PATRIOT ACHTUNG

In his great essay Notes of a Native Speaker, presidential speechwriter (to Bill Clinton) Eric Liu explores his identity as an Asian American and, in a fantastic approach to irony, starts it with an enumeration of the "ways you could say I am white" -

I listen to National Public Radio.
I wear khaki Dockers.
I furnish my condo a la Crate & Barrel.
I vacation in charming bed-and-breakfasts.
I have been in the inner sanctums of political power.
I have been there as something other than an attendant.
I have the ambition to return.
I am a producer of the culture.
I expect my voice to be heard.
I speak flawless, unaccented English.
I subscribe to Foreign Affairs.
I do not mind when editorialists write in the first person plural.
I am not too ethnic.
I am wary of minority militants.
I consider myself neither in exile nor in opposition.
I am considered "a credit to my race."
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Imitation is the best form of flattery, and so I will say the things I must say in a vein similar to Liu's.

I. Tell-tale signs that I am as Filipino as you can get:

I speak in straight, crisp, unaccented Tagalog to fellow Filipinos.
I can cook chicken adobo, pork sinigang, pinakbet, nilagang baka and pancit palabok in the same level as Mama Sita's.
I believe in the transcendental significance of patis and bagoong.
I am a sucker for green mangoes.
I am a sucker of ripe mangoes. (I engage the middle part of this fruit - the portion remaining after the "cheeks" had been cut - in mouth wrestling until its bone runs dry and all fibers stand erect and seem to say, let go, let go already.
I dip my shrimp, crab meat, or lobster meat in vinegar with garlic, rather than melted butter or tartar sauce, even if to the consternation of my American friends.
I taste something tittilating in the mixture of soy sauce and vinegar, or soy sauce with calamansi.
I adore Filipino poetry, particularly those by Lacaba and Nadera.
I am proud of Gen. Taguba.
I consider Gary Granada’s ballad, Kapag Sinabi Ko Sa ‘Yo, the most beautiful love song ever written in any language.
I lower my shoulder and say 'scuse me everytime I pass between two people talking to each other.
I instinctively look back whenever I hear a sound resembling psst or hoy.
I shower twice a day, once in the morning before I leave, then again in the evening before I retire.
I go over and scan magazines and read their articles in reverse, or from the back to the top.
I will always consider basketball the #1 sport.
I never go out with shirts and pants unpressed.
I keep pictures in albums, and all albums are in the living room.
I am deeply attached to my mother, consider my cousins as my brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews as my kids, uncles and aunts as my parents, and grandparents as the greatest beings in the world.

II. Tell-tale signs I may not be 100% Filipino anymore:

I don't use spoon when I eat, except for soup. It's either fork & knife, or chopsticks.
I don’t fart in public.
I don’t carry a handkerchief, or a comb.
I don’t have manicured nails, or wear thick gold bracelets - like Filipino cops do.
I don’t play mahjongg.
I don't recycle cooking oil.
I will never have a karaoke system in my abode, for heaven's sake.
I don't have wooden spoons, or the The Last Supper, hanging in my dining room.
I don't understand the rationale of a thousand bric-a-bracs in Filipino homes - or those souvenir giveaways from weddings etc. being used as ornaments and housed in china cabinets. (Dennis Aguinaldo may think this has something to do with horror vacui, by I don't understand horror vacui either.)
I also don't understand the accessorial significance of framed graduation pictures on top of pianos. I think this makes for bad music (by horrifying the pianist).
I am not overly sensitive to criticisms.
I am confident of my capabilities, fully aware of my limitations, and I know where I stand in the world.
I have learned when to say no, and I don't accept responsibilities I cannot handle.
I am not a big fan of buffet restaurants.
I have no intention of seeing Las Vegas.
I like flowers, gerbera daisies especially, and I don't see anything gay in a man who likes flowers. (An American male co-worker once received a bouquet of easter lilies from his wife during his birthday, and people at the office thought that was sweet.)
I have no crab mentality.
I RSVP, and commit to it.
I don't go to people's houses unannounced.
I arrive at appointments ahead of time.
I am not bothered when people stereotype Filipinos, even if I feel sorry for the stereotypist.
I am a birder. I don't shoot birds.
I don't go to Filipino parties and ask my compatriots, Ilang taon ka na? (How old are you?), Ilang taon ka na dito? (How long have you been here?), Nagtitina ka? (Do you dye your hair?)
I am mortified by the cliche in grace before meals that goes, "Bless this food we are about to partake.."
I am not superstitious and somehow turned-off by people who are. (When Filipinos warn not to sweep the floor at night, do we even know the threshhold for nightime? Cellphone companies are clear on this, darn, so must superstition be.)
I don't keep grudges.
I know when to hold my horses.
I am a Democrat.

EATEN BY DOGS

Seneca Review, a publication of Hobart and William Smith Colleges in Geneva, NY, came out with a special issue recently (Vol 37, No. 2), to honor previous editor, Deborah Tall. The issue's theme is on the lyric essay and in a vague explanation of what is, and how it is attributed to her, John D'Agata mentions of a correspondence with Tall when he was still in college. She wrote, What you're looking for is a kind of essay propelled not by its information, but rather by the possibility for transformative experience. You're talking about the lyric. A lyric form of the essay.

There. Whatever 'there' is.

What intrigued me, though, was the issue's first article after D'Agata's intro. It is entitled Assignments, written by Wayne Koestenbaum, and I was not sure if it is a lyric essay or a prose poem or, for the life of me, really an assignmment. Here are some items Koestenbaum wants for us to do:

- Write a Jean Rhys imitation. Include five examples of understatement. Include one hyperbole. Include one sin. Structure the piece not as a narrative but as a definition or a lesson.

- Discuss a specific prescription drug's relation to politics.

- Make a list of worries. Interview a famous person. Combine the two.

- Discuss a shopping quandary.

- Quote a line from a novel or a poem. Selfishly manipulate and misuse the quote.
------

Someday I will abuse this idea and make my own assignments. In the meantime I will go to the nearby park, run around the lake, feed the ducks, and weigh my options: to shop or not to shop.

cbsreview: NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN

In Cormac McCarthy's nihilistic novel No Country For Old Men from which the movie of the same title was based, one character says that Truth ought to be simple, otherwise it will be too late if a child cannot understand it.

I saw the movie last Saturday in South Beach where it had a special engagement, and I must say the majority of the viewers - myself included - had difficulty in understanding the truth of evil that in every shocking scene where Chigurh (Javier Bardem) partakes in his own feast of crime, we were like kids in a confused state of shock and repulsion, unable to react according to the dictates of rehashed parental warning: Relax, this is only a movie. One scene was in fact so abominably violent to my sensibility I had to turn my head sideways as far away from the screen as possible.

No Country For Old Men, however, despite its bloodyawful gore, was not meant to shock just for the sake of shocking. It was so urgent and respectable in its depiction of evil, the movie almost seemed like a pulic service. Of course we know this much is true: greed spells violence and we are all the more doomed to extinction if we cannot sense a greedy criminal from a mile away. Which is why, in the movie's final scene, an old uncle to Tommy Lee Jones' Sherrif Ed Tom Bell somewhat gives a warning that this world had become so violent it is no longer a place for old men. (Is it because they do know the truth, finally?)

Here's the movie's plot which is as simple as a cat and mouse's: Set in the early Mexican drug trade of the 80's somewhere in West Texas, a transaction went wrong and about 8 men are dead, 1 dying. Llewellyn Moss (Josh Brolin, I had no idea who this actor was but vowed to remember him from thereon) happens to be game-hunting nearby and senses the aftermath. He examines the crime spot and comes accross the one Mexican who gets an extra breath of life, he who asks, Agua, por favor. The guy is probably dying of thirst rather than of bullet wound, and Moss is in no position to grant a hapless request. The rampage, after all, is in the middle of a desert, and he himself does not appear to be carrying a drop of water.

Moss continues to follow the crime trail until he hits paydirt: a briefcase of money, all of $2M, lies near another dead Mexican. He grabs it and goes home.

Nightime comes, he rises up, goes to the kitchen, fills up a pitcher with tap water, and at that very point we did not know the domino effect is about to begin: he will bring the pitcher of water to the thirsty, dying man, and thus will make him - to us viewers at least -the closest to a hero that movie will ever have for whom we will reserve the closest empathy. But instead of being able to relieve the man of his thirst, something else happens.

And of course I will not tell you what, although I can share this: Javier Bardem was so scary that if - at the end of the movie where viewers headed towards the exit - somebody was standing at the door resembling his vampire-looking face, dead eyes, awful haircut and all, half of the moviegoers were probably going to run in different directions like disturbed ants unless they opted to freeze instead in the very arms of harm's way.

Bardem will most likely win an award, not just in next year's multiple award-giving bodies, but as one of the scariest villains of all time.

DANCING WITH DA ISTARIROY

There was a Will Smith movie I caught on tv one time - I forgot the title - where he plays opposite this funny guy from King of Queens - I forgot his name. Smith is a romance consultant (or something like that) and the other guy is a hopeless romantic who badly needs some consultation on matters of love, get the drift? Not Oscar worthy story, really, but there's a scene where Smith's line was worth all the time I spent watching it.

As part of the consult, Smith teaches the guy the right way to dance to catch the eye of his prospect - a technique used by male animals to attract the opposite to jumpstart the process of mating. First, the client shows his own stuff. Ugly. Then the consultant slaps him awake and tells him he dances the way wild animals do. And so the smooth Smith shows the client the steps that befits his persona - a simple swaying of the body left to right through a rhtyhmic play of the shoulders, with quiet finger snaps cutting through the pattern the way the Pips' do to back Gladys Knight up. While doing the simple, gentle steps, Smith tells the guy, This is where you live, baby, this is your home.

Not known to many, the family included, The Dance is where I sometimes live, baby, The Dance is where my home is, even if just for vacation. Dance is one Art, one Forum, one Medium where people can find me being closest to myself. I was probably born to dance if not for my suspicion that in the process of my birthing the obstetrician twisted my ankle, resulting in the corruption of my destiny to be the next Baryshnikov or Hines long before the journey had the chance to begin.

Despite the chuva, my love for dance remained. Homer spoke to me, through Illiad: You will certainly not be able to take the lead in all things yourself, for to one man has given deeds of war, and to another the dance, to another the lyre and song, and in another wide-sounding Zeus puts a good mind. You, c, must dance.

In deference to Homer, I took lessons in Cuban Salsa and Dominican Merrengue and put the knowledge to task in dancefloors that spanned the Atlantic from Miami to Manhattan, Ft. Lauderdale to Paramus. One winter night in New Jersey I danced to my heart's content that I even caught the cataratic eye of a 60ish lady, eekk!

During holiday parties I make heads turn, sometimes drawing people to comment, Darn, Is that YOU, c? Did you moult? Where is the skin? Did you get out of the shell? Where is the shell?

Truth is I had been dancing since I was a kid. In Grade School I did La Cucaracha, and lucky enough after that I did not dance like a confused cockroach. I went up the dance ladder and in high school I taught The Gang the latest steps (el bimbo salvacion, no shit) so we could showcase our horny legs to the girls of our sister school (the dancefloor is our crib, baby, the dancefloor!)

Years ago at the Festival of Merrick Park in dontown Coral Gables, the family went to watch homegrown jazz dancers do their thing. Everyone could not decipher what was going on up the stage, the music, the steps, as the sound system offered no clue but a paced beat of thump, thump, thump, and the dancers were doing something that was a cross between the wave and the epileptic steps of an 80's dude dancing to the tune of Mr. Roboto. The crowd did not know the hell that was going on, until I summoned some common dance sense and announced, Hear Ye! I think they're trying to mimic the circulatory system of man and the music is nothing but the beating of the heart. (Trivia: the event was televised and my nieces and I were on tv. After that my 15 minutes were down to 13, but who's counting? The local cardiologist?)

Ahh, dance. Alvin Ailey is a true hero. And so is Nureyev, and the River Dancers, and the Bayanihan Dancers. Ethnic dance gives me a different way to see some people's culture, like when I saw this documentary in Plum Channel called Ne Hula Kane (the Men of Hula). Contrary to popular belief, men in Hawaii dance the hula, too, not the way we always think of their movements - a la haka or war dance of some cultures. Which makes sense, really. Hula is one dance that is traditionally tied to the text; every step speaks of a scene and every dance tells a story. And guess who forms a huge part of the story?

The man, baby, the man. In the great narrative of The Dance, he shows where he lives, the place where his home is.

PARADISE

My book and heart
Must never part.
- The New England Primer

Prologue:

I get a 30% coupon from Borders Bookstore from time to time and everytime I get one I follow the same routine. I go to the store closest to my condo and do a quicksearch for the bargain buy. First-hand books are expensive and a 30% coupon is something to behold. If a book sucked, I felt I betrayed the coupon in a wickeder fashion than the 70% cash outlay could ever suffer.

To make sure I get the right book, I try to posses the same level of eagerness as a jerk's in some online-sponsored quick-dating scheme. I look at clues appearing on its face (the author; the capsule reviews; the awards garnered), and try to quick-peek the contents by reading the first few paragraphs. The kick must be there, up front; You don't dilly dally with this reader, Writer!

Which means out of all the books I recently bought, there were corresponding wildcards that were left out, some books I have strongly considered but did not buy for one reason or another, or have committed to buy when the next 30% coupon comes in. Among the most recent ones that I did not bring to the cash register with a heavy heart were three paperbacks: The Harmony Silk Factory by Tash Aw ($15.00), Cludsplitter by Russell Banks ($16.00), Too Far From Home, The Selected Writings of Paul Bowles ($15.95); and one hardbound, Brother, I'm Dying by Edwidge Danticat ($23.95).
----------

I went to the Miami International Book Fair in downtown Miami yesterday, 10 November, as I have done so in the past six years. MIBF is Miami's greatest gift to booklovers this part of the reading world, and the irony here is that if you don't read, you may soon find yourself doing otherwise after going to this event. Which means this weeklong event is really a blessing for both readers and non-readers alike: the workshops, the lectures, the readings, the games, the concerts, and of course - the booksales, will make even the most hardened of non-reader examine his literary conscience for all these pages he had missed nurturing during all his non-reading life.

The climate was gorgeous. It was in the cool upper 60's (F) at past 9:00am when I entered the NE 1st gate. I paid the $5.00 admission fee and had my hand red-stamped by the cutie volunteer, and as soon as I was in I headed straight to the booth of pennyworthbooks.com with no particular title to buy in mind. My impulse buying button was in the "on" setting, and I was ready to buy books like there was no tomorrow (which would be today, silly). After half an hour I was already carrying my first stash in two bags: National Geographic's Complete Birds of North America (hard-bound, 664 glossy-pages, $7.00); Go!, The Whole World of Transportation, edited by Bos, Hunt, and Mills (coffee table book, $7.00); Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck ($5.00); Selected Writings of Paul Bowles ($5.00); Cloudsplitter ($5.00); and The Harmony Silk Factory ($5.00).

When I got out of the booth, I was so proud of myself for the big savings, specifically for the three books which I were so close to previously buying at regular prices three times as much.

Then I walked around and walked around and walked around and was amazed by all the fanfare, at the same time wondering why non-locals always thought Miamians only cared for salsa and Gloria Estefan. People from all ages and health, races and credos, were in attendance and having fun. There was an 80-ish lady (wo)manning a radical booth while wearing a placard hanging from her neck that said "Impeachment Is Sexy"; I approached her to relay my amusement, and she quipped, "I got your attention, didn't I, didn't I?"

Then I passed by the booth of Words Without Borders (www.wordswithoutborders.org) and decided to hop in and take a closer look. I chit-chatted with a nice fellow and told him how grateful I was of their aspiration in bringing to English-only reading peoples of the world the great literary works of not-so-known masters which were previously untranslated - while at the same time offering my two-cents' worth of thoughts on certain things that do get lost in the course of translation.

At the booth of Books and Books, I quickly noticed the hanging blue and black t-shirts with a print that says FREADOM, the letters READ being in bold red letters. I bought one. Black. Medium.
There was only one person in my mind when I paid for it. Angela Solis.

By 11:30am I was famished and aching on the shoulders so I proceeded to the food court and got 2 sticks of shish kebab - succulent, spicy, dripping, the works - and a glass of frozen lemonade. I slumped on the pavement right at the spot where the sun penetrated to rid off the nagging chill, and then started to pig out. Kids passed me by and everytime they looked I teased their little curiosities with a quick pointing of the stick that seemed to tickle and say, Want some? want some? One toddler raised her tiny hand, palm up, and I was tempted to stick out my tongue. I did not because her daddy was kind of bulging in the chest and biceps.

Time check, 12:00 nn. I stood up burping and farting - spiced air was coming out of my body in different directions and through different outlets. I felt like a warrior trained in the art of two-pronged attacks, and realized I still had a long time to wait before I head on to the auditorium for my prime agenda. I decided to go the courtyard fronting the auditorium where I'll find me a spot to read one of the books I purchased. Along the way I passed by the booth that sold anthologies from university presses. I scanned ten of them, and then narrowed my final selection to three: Seneca Review (Hobart and William Smith Colleges, Fall 2007 issue); New England Review (Middlebury College, Vol. 28, Number 3, 2007); and Salmagundi (Skidmore College, Summer-Fall 2007) which I got for $2.00 each, way down from their original prices between $7.00-$8.00.

At the courtyard I sat down, catching my breath after all that walking and book-carrying (I felt I was in 1st grade, carrying my back-breaking textbooks on my walk to school) and before I finally settled I saw this booth selling rare books, and some second hand books, and what were generally considered hurt books (first-hand books with torn covers or missing flap jackets). What do I care about the flap-jackets? I thought, and so I bought two: Best American Short Story of the Century, John Updike, ed. (as a gift; I have this anthology already from 10 years ago and which I still proudly possess) for $6.00 or down from the original price of $18.95, and The Treasury of American Poetry, Nancy Sullivan, ed, for $8.00, or down from the original price of I don't know, could be $25.00? At that moment the poetry book was my most prized possession.

I took a seat at one of the four benches forming a square fronting the auditorium. I dug my finger randomly on the poetry book and found Stephen Crane -

A Man Said to the Universe

A man said to the universe:
"Sir, I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."

I smiled. In only 5 lines, that poem was nothing short of awesome.

Then I noticed a low-key interview going on at the bench to my right; two seemingly African-American ladies conversing and a cameraman poking a huge tv camera at their faces for close-up shots gave me the assumption. Must be some documentary for some film school, I thought. Suddenly, the public address system boomed and the interview was interrupted. When the announcement was over, both me and the trio went to our respective personal businesses.

In a short while I noticed the interview to be over. One of the ladies, the one wearing black, walked in front of me, then stopped, and that's when I noticed a nametag on her chest. Oh my good gosh. The tag says, Edwidge Danticat.

I stood up and said, Miss Danticat, can I just go and buy your book, will you sign it for me, please? Yes of course, she said, I'll wait. I rushed to Books and Book's accross the street and asked for Brother, I'm Dying, Danticat's auobiographical book which was shortlisted for the National Book Award. The guy said they only had one copy left, hard-bound, and it was pre-autographed. "I'll take it", I half-screamed, panting.

"Miss Danticat", I said a little sheepishly, aware that I had to have her wait and compromise her tight schedule, "this is already signed...". Before I went further, she already knew my intentions. "Don't worry" she quipped while flashing a little girl's smile, "I'll make it a little more personal". And she did.

Dear C,

Nice to meet you.
All the best.

Edwidge Danticat

I went back to my bench and tried to retrace the path of my day, from 9:00 to that time check of around 2:00 pm. I was probably an inch above the ground, the moment of my rising unnoticed by the rest of humanity. These are the things I love, these are the people I revere, we must never ever part until the day I can read no more - and all these connotations were circling around my head as costumed students from Miami-Dade College roamed around, spewing lines straight out of Shakespearean tragedy. One character, a woman dressed a la medieval babe, deliberately bungled up the script and in a thick played-up British accent said, Which is better, Visa or Mastercard? The people laughed. I laughed, but I was laughing more at the abrupt character of my luck.

2:30pm I stood up. Time to go to my main agenda. At the auditorium I met this Chinese-looking guy from the Carribean, a friend of Derek Walcott's, and we talked about short stories (his published stories mostly) and his sense of urgency on my own manuscripts which, I told myself silently, won't be ready in twenty years time. Then we kept quiet after the two guests were called onstage.

They were my main agenda for the day. South African poet Breyten Breytenbach. Chinese novelist Ha Jin.

The experience requires a second chapter.

sarung banggi - isang makabagbag-damdaming kwento sa hidwaan...

5 taon ang pagitan namin ni bunso. tingin ko ideal na pagitan yun sa magkapatid na lalaki kasi kung 1 o 2 lang, malamang araw-araw ang upakan kundi man oras-oras; at kung mga 10 naman, parang may generation gap na, astang mag-tatay charirot na.

simula pagkabata parati na kami magkasama ni kumag. idol ako nyan eh, wehehe, kaya kahit ano gawin ko ginagaya, kaso lang pirming mas matindi ang kinahihinatnan nya. tinuruan ko mag-chess, di malaon, naging board 4 nung kolehiyo nila. tinuruan ko mag-tennis, ngayon kailangan nasa coma sya para talunin ko.

pero may kasaysayan kami netong gunggong na to.

dalawang taon sya nung tangayin ni tatay papuntang ilocos. wen kunam, ilocano po si tatang kasi, kahit pa sabihin na sa lahat ng ilocano daig nya si santa claus. di ko lang alam kung bakit nagbalak si tatay na umuwi ng probinsya nya - siguro mangungulimbat sya ng suman, o baka naman may kontrabandong pinakbet o papait.

ang ikinaasiwa ko lang sa paglisan ni tatay ay kung bat naisip nya isama si bunso. tuwang-tuwa nga ako nung iluwal sya kasi puro babae ang mga nauna sa akin, taena e di ko naman type ang mga manika nila, kaya nung andun na si kumag, nagkaroon na ako ng permanenteng laruan. minsan dinidribol-dribol ko sya, minsan naman nagpapakenkoy ako, tawa sya ng tawa, pero syempre mas naaaliw ako pag naririnig ko yung tawa nyang bigay na bigay, ika nga, may dating.

eswes, lungkot na lungkot ako nung wala sya; biruin mo naman nawalan ako bigla ng laruan, nawalan pa ako ng audience, labo.

kaya nung nakatanggap ng sulat si inang makalipas ang ilang buwan na uuwi na sila ni bunso, para akong nag-aantay ng pasko. 5 tulog na lang, 4, 3, 2, yehey.

nung nasa amin na uli si bunso, bigla, di na kami magkaintindihan. ilokano ang salita nya, kin nam, kaya kahit anong patawa ang gawin ko, nagmumukha lang akong kolokoy sa pananaw nya, di nya na ma-gets ang mga pa-improv ko, at ako man, wala akong maintindihan kahit isa man lang sa mga sinasabi nya. napa-frustrate nga ako minsan, para bang may kung anong batong nakahadlang sa komunikasyon namin.

isang umaga, naglalaro kaming dalawa sa sala ng mga blocks, yun bang bloke-blokeng kahoy na may letra sa bawat gilid. nagtatayo kami ng tore, at naitayo na nga namin yung tore na pagkaygiting-giting. maya-maya, biglang tumigas ang katawan ni bunso na parang titi, tas sabi nya

"take"...

sabi ko, "ano kamo, tuko, walang tuko dito".

"take"...

"ano?"

"take...take...tuh...keeh"...

tas nun, umiyak sya bigla. sabi ko, "bakit, ano nangyayari sa yo? bat ka umiiyak?"

wala lang, iyak lang sya ng iyak kaya ang ginawa ko, dahil sa awa ko sa kanya at dahil na rin sa di ko sya maintindihan, nakiiyak na rin ako. "huhuhu, di naman kita talaga maintindihan e, ano ba talaga?, huhuhu".

sa punto na yun, biglang dumating si inang. nagulantang sya. "o, bat nagngangangawa kayong dalawa?". nagtataka sya kasi wala naman sa itsura namin ang katatapos lang magsapakan, tas matayog pa yung tore na itinayo namin. lumapit sa amin para patahanin kami, e di pinahid nya yung luha tsaka uhog ko, tas lapit naman sya kay bunso para pahiran yung set of luha at uhog nya.

paglapit nya kay bunso, nakita ko suminghot-singhot si inang, tas tumaas yung ilong nya, lumiit ang mata nya, tas nagkaroon ng isanlibong gilit yung noo nya. tas sabi nya,

ambaho.

WITH THESE HANDS

(Original text of the homily I delivered on October 21, 2007 on the occasion of the ongoing national call to 2008 Stewardship Renewal.)

Good Afternoon,

I stand here before you today to talk about stewardship in general, ministries in particular, and it is such an honor not only to be asked to speak about very significant subjects, but also to be chosen to do so from among the many members of this parish.

My name is c - and if you have ever been to the 2nd English Mass on Sundays you may have seen me standing by the door at the lobby; I must have greeted you a good morning, I probably shook your hand, and I must have told you how nice it was to see you. At the end of the Mass I must have given you a bulletin, and I must have told you 'Have a nice weekend'.

And then you probably asked, 'Is that all you ushers do?'

Uh, well, there is more to ushering than meets your spiritual eye, and in-between the settings I mentioned is when the ushers are in full function. Lest you have forgotten, we come to hear Mass, too, and so while we listen to the Word of God, we also make sure that nobody crosses the velvet rope in the course of the Readings, and that no child under 10 goes to the bathroom unaccompanied by an adult. We take the kids to their Liturgy Class, and pick them up when it's over. At times we have to re-orient some people who have momentarily lost their sense of time and space. They come to us and ask, Where is the nursery? the gift shop? the office? What time do they open? Which days of the week? Is it the 2nd Sunday of the week yet? Why are you not observing standard time already?

Ushering, therefore, is a balancing act. Which is fine with me considering that Life itself is a big balancing act: it is not just the Home, it is also the Office; it is not just the Office, it is also the Ballpark; and it is not just the Ballpark, it is also the Church. And when we speak of Church, we do not confine ourselves to the four corners of the Sanctuary. Church exists outside, away from this complex - in hospital wards and prison cells, in nursing homes and exit houses. And so when you minister to the sick and the poor, the imprisoned and the infirm, in a way, you go to Church, too.

All of us must, by now, have received the stewardship kit from the mail. I got mine two weeks ago, and once more I was struck - as last year and in previous years - at how Fr. J addressed the parish. In his open letter appearing on the 2008 Book of Ministries, his salutation reads, 'Dear Christian Pilgrim'. How apt, I tell myself, because the stewardship is really a pilgrimage, a journey from indifference to involvement.

Here is the story of my pilgrimage.

One Sunday five years ago I was sitting on that 2nd row, 2nd pew, praying, contemplating on my sins, when this guy RS came to me and asked point blank, Would you like to be an usher? I didn't know him then, he didn't know me then, I'm sure he didn't know if I was competent to be anything, and in fact, he probably didn't even know if I could fully understand his question even if I happened to be attending an English Mass. I was so perplexed by his suddeness that I was not able to utter a word, while there was this big question mark written all over my face. Before I could say an emphatic No, he asked me to come with him to the Sacristy, and when we got there he opened this closet full of jackets in different sizes. He said calmly, Please, find your size.

That was when when something finally came out of my mouth. 'I haven't said yes to you yet', I muttered. R simply smiled and said, Of course you didn't say yes to me, but I'm sure you have your yes ready for Him. Or haven't you?

Before the Mass started that Sunday I found myself wearing an usher's jacket. And the Sunday after that. And the Sunday after that. And most Sundays after that. And believe me if I tell you, every Monday, I always look forward to the coming Sunday, in part, so I could wear that jacket and cheerfully carry its humble representations.

But if you think my pilgrimage happened in all of ten minutes, or from the moment R approached me to the moment I wore that jacket, you couldn't be more wrong. I had been with the parish for eight years, and that means my pilgrimage happened in three years, which was how long it took for me to realize there is more to Church - there is more to Mass - than sitting on that 2nd pew, 2nd row, every Sunday morning.

At this juncture, let me invite your recollection to the banners hanging outside that promote the stewardship. Below those words that say 'Thank God You're Here' is an illustration of two pairs of hands that portray the stewardship; the active, holding hand represents the steward's hand', the passive hand being held represents that of the beneficiary of the stweardship.

Everytime I looked at that drawing I was always reminded by an essay published in Georgia Review entitled 'A Thousand Buddhas' and written by Brenda Miller. Miss Miller was a therapist, and as we know, therapists main tools of their tade are their hands. And so it is but fitting that Ms. Miller decided to make human hands her central focus when she wrote that award-winning essay.

She says, and I quote: "The hand is shaped to touch the different parts of the world. We hurt, and the hand reaches to the chest. A newborn's head fits snugly into the center of the palm. Fertile soil runs through our fingers, or we mold our hands into a cup sealed for a drink of water. We can use our hands like primeval jaws to pluck whatever is ripe."

Ms. Miller's thesis is true and obvious: Our hands become what they do, and it is this very truth that made her hands branded as healer's hands by her patients and friends.

The stewardship and the ministries, then, are a great opportunity to shape your hands into what they may hold most dear or make an impression:

- you can be an usher and transform your hands into welcoming hands that represent an open and hospitable church;
- you can be a pastoral caregiver and turn your hands into reassuring hands that seem to tell an HIV patient, 'Hang in there for me, please, we'll get through this;
- you can be a bereavement supporter and turn you hands into comforting hands that seem to tell somebody who just lost a loved one, 'Life did not end, it simply changed;
- you can be a bellringer and turn your hands into angelic hands that lilt and inspire us with music that makes us think, 'This must be how it sounds like in the Kingdom of God';
- or you can write that check and transform your hands into heroic hands that know how to elevate the fates of the poor and the sick, the imprisoned and the infirm, into the dignity of human beings.

Altogether, we can pool our time, talent, and treasure, and transform our hands collectively into nothing less than the mighty Hands of Jesus. But are we willing to do it?

There is this story of a boy who asked a priest, Father, can you guess if the bird in my hand is dead or alive? The good priest answered, My son, I cannot, for the answer lies exclusively in your hand. Of course what the priest meant was this: if the boy squeezed his hand shut, the bird would have crushed or suffocated to death. If he opened his hand just a little, the bird would be able to breathe and live, even for a short while. But if he opened his palm wide, the bird would soar to freedom and be assured of a long life.

That story is our reality. Are we willing to see the stewardship soar to new heights, or are we going to watch it crushed into oblivion because of our indifference? What is true for the bird is true for the stewardship. After all, that bird is the stewardship, that boy is us.

The answer lies in our hands.

PAGMAMAHAL SA SARILI

Meron akong kaopisina, si Abel, na masyadong mahal ang sarili na tuwing may magagawang tama (halimbawa, nasolb nya ang maliit na problema sa computer) hahalikan nya ang braso nya ng matunog, tas sasabihin, I so love you Abel. Naisip ko nga minsan siguro nakikipag-lips to lips sya sa sarili nya sa salamin. Gross.

Mahal ko din syempre ang sarili ko kaya nga nung bata ako, minsang nakahawak ako ng magnifying glass, nilagay ko sa mata ko tas tumingin ako sa araw. Sigaw ako, Yaaahhh!!!, taena, mainit pala sa mata ang minagnify na araw. Minsan din papunta kaming beach (1st time ko ata nun na sasama sa dagat), sabi ng Ate ko pag nasa ilalim daw ako ng tubig, I have to make sure na sarado ang mata ko kasi nga super alat ng tubig. E di ako maniwala sa kanya, sabi ko, Hindi, Kayang-kaya ng mata ko ang alat. Gago, hindi, pagpipilit nya. Ginawa ko, para patunayang mali sya, kumuha ako ng ilang butil na asin tas nilagay ko sa mata ko. Yaaahh!!, sigaw ako. Namaga ang mata ko kaya ayun, di kami natuloy sa beach at halos isumpa ako ng ate ko na magmukang kolokoy. Tingin ko medyo umubra ata yung sumpa.

Tas minsan din nung bata ako, magsisimba kami kaya syempre pustura ang arrive ko. E dun sa eskinita namin baha sa gitna at para makasiguro ka na di mababasa kahit konti ang sapatos mo e yung gilid ng eskinita ang best bet mo. E syempre ayokong mabasa ang sapatos ko kahit na yung pinakadulo lang ng takong, kapit kapit ako sa mga bakod (yari sila sa mga kawayan) at naglakad sa gilid-gilid. E meron palang panungkit dun sa bakod at nakalawit yung sungkit. Akalain mo ba namang sungkitin nya yung mata ko kaya habang naglalakad ako sa gilid e hila-hila ng mata ko yung panungkit. Yaaahh, sigaw ako ulit ng paborito kong sigaw. Napalingon si Inang na nauuna sa akin. Sabi nya, Ayyy, bat di mo tanggalin agad! Sagot ko, E ayoko pong bumitaw sa bakod, mababasa ang sapatos ko po. Sabi ni Inang, Ay tanga, bubulagin ka ng kaartehan mong bata kah!

E syempre di naman lahat ng pagmamahal ay iniukol ko sa mata ko exclusively. Minsan ang aking display of affection ay nakatuon sa buo kong pagkatao. Alam nyo ba yung Hinulugang Taktak? sa Antipolo? at doon, maligo tayo? (Meron pa ba nun ngayon o baka naman Hinulugang Patak na lang sya?) Tuwing Mayo nung araw lagi kaming nag-pipilgrimage dun (pero yung mga kapatid ko, sus, ang gusto lang nila yung kasuy) para sa Virgen dela Buenviaje ba yun (?), at isang Mayo na bumisita kami, napagtripan ko ang falls ng hinulugan, para nya ba akong hinihikayat, Halika Bata, Lumapit Ka Sa Akiin At Maligo Kaaa. Akalain mo ba namang nasa may barandilya na ako at tatalon na sa falls, buti na lang nakita ako ni Inang, sabi, Gusto mo bang pumutok ang ulo mo. E di iyak ako ng iyak kasi kumikinang kinang yung tubig na parang may phosphoresence, very inviting ika nga. Kung nagkataong dumayb ako dun, malamang ang tawag na sa kanya e Hinulugang Bata.

Ikaw, Kayo, anong kagaguhan ang pinagkaloob nyo sa sarili nyo po?