On Blind Voting...

Title: Blind Voting: The Peso Will Lead the Way
Submitted by: Ma. Teresa D. Sarraga
Submitted to: Mr. Jony V. Berjes
In compliance with: Political Science 10.1
Date: April 26, 2010

I drove home last night in a pitiable state. It was near midnight and the highway was nearly deserted. This was a lucky break for me as my eyelids felt like they were being pulled shut by invisible weights. I was so exhausted that I was sure I would fall asleep the moment my head hit the bed. I was wrong. When I turned onto the street where I live, I found that the entrance was blocked by a multitude of cars and people. Rukawa Kaede* decided to make an appearance. A make-shift platform was erected in the vacant lot across the street from my house. Set on that platform were a couple of speakers that blasted cheesy campaign jingles… right into my bedroom. By the time I actually made it into my room, sleep seemed lightyears away.



Understandably, I was a wreck the next day. I was up most of the night listening to someone shout into a microphone. Our family cook, who lives next door from us, told us that it went on till the wee hours of the morning.


“Abi nako Sakuragi Hanamichi* mu diha sa inyo? Bibo man lagi kaayo mu kagabii?” I asked her. Her answer painted a dismal picture of the upcoming 2010 elections. She said, “Sakuragi Hanamichi* bitaw mi, Mai. Nanunga mi didto kagabii incaso manghatag sila ug sobre. Wala man so Hanamichi* gyud mi.”


Cagayan de Oro has fallen into the pattern of what I have dubbed as “blind voting.” Blind voting is originally a term used in IT. Blind voting is when you vote for a website, raising its rank, without taking a look at it first. It is the same in politics. People vote for a candidate for reasons other than that they support his vision, platform and programs. For one, people respond to incentives. It is for this reason that I did not think much of the numbers that turned up on the survey conducted by Kinaadman. The locals are swayed much too easily. Slide a wad of hundreds their way in the morning and by noon time they will be as obedient as trained Labrador Retrievers. The survey does not reflect votes for candidates based on virtues or platforms. It reflects the depth of these candidates’ pockets. And though this may not hold true for all candidates, it is a reality and it is enough to plant the seed of doubt in my mind.


Furthermore, Kagay-anons, like many other Filipinos, suffer from ignorance. When I was eighteen years old I was blissfully ignorant of the workings of politics. Yes, I was an idealist. I wanted the cost of living in the city to go down. I wanted to see someone put an end to corruption. I wanted more job opportunities to be available to those who belong to the masses. In the end, I was simply naive. I wanted all these things but I did not know who would make them possible. As the survey shows, there are many others who are going through the same thing.


I am now twenty-one years old. I am older and arguably wiser. I am passionate and extremely opinionated. I think well of few candidates and even help campaign for others. But as it stands, my passion and opinions will do none of them any good. My voice will not be heard. The survey did nothing to sway my vote as I will not be voting in the coming election. I am not a registered voter.

On My Mother: The Supermodel...

These were taken at the Mag's Anniversary event held at the Atrium of Limketkai Mall a few weeks back. The event specifically intended to show off how Mag's fashion is for "real people" and not just girls who range from sizes 00-2. The event simultaneously celebrated Mag's anniversary and the Kagay-an Festival.

Mom, though we make fun of you a lot, you did great!

Love you Mama!

On Being the Kontrabida...

I’ve played the antagonist before. I do not shy away from the role like many people seem to. I guess it was to be expected that eventually, people would start to pin me as the bad guy without even hearing my story.

I’m antisocial. I don’t have a lot of friends and I tend to avoid people in general. I cannot seem to carry out a conversation without offending someone in some way, be it the way I position my body or the angle of my brow. This happens more often than I have the patience to acknowledge. I don’t like people and they don’t like me. There isn’t much else to it than that.

It shouldn’t surprise me that the maldita Spanish features I was born with coupled with the fact that my friends pretty much consist of the small group people that were in school with me when I was toothless and barely potty-trained made me the easy target. I always made an effort to be nice and polite. My upbringing would not allow anything less. However, every attempt was met with distrust. One day I decided it was just too much work trying to get people to like me. I embraced the bad girl that everyone else saw in me.

I was never rude or dishonest. I may consider that my redeeming quality if I am lacking in every other aspect. I’ve never intentionally hurt anyone who has not intentionally hurt me. I do not drink, I do not smoke, I do not do drugs, I do not party until the wee hours of the morning (unlike some people might I add)… I do not deserve the severity of the heat coming down on me for the actions of other people.

I’ve nurtured few relationships over the years. I’ve always managed to keep everyone at arm’s-length. And though I have been known to take the fall just because no one else can be apathetic enough, I do resent it when people acknowledge realities that are tied to me when such realities are brought about only because of the mistakes of others. Others who knowingly caused harm to people they call friends at face value.

Some people will spend this night in tears. I will embrace the role I have been given. I will smile at her slow suffering and wish more fall upon her. My tears are spent from her wickedness. I will no longer carry the weight of her wrongs but laugh as the misery she thrust upon me, and many others like me, finally catches up with her.

I will be her bad girl. She made me this way.

On Rereading New Moon...

I’ve been reading New Moon again. I haven’t gotten far. The last few days have been… tough. Reading hasn’t exactly been at the top of my priority list.

I’m reading now though. Somehow the events that play out in the story are a lot more real for me tonight.

“Bella, I don’t want you to come with me.” He spoke the words slowly and precisely, his cold eyes on my face, watching as I absorbed what he was really saying.

There was a pause as I repeated the words in my head a few times, sifting through them for their real intent.

“You…don’t…want me?” I tried out the words, confused by the way they sounded, placed in that order.

“No.”

…

With shaky legs, ignoring the fact that my action was useless, I followed him into the forest. The evidence of his path had disappeared instantly. There were no footprints, the leaves were still again, but I walked forward without thinking. I could not do anything else. I had to keep moving. If I stopped looking for him, it was over.

Love, life, meaning… over.

The impending werewolves were not enough to distract me from her grief tonight.

On Moments of Heartbreak...

When I was seventeen years old, I played an extra on the set of the Nutcracker. I was a party guest. I was tall, awkward, moronically shy and unbelievably insecure. I followed directions on and off stage like a puppy dog, ears folded and tail between my legs.

It was on that stage that I met a boy. He was tall, dark, and excruciatingly handsome. He was also very aware of that fact. He was confident, bordering on arrogant, but with every reason to be. He was good-looking. He was talented. He was charismatic. He had everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. Even the clumsy extra who would occasionally throw furtive glances in his direction. It was childish and immature. It was met with encouragement.

I would later on go on to find out that this boy had a reputation as a heartbreaker. He was a jerk. Jerk is exactly my type, it would seem.

I ran into this boy more than once after the mounting of the Nutcracker. On several occasions he would very pointedly wink in my direction, sending my cheeks a flame. I would giggle with my girl friends, the few I have, when he would catch us staring at him. It was easily the worst crush I’ve ever had.

When I turned eighteen, I started to hope, falsely perhaps, that this boy saw me as more than just a toy. A little doll that would blush at the slightest provocation. It was easy to hope. When we danced, he would twine my fingers with his and hold me to him closer than was necessary. He would send me text messages picturing his enthusiasm for the next rehearsal session. It was everyday implied but never said aloud. I was dooped into thinking that our little private practices meant more than just pulling my strings and watching me twirl at his command.

It wasn’t long after that I found out that this boy’s affections were already spoken for. I had no right to hope. I was a stupid little girl with a crush.

A few months after our first meeting, I learned that the object of his affections had gone away. His attentions reverted to me. I reacted to the situation with less poise than the situation called for. In only a month’s time, he became my boyfriend.

In the months that made up our relationship, I watched as the boy slowly matured into a man. I watched as his reckless streak slowed then ebbed entirely. I endured as his fondness for women dissipated. I suffered as his love for any form of alcohol slowly came to a stop. It was dense of me to believe that I had any part of that transformation, however brief it may have been.

As recent events would dictate, like the little girl almost two years ago, I was dooped into believing that I meant something to him. Almost as prophetic as the rash romance entered into because of a love gone away, his affections are once again torn.

I am grateful for the two years I have been given. Apparently, my happiness has reached its limit. But I am a bright young woman and my strength should but mirror that. I will no longer fall prey to little boys with commitment issues. I will find a way to stand up once again. And as much as I will mourn the loss of the friendships I have formed since then, I must leave them be. I blow all the love my heart can muster to the wind hoping it takes it to them all. I pray they know it was an honor having called them friend for however long the title lasted.

On Breaking and Entering...

I’ve always known that I had criminal tendencies. I once broke into my own house! Yes, it was because we were all locked out and I was the only one they could lift high enough to reach windows and fit through every little crack, but that is beside the point. I pulled out the airconditioner, with the help of my Dad and brother, and crawled my way into the house through the hole in the wall.

I was secretly proud that I’d found a new way in and out of the house without using the door. I’d planned on using that little trick on sneaking out of the house on nights that the girls wanted to go out but never found the nerve. That and I valued my life too much! Since then my cat burglar days have long been forgotten… Until this afternoon.

We were on our way home from my niece’s christening. Ate Tootsie and Ate MM rode home with us. The Gaston house was on the way. Once I pulled into their drive way, something occurred to me that would pose as a problem for all four of us. 1) There was nobody home. Everyone was at the party. And 2) The house was locked and they didn’t have a key.

At this point I was getting panicky. I was having car trouble and if I turned it off, I might not have been able to get it running again.

Tito Don saved the day when he suggested that the only person capable of getting into the house without a key is Bogsy. He described the little boy’s route to us in detail. Ate MM wanted to try but found that her movements were limited. A miniskirt isn’t exactly made for scaling walls. Ate Tootsie was in what Mama thought was appropriate attire: A mini dress. Rafa was much too big to make it up to the shaky beams.

I was in jeans. I weighed less (because I am the puny one in my family). I was it.

I opened the freezer door of the refrigerator that stood below the beams of the nearest window. I stuck my foot in there and found myself stuck. I even heard it crack from my weight! I stood there for a few moments, frozen in place until they got a chair on top of the refrigerator. Once I had my foot on that, my family pushed me up to the beam. From there, I broke the window frame and climbed into the house.

Once the door was unlocked, I apologized to Ate Tootsie for breaking her house. We laughed it off and Rafa and I hurried home.As much as I hated hearing the refrigerator crack under me, I had so much fun breaking in that I might even forgive them for putting me through it.

April 16, 2009 Solo Shoot

On Family Reunions...

My cousin got married last Sunday. When I was in the fourth grade, the older girls in school would come up to me and pretend to be my friends so I would introduce them to my kuya. Now, he’s married.

I haven’t seen my kuya (and his eight brothers and sisters) in years. Because of a wrong turn taken after my grandfather’s death, we weren’t invited to the wedding. Relatives came from as far as Canada and the United States to be there. Among those relatives were his bio-mom, known to me as Tita Ryan, and his step-mom, the much loved and worshiped, Tita Wally.


Last night, Tita Pinky decided to hold a little dinner for all our relatives that are still on speaking terms. Ate Tootsie called it an instant party. One minute we were watching Dragon Ball waiting for the ladies to pile out of Mom’s Rotary Anns meeting. The next minute we’re outside Bagong Lipunan waiting for four orders of canton to bring to the party.

Both Tita Wally and Tita Ryan were present. So were Tita Bay (I’m not sure if I spelled that right), Ate Pam, Ate MM, Tababy and the Daques.

We didn’t stay long. I had a little emergency I had to attend to and the girls wanted to finish things off at the Site Avenue. The party broke up at around 9:00 pm.

As much as I enjoyed seeing them again, I will miss them terribly when they leave for Canada again on Thursday.

Though we weren’t around for the wedding, our own little celebration was magical in its own way. So many different kinds of love exist in our complicated brood. In a world where hate is very real, it’s nice to know, that even when they’re removed, I can still call them family.

On Corruption at the Docks...

Camiguin Trip:

I’ve been sitting in my Dad’s car for eight hours waiting for a barge to take us home to Cagayan de Oro. The first barge was to leave at 9:00 o’clock in the morning and we were in line hoping to be on that first trip home. The line of cars went beyond the docks to the road. Despite our best efforts to be early, we didn’t make it.

I’ve been sitting here long enough to watch the sun travel across the sky. I’ve seen people trying to weasel their way into the line. I’ve watched as the people at the docks overloaded the barge to the point of pinning cars to the walls, trapping the drivers and passengers inside. I’ve watched people abuse power and privilege all from my comfortable place in my father’s car.

I’ve been staring at a blank page for a while trying to think of an angle I could use to approach this touchy matter. I want to put to words the different forms of corruption I’ve seen at the docks of the small Island province of Camiguin. I want to show how, despite the line that continues to snake along the side of the road, an ABS-CBN van used the name of the press to sneak onto the barge first without having to endure the heat and the unending hours. I want to paint a picture of the men at the docks loading car after car , after car, after car onto the barge. The cars are pinned so close together that if a fire were to break out during the trip home, the passengers would burn alive. The overloading is clearly in violation of some code of safety. Where is the Philippine Coast Guard when you need them?


Earlier, I left the car to stretch my legs. We were third in line to board the barge at the time. The first one held 60 cars and I watched as they crammed as many vehicles as they could into every nook and cranny. The second held fifteen. It was a tiny craft that jumped over the water in a way that made it seem unfit for travel, let alone carry fifteen cars. Still, it was a way home and I was grateful to be fronting the angry group of drivers and passengers. It was to my surprise that the man assigned to count the vehicles, despite our place in line, suddenly looked several cars behind us and waved two of them forward. Our party was purposely overlooked. We were forced to wait another three hours for another barge to come.

The sky is now purple over the water. We are finally on a barge home. Two places behind us sits the ABS-CBN van. I can only take comfort in the fact that because they boarded first they will disembark last. I pray that they suffer the long hours they thought they were too good to endure.

On Promises Broken...

I used to have a very strict view on promises. I still do. Any little promise made is as sacred as the Ten Commandments in my eyes. But recently, I’ve begun to feel like such a hypocrite. I’m slipping up with my promises. For instance, before Mark left I promised I would keep myself busy while he was away. I promised I would enroll in a gym program and get a bikini figure before he got back. I promised I wouldn’t mope around the house and stare at the computer the whole day (as you know from my previous entry, that isn’t going so well). I promised I would go out with friends (on the slim chance that my friends would be up for it). I promised I’d treat him to an eat-all-you-can dinner once he got back. Lastly, I promised him I would be waiting for him.

Going over it now, it seems that the last promise is the only one I’m keeping.



1st Promise Broken: Thou shall go to the gym.

I’ve gone up a dress size. Make fun of me all you want! I deserve it for being such a pig.

My family isn’t helping me much either. This is pretty easy to explain. I’m a giant in the real world. With my family, I’m the David amongst the Goliaths. That really doesn’t bother me on most days. It is when they try to convince me that my chubby physique looks better than the body I was comfortable with that I start to get miffed.


2nd Promise Broken: Thou shall not mope around the house and stare at the computer.

My last entry has probably given you a good look at how this promise is going. The only time I’ve stuck my head out the front door is to take my mother to the hospital. That is ofcourse, in addition to our weekly family trips to SM.

Oh! We’re leaving for Camuguin on Wednesday so I might be keeping this promise after all. My mom even bought me new clothes for the beach. I guess some of them shouldn’t be called clothes. Among them is a skimpy bikini that I actually allowed! Being abandoned has really fried my brains!


3rd Promise Broken: Thou shall spend time with girlfriends.

I haven’t seen my gal pals since our overnight adventure at Michelle’s house. I’m intent on keeping this one though! I’ve set up a lunch date for tomorrow.

So there!


Last Promise Broken: Though shall treat Mark to dinner upon his return.

Technically, I haven’t broken this one yet. I just don’t have as much cash on me during the summer. This could still change though. I am currently seeking employment.


I am not breaking the last promise on the list. As much as I constantly remind people that I have been abandoned for a rather queer dance camp, and as much as I loath my sorry existence for having had the dance camp picked over a summer with me, I will be here waiting when he gets back.

Screw the pointe shoes and leotards! Ballerinas and danseurs are more fun in jeans anyway!