In this holiday season … “Jesus is the Man!”
Merry Christmas everyone.
Photo Credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/desi/9455/
I happened to pass Gen. Luna St. last Tuesday because my boss wanted me to schedule a meeting with the researchers and planners who happened to convene in Iloilo. Working in ADB is no easy job and arranging the schedules made me exceptionally busy especially that we were on a given study for LGUs. I was supposed to meet them early but I was unfortunately trapped for 30 minutes in a traffic jam along the parallel lanes of UP. When I inquired what it was that caused the delay, the driver said, “Oblation run sir.”
“It’s APO day,” I presumed, looking at the members who gathered in the street to watch their bold brethren run. Amused at the sight, I thought that APO indeed was a metaphoric version of the Jingle Bells. With their genitalia dangling from to left to right, it surely was a merry show more than any Christmas carol could offer. Girls and faggots alike swarmed the street to take a glimpse, not of the essence of the activity, but of the display of “birdies”. “Ang cute,” one exclaimed. Another said, “Ang dumi naman ewww. Ba’t maitim-itim?” The funniest I heard was a voice from a group of gays shouting, “He is so tiny!!!” Most of the spectators were giddy, while others were even too conservative to glance at the spectacle.
But I will not dwell there, otherwise that would mean endless funny remarks. What I am wondering about is the reason why APO sustains this tradition. They say streaking is their way of shouting their sentiments of freedom. In short it stands as a symbol of freedom. But why cover their faces? What’s the difference between a fully clothed man with an exposed face and a naked man but with his face covered? Nothing, I dare say.
With this “streaking”, I suppose APO is just publicizing their fraternity; “Hey join us, we’re cool!” while missing out on the action to actually promulgate something for the realization of freedom.
In Britain, for example, there was one time where people ran stark naked for a cause despite the cold weather. The nice thing about it was that they posed in front of the camera with no qualms. I am just wondering if the British did it with no clothing facade, why can’t you run in the same way when you uphold in fact a nobler cause – freedom? This perplexes me to unravel the logic of this annual activity thus, whatever the cause, it is inevitable for me to stand as arbiter of its verity. It is not my wish to criticize APO, but I really cannot find any significance in what they are doing. If they call for freedom, let them have it in different ways and not like this ribald event which I deem facile wrought by maudlin sentiments. How in the earth could one claim freedom by running in the street naked and holding roses like bozos? Remember that a symbol for freedom will never match an action towards it. If you are really after freedom, gather your members and organize a fruitful and sensible event that would lead to something useful that the country would be grateful of. Imagine if you could gather 10,000 of your members for a tree-planting activity, you will also have 10,000, new trees to help curtail carbon emission in the air- a fair response to the effect of global warming to give us a cleaner breath for our quest of environmental freedom. This might not be known to everybody, but you will be proud to know that you acted beyond the symbol of freedom.
But if they still wanted to continue, at least have the guts to follow St. Francis of Assisi who took off his clothes in the middle of the crowd and gave his garment to the poor man beside him. He simply wanted freedom from the hedonistic world. He was not shy of what he did even though society was run by a stringent moral standard in his time. Hence, I suggest that next time they do this, they shouldn’t cover their faces. And bring books instead of wilted flowers, and instead of posing in front of women to offer them flowers, to which with your keen consciousness will never suffice the claim of letting your sentiment known, run to the nearest palaboy and give him a book. By doing this, your efforts might be appreciated, or they might become a source of inspiration for street children to seek education (which I always believe to be an effective phase in achieving freedom). You might be laughed at and everybody would deem you crazy, but deep inside, you know you are doing a better goodness. At least your “Jingle Bells” will have a better errand.
When a question is expressed, it presupposes an answer. For what is a question but a profound insinuation of an answer. The world is moving forward either for betterment or for the disgrace of humanity. Everybody can attest to that, not just by the senses but through the innate understanding that life is changing; it goes with time and we see it as it is.
It was 6 in the morning and the breeze was seemingly cold. The sky remained incarnadine, painting gory nuances on the clouds thus presaging another day of misfortune. The sun wasn’t fully awake but the street started to get boisterous as vehicles and humans alike swarmed the place to catch or run after time. A brown dog settled on the pavement beside an old acacia tree and howled to send a signal for the other mongrels that lurked in other corners of this prosaic place. Upon hearing the call, they assembled their group and headed to the acacia tree that served as their rendezvous – a place of their dominance and brutality. Some settled beside the brown dog, other roamed the vicinity but not far from the rest of the pact. Upon observing their institution, the brown dog that remained calm proved to be the leader of the pact because no one among them could equal his contemplative demeanour and his valour was apparent in his fangs and bodily feat. He was also the biggest and there was no doubt why he claimed dominance over these filthy mongrels; there were sheer differences among them for some had scabies while others were filthy and stinky. Only the brown dog looked clean and his economy in movement had a charisma that affected the rest of them. The only thing that bound them was the sole fact that they were all askals and that they all lived and survived the harsh conditions of the street. They had experienced the demeaning and industrialized ways of urbanization and had become masters of the streets – except for the brown dog who had not just mastered his ways but had claimed apotheosis of himself. They had also been witnesses to the ups and downs of economy and the infiltration of immorality in the fast expanding Sin-City; all of them used this knowledge for the advantage that these would fit their designed scenario of survival. They held a single notion about the world – that the world is so wicked that even God couldn’t do anything to change it. This idea has prompted them to live brutally, to prowl for the next victim.
The name of the brown dog was Chiz. He had no tinge of whatsoever expression in his face and his eyes were blank and eluding. It made you think that he was a holy dog of St. Roque but if you looked beyond it, his diabolical aura exuded a contagious virus – a perfect virus that infected the mongrels around him. This was his game and those around him had no power but to succumb to his order, absolutely precarious of his commands. When the time had come, a perfect cameo for his concupiscence, he let a loud howl for everybody to follow. They rushed across the street where a female dog was fortuitously passing and started to surround the stray female dog. Frightened by the sudden twist of events, she gathered her guts coherent to her instinct and ran as fast as she could. Unfortunately, her legs failed her and all at once she was surrounded by these blood-thirsty mongrels. They attacked her, biting her legs and tearing her flesh. She let out a loud cry of pain as she struggled to free herself from them by biting and slashing whenever she could but the mishap had proven that these devils were far stronger than her. When she could no longer move, the brown brute moved from behind and raised his forelegs to thrust his penis to the female dog. She wept and cried as pain enveloped her and she couldn’t do anything but be docile until they were done ravaging her body. She was a helpless bitch uttering an anathema while gasping for her breath. In her agony she prayed hard even though she knew that nobody would come to her aid. One after another, they shifted turns and everybody had his slice of gratification. Their explicit display of brutality had left a stigma on her body beyond reparation. She stood up, her body was torn, swathed in blood, and tried her best to move away from them. In her urge to at least salvage a little shard of her dignity, she wanted to evade this evil in the world specifically from these devils…from their wickedness. She crawled near the gutter and positioned her lacerated and molested body to the iron bar. Resting her stomach gave a temporary recess from the pain but had not totally obliterated the pangs of wretchedness that she went through. Chiz moved close to her grinning. He let a loud howl of jubilation and stamped his feet to her head. The female dog with her remaining strength tried to shove his feet and raised her head to face the lenses. She let out a loud cry of sorrow, remorse, bitterness, and helplessness…”Are we done? Do they have to know?”
When was the last time I reviewed a book? I cannot even recall anymore. I’ve been long disinclined to that endeavor and have shifted my interest in writing stuff to my own fashion. It is not my forte anyway and I better leave that stuff to my Dabubu who has the magic to turn queer content into a sublime tribute. I believe that the value of books are subjective and that their application may all depend on one’s social orientation (or whatever orientation) in life. I simply love reading but never mention the kinds of books I am devouring – except to few who share my own line of interest. I just read and read and read… But I am not going to talk about reading here, rather, reflect on what happened yesterday.
When determination fraught with “will to power”, victory is very much possible. Not to mention the rapture of people who rally behind you with prayers and litanies to make you win. This was proven by Manny Pacquiao after pounding De la Hoya’s face to submission in the 8th round stoppage. Whether the fight was controversial or not, the fact that it was tested inside the ring, Pacqiuao undeniably won by TKO; a victory which everyone deemed dark before the fight – even among the pacts of Filipino sport scientists, due to the obvious disparity of statistics between two boxers. It was a great success not only for Manny’s camp but also to the Filipinos who believed in him and idolized him, much more to those whose dreams were audaciously embodied in the boxer’s life.
However, I am not about to give a sports canon on his spectacular victory which has already been subjected to press such as The Ring Magazine and all brands of print media. I am more interested on how this pandesal vendor transformed into the world’s best pound for pound boxer. Surely he had not achieved this if he didn’t dream and try; dreaming is a grace – a psychological driver that turns a road strewn with difficulties into a humongous arena of possibilities. What I really like about him is his undying desire to survive and to conquer poverty through a noble dream – boxing. Because he considers boxing as the only medium to achieve his dreams, he attentively utilized this for his fulfillment. The result: we never have imagined this lowly man rising to the top to be called the Pambansang Kamao (but with much appreciation to this person, I call him the Pambansang Kamay because of his charisma that in turn “gathers” all Filipinos to unite, at least for a very brief moment of his fights). Time in the Philippines stops whenever he goes inside the ring, it creates a temporary recess on political shenanigans and skirmishes in Mindanao, and it’s as if the people transcend the boundaries of differences among themselves . That is because he fights with ardent feeling of pleasing his kababayans. And every time he wins, all Filipinos share a little slice of his success. This is the beauty of Pacquiao.
Yet despite the fame he enjoys, he never thought his life would just end in boxing so he enrolled in school. He believes that education is still the effective way to uplift one’s status in a society where academic achievement is the basis for recognition. So with his eagerness to learn, he spent money for his studies no matter how awkward it is for his late age. His aptitude for learning is remarkable that when one observes his interviews, it is evident that his grammar has improved a lot. You know.
He is never shy to speak before the crowd even he becomes a subject of demeaning jokes among his fellow as if the only thing they prowled about is the obtuseness of Pacquiao. No matter how exemplary his attitude, he remains a subject of ridicule not just to the common people but for the intellectual as well who in their sense of learning should be the ones to understand. Just because he couldn’t pronounce the word right or make his grammar straight justifies a reason to pin him down as laughing stock. But always remember that this gibberish man has wrought a national pride for the Philippines which few of us can equal. And what have some of us done to make our country proud as compared with his? This only entails that we have no prerogative to make him look like bozo. Think that some are very rich and have the liberty to go to school yet contribute nothing to their own locality. Some never even acknowledge God in their successes that Pacquiao on the other hand has been very faithful in doing. If only Manny could have been fortunate enough to go to school (bereaved of financial problem and boosted by determination) he would have been one of the respective intellectuals in the country. We never know.
When we pin him down, we also pin ourselves (so to say) because in doing so, we are only proving our own smattering. With our teetering for national advancement, it should be with respect to our fellow Filipinos who are trying their best to improve. Pacquiao is working hard not just to improve himself but to inspire many to strive for betterment. Pacquiao’s struggle is as effective as his fist and proving that being an underdog doesn’t mean defeat but a noble inspiration to bring the best in us. We must think on these things. You know.