, I had pretty much forgotten about it until this week.

You know how some people say "maputi lang" when asked if someone is only good-looking?

I'd wondered about that before. If to be fair-skinned is a "lang," then what's with all the whitening products?

Researching about the dangers of skin whitening, I came across several online debates about wanting fairer skin.

The best cases both for and against, in my opinion, were, in simple terms, "don't mess with nature" and “don't judge other people for what they think is beautiful.”

Also, isn't wanting to be beautiful natural, too?

I once said I didn't understand what the obsession was with whitening, at a time when soap with one whitening ingredient or another was the rule and not the exception.

Buying soap was surprisingly difficult, because almost everything featured vitamins, minerals, and always, always Plus! New! Whitening Formula!

(My favorite is sandalwood soap, less than thirty pesos, doesn't disappear quickly, lathers well, but yes my fascination with soap is beside the point.)

It was frustrating for me, because I didn't want any whitening ingredients in my soap.

Not because I didn't want to become whiter, worse things could happen, but I didn't like the idea of putting chemicals on my skin. (As an anticipatory measure for what a number of people (Hi, Pa!) are likely to say re: chemicals, I think I should qualify this doesn't translate to an aversion to chemicals inside the body.)

Before I get lost in a maze of parentheses and other topics, "It's easy for you to say, you're already fair," was what someone told me.

Which got me thinking, would I mind if I were darker? The answer is yes, but only because it wouldn't be as easy to spot dirt on my skin. (OCD will be discussed in a future entry.)

My sister, when she was born, had skin so much like porcelain you could see the bluish green veins.

She was also sickly and had a large head so that one day she leaned over her crib and promptly toppled over. She turned out better than alright, being our overachiever. End of digression.

My mama said she felt like people who'd see her carrying my sister must think she was a nanny.

Mama is dark-skinned. The point there, though, was not that she wanted to be fairer-skinned. Just that my sister didn't take after her.

Last summer, we went to Sariaya, Quezon for a few days.

Courting disaster, I walked along the shoreline every day we were there, without sunblock, As a result, I came home with sand in my pockets and a tanline to beat all tanlines. I had burn lines.

My skin was literally black. I never quite recovered since, but I'm happily brown.

There was a time I was happily orange from eating too many carrots, but that's a different story.

Before this research, I didn't know much about the stuff they put in whitening products, except that it's best to stick with the simpler cleaning agents.

My lola had always told me that soap and water is all you need, and I believed her.

Now that I know what they really put in there, I'm really glad we weren't brought up using this and that lotion or cream.

A lot of formulas have a cocktail of chemicals in them, and some, like hydroquinone, can have pretty painful side-effects. It's like cigarettes. (May or may not be discussed in the future.)

While I'm tempted to say don't mess with what you have, we all have our own preferences.

A comment on this article predicts that soon, people will be dyeing their skin different colors.

I guess that's sort of what tattoos are.

Maybe the point is simply wanting to do things to your body, experimenting, seeing what floats your boat.

Although that probably applies more to hair styles and tattoos and body piercing than wanting your skin to be a different color.

(Insert endless debate on racial and cultural issues)

I'm inclined to just let people alone.

I'd say let them do what they want, as long as they're well-informed.

As the Wiccan Rede goes, an' it harm none, do what ye will.

It isn’t one of my strengths.

Gifted with an uncannily vivid memory, I can still remember as far back as when I was two years old. I know this, because I can remember the apartment my family used to live in, and this was before I went to kindergarten.

Kindergarten for me was not where I learned everything I needed to know. It was, however, where I first experienced a number of things which turned out to be recurring themes in my life.

Case in point: Our school had an excellent playground, not in terms of safety but in terms of fun and adventure potential. Of course, when you’re a pre-schooler, pretty much everything has adventure potential.

The playground had a slide, a swing set, and everyone’s favorite way to get an adrenalin rush (and cuts and bruises in the bargain) – the merry-go-round.

I was not, however, what could be classified as the typical pre-schooler. My most memorable moment at that playground was swinging by myself looking at the trees and wondering about the existence of God.

The paragraphs above are proof of 1) my penchant for digressions and 2) my weakness when it comes to letting go.

I admit that the latter is not very clearly demonstrated by the preceding paragraphs, so I will do my best to elaborate, in the shortest possible sentence.

My mind goes a million directions at once and sifting through my thoughts is too difficult, so I end up mentioning everything instead of just sticking to the topic at hand.

I realize this makes me rather unfit for journalism, but that’s another story – perhaps one I will never tell, lest it become grounds for losing my job.

Letting go is not that simple.

To let go, to relax, to choose what to keep and what to throw (here you may notice this is actually a New Year’s post), this is easier said than done. Anyone who’s tried cleaning out their cabinet or desk or, if you’re ambitious, bodega, knows how taxing a process this is.

Packrats that we are at home, we have accumulated enough white elephants to fill a savannah.

I’m not kidding.

Ondoy, horrible calamity as it was, did us a favor by soaking our ten or so years’ worth of papers beyond recognition, thus solving our incorrigible indecision when it came to the question, to throw or not to throw.

Those papers had been in boxes for ages, waiting to be sorted through.

People who had the misfortune of visiting our house used to comment, “Hey, your house isn’t so messy for someone who just moved in.”

We had been living there for more than two decades.

Even after Ondoy, we still had an unbelievably large pile of maybe-junk to sort through.

You sit for hours, looking through the mountains of reminders of how you once were – your grades – your test papers which were filled with more doodles than answers – your embarrassing declarations of undying devotion to people whose names you can no longer put a face to.

If you’re lucky, you may even find resolutions from New Years past – the ones you make again and again.

If you’re sentimental, like many Pinoys are, you probably keep things like receipts and straws.

I try to tell myself, these things are not the memories, but every time I sit down and face my collection, I feel a pang whenever I put something in the throw pile.
Hardly practical, I know.

So I tell myself firmly…

Toss them out. Not on the street, of course, but you know what I mean. Actually, you may as well sell all your old paper.

Unless you have plenty of time on your hands, then you can recycle your paper yourself, and end up with a year’s worth of green gifts for every birthday, anniversary, and graduation.

The point of this (yes, there is one), is that letting go is a good way to lessen your baggage.

It seems like I’m stating the obvious, but I don’t just mean literal weight.

It’s a sort of purging, a catharsis, even, to be able to let things go. Not necessarily to forget, but to be able to say, “I’ve filed you in the past, so don’t come haunting me.”

Now, if we’re talking about history, that’s different. Don’t let go. In fact, hang on for dear life.

History repeats itself because people forget the mistakes they already made.

But before I venture into serious (political) waters, I will step back onto relatively safe (personal) shores.

The last decade was the worst ever, said Time. I’m not so sure it was the worst, but I think, and a lot of people will probably concur it was pretty bad, judging from this and the fact that status messages bidding 2009 goodbye have been flooding my Facebook wall.

So, my only resolution is to move on into the next decade bringing as little as possible from the last one. After all, it’s always been a good idea to travel light.