Category Archives: Pinoys

Qwertyman No. 73: Nurse and Patient Both

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Qwertyman for Monday, December 25, 2023

(Today I’m offering, as I customarily do, a Christmas story, albeit one in rather unusual circumstances, to provoke us into reflecting on what Christmas should mean.)

NURSE NESTOR couldn’t recall how many times he had performed this procedure—thousands, for sure, in the ten years he had been with the hospital—and he had to acknowledge that it did get easier with practice to the point that he could lecture newbies on the proper way of doing things, such as changing diapers based not on their availability but on the patient’s needs, to avoid prolonged wetness leading to contact dermatitis.

He had become largely inured to the smell of urine and excrement, and all the other effusions sick bodies produced. Some other nurses and doctors dealt with that by employing exotic methods like putting coffee grounds or some other odor absorber in the room or applying lavender oil under their noses, but double-masking was enough for him, until he understood that some smells were simply too powerful to be suppressed, and that a philosophical kind of acceptance was the only real way of surviving along with one’s patients. Soon he reveled in being able to undertake the toughest assignments, such as the aging movie star who refused to let people know that he had had a colostomy, even when the hole in his belly began to leak. They had chatted about his biggest hits as Nestor irrigated the stoma, flushing out the detritus, until the man was in tears, but not over the pain of the process. 

It would have been easy to say that Nestor was now on duty in the ICU because of his proven expertise, and that he could be proud of having been selected for this shift on Christmas Eve, but he knew none of it was true. He was there because everyone else had a family to hurry home to, and he did not. He lived in a rented room in San Marcelino, a short jeepney ride away from the hospital, and took his meals in a nearby restaurant that toted up his bills at the end of the month; he did not even need to tell them what he wanted for breakfast. They would be closed on Christmas morning, so he would have to reach into his cupboard for some noodles or sardines.

It would have been different if Celeste hadn’t gone off with that anesthesiologist in his Miata, just because Nestor was on overtime when she needed a ride home. They used to wait for each other in the cafeteria, watching YouTube videos or making silly Facebook posts. Months afterward, when her blistering affair with the doctor was over and he saw her in her old chair fiddling with her phone, he would have swallowed his pride and swept her back into his arms, but she looked away and he had to pretend to be interested in the lunch menu.

Nestor knew the minute he saw the boy—because that was just what he was, a boy in a tall man’s frame—that he was trouble. Half his head was swathed in bandages and a leg was encased in plaster, like he had stepped out of a Mr. Bean comedy with something explosively hilarious about to happen, but the boy stared at him with a vehemence Nestor did not think possible out of one good eye. Nestor read his chart and saw that Patient Philip V. had been involved in a car crash the day before and had broken some bones, but nothing too seriously; he was going to live. He had not been drinking, which was unusual. Nestor could see that Philip had wetted himself, which was also unusual, as most patients had a hard time pissing after surgery, for a variety of reasons. He wondered why Philip had not been catheterized—possibly the Christmas rush? 

“I’m wet,” said the boy in an angry slur. 

“I know,” said Nestor, lifting up the patient’s gown to verify what he could sniff. It was nothing.

“I’ve been buzzing you—someone, anyone—for minutes. Where the hell is everybody?”

“It’s Christmas. People go home. People stay home. What happened to you?” Nestor began putting on his gloves.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m cleaning you up. If you don’t mind, I’m going to wipe you front to back to minimize infection, examine you for rashes. Then I’ll put a diaper on you, unless you want a catheter—you know, a tube I’ll stick into you—”

“I know what a catheter is. I have a master’s degree, in something no one cares about. I look too young, right? People always tell me I’m too young for this and that.”

Nestor looked at the boy and the hollows of his cheeks, the pale skin that bruised too easily, the slender bones that spoke of homes with swimming pools and SUVs in the garage and colognes in the bathroom. He remembered Celeste’s beau, a mestizo Chinese who wasn’t even handsome but who, Celeste said, could play the piano. He saw the boy’s limp privates and wondered what damage they had done, and felt a welling contempt. He wanted to pull the sheet out from under Philip as roughly as he could and shove him against the bed’s railing until he screamed.

“Hey, you look annoyed,” said Philip. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s Christmas and you’re stuck here with me and my—whatever. Go ahead, take it out on me. Hurt me. I never asked for this,” he said, gesturing at the straps and tubes he was attached to.

“Shut up and let me work.” Outside the ICU he could hear the patter of feet and the squeak of a gurney being rolled down the corridor, at the end of which a string of colored lights blinked around the swing doors, surrounded by foamy patches of fake snow.

“How much worse can it get? My parents are flying in tomorrow and will pull me out of this, like they always do—” He felt Nestor grab his leg. “You can’t hurt me even if you wanted to. I tried to kill myself, did they tell you that? I crashed my car into a post, but—the post was lousy and gave way. Whoever built that made some money.” He let out a dry chuckle.

Nestor stopped, holding an immaculate diaper between his hands. “No. Why would you do that?”

“Because they wanted to keep me away—from—from Timmy. They didn’t need to. Timmy’s gone. He left ahead of me, a week ago. He was better at it than I was.”

There were ways, Nurse Nestor had sometimes thought, that patients falling under “Code Gray”—unruly, irrational, and combative persons—could be brought to heel, or even privately punished. Caregivers needed that certain leeway—a pinch here, a pull there—to express and to expel their innermost emotions. He looked at Philip, suddenly smaller and meeker in his hospital gown. He resolved to show him how an adult diaper could be put on with the least discomfort, to nurse and patient both.

Qwertyman No. 71: A Breakthrough for Peace

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Qwertyman for Monday, December 11, 2023

I HONESTLY didn’t know what to feel when I first read the news that a breakthrough appears imminent in peace negotiations between the Philippine government and the National Democratic Front (and behind it, the Communist Party of the Philippines), whose soldiers and partisans have been at war with each other for over half a century, in one of the world’s longest-running insurgencies.

As a student activist who fought martial law and got imprisoned for it at age 18, I didn’t expect to live past 25 because so many of my friends and comrades were giving up their lives around me in the name of freedom and justice. Instead, in a Forrest-Gumpish turn of events, I survived and even prospered for another 50 years. As I wrote in my introduction to the book SERVE (Ateneo Press, 2023), co-written with 19 other fellow stragglers from what we called the First Quarter Storm, “We celebrated our seniorhood as the ultimate victory” even as “the experience of martial law coded itself into our DNA.” That victory, of course, is a shallow one, considering that the causes we fought for remain as valid and as urgent today, and that the social cancer we sought to excise “had never left, was always there, lying cruelly in wait for a chance to ravage us again—and not only us this time, but our children and grandchildren as well.”

My reaction to the peace talks—and I would guess that of many of my peers as well—was one of joy and relief, but inevitably compounded by some doubt and apprehension. All of these responses, however disparate, have their reasons.

The joy and relief must be paramount because, however we look at it and whatever arguments may be presented by either side, the armed conflict has gone on too long, without truly positive and strategic gains to show for five decades of warfare, at the cost of innumerable lives and massive drains on our resources. This is not to say that those lives were wasted nor that everyone’s goals have been met, but that surely there must be a better way—a more humane and effective way—to resolve our differences and move forward together without having to kill yet another cadre or yet another soldier, both of them probably just farm boys looking to improve their lives. 

Ultimately and simply, it didn’t work as planned—neither the “people’s war” nor the counter-insurgency. (Curiously, they manifest a kind of symbiosis or co-dependency, with one providing the basis for the other.) The Left is as far from seizing State power as we are from achieving a FIBA championship (no matter virtue, skill, or tenacity), and the Right remains essentially as it has always been, unreformed and unrepentant in its monopoly of economic and political power. But the Right seems to have been more clever at shapeshifting, riding on and pandering to the digital consumerism of a new generation and thereby dousing its revolutionary fervor, while the Left has basically stuck to the playbook and rhetoric of 1970s Maoism.

Meanwhile, in the great section between them, the masses of our people remain largely poor and vulnerable, in desperate need of food, housing, work, and education, a significant number of them kept afloat only by the grueling sacrifices of fathers, mothers, and siblings laboring overseas. Some decline has been noted in the incidence of mass poverty in recent decades, but it has been slow and uneven; even moderate economic growth did not necessarily lead to significant poverty reduction. 

We are said to have a rising middle class—estimated by the Philippine Institute of Development Studies at 40 percent of the population—but it is a very fragile one, strongly aspirational in its longing to be rich or be like the rich, but weak in the knees, and easily crushed or co-opted. Those of us in this category spend our lives saving up for the good things and cultivating our composure, only to lose all that in one catastrophic illness or declaration of redundancy.

Politically, as well, I place myself squarely in the middle, never having trusted the Right and its compulsive greed for wealth and power and long having fallen out of love with the Left, which has shown itself to be just as capable of cynical calculation. I declare myself a liberal (with the small “L”), with all of that word’s ambiguities and contradictions. I repose my faith in no party or church or army, but trust my reason (however faulty, and with God’s grace) to lead me to the truth and to the right decisions. I draw strength from knowing, as I saw in the crowds of May 2022, that a huge wellspring of goodness and positive purpose resides in many if not most Filipinos. We cannot and will not let bad politics and bad politicians stop us from doing good, in our families, communities, and eventually our nation.

However fractured our society remains, in the very least we deserve peace, and must agree on peace, so we can banish one of the darkest specters in our national history. No more war; no more political prisoners; no more tokhang. And please, no more Leila de Limas.

But a just and lasting peace will require not only a rejection of violence as conflict resolution. It should also mean strengthening the law and the independence of the judiciary, reducing corruption, and depoliticizing the military and police. It should mean dismantling the broad and expensive State apparatus devoted solely to counter-insurgency, a factor that the National Security Council itself has declared “a dying threat” even as military budgets remain high. Deploy our soldiers to our coastal waters and boundaries, where the real dangers to our national security loom.

The irony of another President Marcos securing the peace has not escaped me, as I’m sure it will perplex others, but I grant that peacemaking will require being able to look beyond the persons for now and focus on the larger goals and processes involved; other reckonings can follow. I’m under no illusion that the GRP and the NDF will sing “Kumbaya” around a campfire and that all will be well thereafter. Neither party comes to the table with clean hands and consciences. Both come with long histories of violence, betrayal, and guilt. There will be more hope than trust to share.

But a peace agreement is not a marriage, with a pledge to love and hold hands no matter what, merely a civil agreement to live under one roof without killing each other and maybe, just maybe, have an occasional cup of coffee or a meal together. 

For this I am willing to suspend my disbelief, and wish all the parties the best of luck, with a silent prayer for this most unlikely and difficult of enterprises. Other battles and debates can follow; let’s end this one first.

Qwertyman No. 70: Life (and Death) on Installment

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Qwertyman for Monday, December 4, 2023

THE SUDDEN collapse of Loyola Plans—yet to be explained to longtime customers like me—reminded me of the fragility of our expectations. Like probably hundreds of thousands of other pre-need plan holders, I was just going about my daily business, secure in the thought that whatever happened, I could look forward (well, not exactly, but…) to a coffin, an air-conditioned room full of flowers, and a patch of grass or a marble urn at the end of the road.

That road apparently ended sooner for Loyola than for me and my wife, and we are now in the odd situation of having outlived our funeral plans and the company that was supposed to fulfill them. I understand that Loyola sold educational plans as well, which in a way is even sorrier for the supposed beneficiaries, whose lives are just beginning as opposed to ours. 

We bought those plans more than 30 years ago, when we were in the middle of our lives and careers and just beginning to think of a far future, of the sunset over the horizon and such other clichés meant to assure us that life follows a predictable if not comfortable trajectory. Beng and I were both student activists who, much to our surprise, had survived the First Quarter Storm and martial law, when our friends and comrades were being murdered right and left. We got married and became parents in the middle of all that, and became tentatively hopeful that we would live a little if not much longer.

In true middle-class fashion, we paid for that future on the installment plan. We bought a subdivision house and lot in the boonies of San Mateo on installment, faithfully amortized for P784.54 a month over fifteen years (you don’t forget a figure like that when you write a check that often). We bought a used Volkswagen Beetle on installment, spread out over 36 months. We bought a set of the Encyclopedia Britannica—the crowning glory of the middle-class library—on installment. We budgeted by the month, our wages largely committed to patient creditors whom I imagined sitting at their desks slitting hundreds of envelopes stuffed with checks and cash (back then, we still trusted the postal system enough to actually send money in the mail). 

Come to think of it, our parents also lived from month to month. Their big thing was appliances—TVs and refrigerators, especially—that they checked out on the display floor, ooh’ed and aah’ed over, and then deposited a down payment for, withdrawn from the bank that afternoon with a sigh at once hopeful and despondent. These appliances became virtual members of the family, occupying positions of prominence in our living rooms and kitchens—until, sometimes and shockingly, they were carted away by strangers to Mama’s tears and Papa’s embarrassed silence. We younger ones learned that installment plans bore obligations that also carried emotional costs.

A little Googling tells us that installment buying has been around since at least 1807, when a New York furniture store offered the option. In 1850, Singer began selling its sewing machines on installment. The practice took off in the 1920s, and became even more hugely popular in the 1950s with the growing use of credit cards.

At least, those kinds of plans began with you getting some product up front. Until the repo man knocked on your door or until the blacks of your eyes turned white from viewing, you used and enjoyed your 14” TV. That’s not the case with educational and funeral plans, which are a kind of a safe bet that tomorrow’s prices will be higher than today’s, so you might as well buy now what you’ll pay for tomorrow anyway. At the end of your long period of indenture, you even get a document in fancy script—like we did—as final proof of your faithfulness and as a guarantee, graven in legal stone, that you will get what you paid for.

Except that now, that’s not going to happen. As the thousands of Filipinos who bought into the College Assurance Plan (CAP) two decades ago discovered, sometimes the bottom falls through the piggybank, and suddenly your dreams go “Poof!” (The CAP case, I’m told, is a complicated one, compounded by the unexpected rise in tuition fees and a new government requirement to produce billions of pesos up front. Last year, after an 18-year battle through the system, a Supreme Court ruling finally allowed for CAP’s rehabilitation, theoretically enabling the payment of 50 centavos for every peso owed a plan holder.)

Not being an avid follower of the business news, I heard about Loyola’s troubles only after their liquidation and the procedure for claims (until April 18, 2024, for the equally ignorant) were announced. As these claims processes go, we could be strumming lyres in heaven (or dodging forks elsewhere) before we see the color of money—and even so, if they just give us back what we paid in, instead of the now-expensive service we paid for, then it’ll be laughably (make that cryingly) small. 

My 95-year-old mother’s response probably said it for most plan holders her age: “I can’t die now.” No, you can’t, Nanay, and not just because we need to find you—and us—a new plan, which hopefully will be worth more than the paper it’s printed on. 

Penman No. 457: The Actor as Painter

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Penman for Sunday, December 3, 2023

A FEW months ago, I had the good fortune of coming into ownership of four watercolors by Juan Arellano (1888-1960), the famous architect of such landmarks as the Metropolitan Theater, the Post Office Building, and the Legislative Building (now the National Museum). Less known to many was that Arellano’s first love was painting, and it was a passion he pursued throughout his life. 

My inquiries into the background of my paintings led me to cross paths—initially online—with Juan’s grandson Raul Arellano, who turned out to be an accomplished painter in his own right. Born in Cagayan de Oro, Raul has been based for almost 30 years now in the United States, but he has recently been returning to the Philippines more often. When, one day, he messaged me to ask if we could meet up, I said yes, eager to learn what he could recall of his grandfather but also to get to know him and his art. 

I’m by no means an art critic, but my wife Beng (a professional art conservator and watercolorist) and I are museum rats and enjoy both traditional and modernist art, and peek into the local art scene when we can. There’s a lot of brilliance and energy out there to be sure, but also much safe and tiresome repetitiveness from artists who’ve settled on a commercial formula, such that their work no longer exudes emotional power. Many young painters—like their writing counterparts whom I meet at workshops and teach in school—also seem to think that the only worthy subject is death and despair, which invariably means dark canvases devoid of any suggestion of wonder and mystery, let alone delight.

When I saw Raul’s work online, even before we met, what leapt out at me was exactly what I found missing in many others—an element of metaphysical magic, fantastical but relatable, the kind of paintings you want to return to over and over again. I saw flashes of Henri Rousseau, Van Gogh, and William Blake, among others, but it was still all him—not his grandfather, for sure—trying to tell me something I hadn’t really thought much about before.

As it turned out, Raul never met his grandfather, who died five years before Raul was born in 1965 (Raul’s father was Juan’s third son Cesar). All he has of him is a self-portrait—and, of course, a passion for art that runs in the family; his cousin Carlos or “Chuckie,” the son of architect Otilio, was a formidable art patron and collector; Chuckie’s younger sister Agnes remains one of the country’s leading and most imaginative sculptors; Cesar’s brother Salvador or “Dodong” Arellano became a well-known painter of horses and game fowl in California.

Raul’s path to painting was neither straight nor easy. His first great obsession was acting, to the point of becoming a resident actor of Tanghalang Pilipino at the Cultural Center of the Philippines, playing a smoldering Tony Javier in a production of Nick Joaquin’s “Portrait of the Artist as Filipino.” “We were trained in method acting,” says Raul, “and it got to the point that I became so immersed in my character that other people on the set found it unnerving.” He would go on to act in the movies, in the crime drama Akin ang Puri(1996) directed by Toto Natividad, Batang West Side (2001) directed by Lav Diaz, and Himpapawid (2009) directed by Raymond Red. Of his performance in Himpapawid, reviewer Jude Bautista noted that “Raul Arellano as the main character is able to show the frustrations of the common man without going over the top. There is a quiet intensity in his performance.”

That intensity had been brewing in Raul the person for some time, leading to and compounded by domestic problems. In 1995, he took the opportunity to go on a film fellowship at the Art Institute of Chicago. The Midwest was too cold so he later moved to California, and quickly realized what all dreamseekers in LA wake up to: that he had to start all over again at the bottom rung of the ladder. “I swept floors. I learned how to operate a forklift. When the big steel container that you’re lifting comes crashing to the ground, you can feel the jolt running down your spine. I was in a lot of pain, but I kept on. When I left, my boss was very sorry to lose me.”

He set up a business restoring American muscle cars. “I had a Russian mechanic, but I took care of the interiors myself. I specialized in Mustangs—you could show me a Ford screw and I could tell you the year and model it came from. I had a fastback Mustang but my best sale was a Shelby Cobra.” But again another personal crisis blew up and he enrolled in a community college to study painting. He left school once he felt he had learned enough about the history, the theory, and the techniques of art to express himself. “Something in me was always wanting to come out, and I found that release in painting. I had no models or artists I looked up to. I just wanted to express myself, to work from my subconscious. I found that I could work best in a cemetery, because it was so peaceful. I still like working in the open, in plein air.”

The lure of painting proved irresistible. He worked in oils, and one of his favorite paints was lead white, popularly used in the past for its visual qualities and permanence. However, it was banned in the 1970s because of the danger of lead poisoning—a danger Raul was well aware of but embraced. “I found a stash of old paint and bought it all up. I was inhaling it every day and I could feel it doing strange things to my head.”

He returned to Manila every now and then and even resumed acting, but the death of a close friend shook him up badly. “I was all set to come out with an exhibit of traditional, representational paintings, but I was overcome with grief over the loss of my friend, and I just had to express that feeling in my work. So I put all my old work aside and began ‘Crucifixion.’” That work is one of his most impressive and a personal favorite, painted in 2004 at the outbreak of the war in Iraq.

(Image from artesdelasfilipinas.com)

Today Raul spends time in a small farm in Batangas, enjoying quick sketches in the sylvan scenery, and contemplating the possibility of exhibiting in his homeland. With him having gone from peace to pain, from calm to conflict and back again, one can only wonder what new work will emerge from this phase of his life. I find myself wishing for his playfulness to return, but that of course depends on what Raul Arellano is feeling inside.

(More here on Raul Arellano: https://artesdelasfilipinas.com/archives/85/the-art-and-thought-of-raul-arellano-original-)

Qwertyman No. 69: Tabi Kayo Riyan!

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Qwertyman for Monday, November 28, 2023

WHEN THE EDSA busway—a special lane just meant for public utility buses—was inaugurated in June 2020, I was among the many millions of Metro Manila motorists and commuters who breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Finally! Somebody’s come to their senses and did what had to be done.” 

It wasn’t going to banish the traffic problem for good—that burden still lies with our woefully inadequate mass transit system—but it applied a logical solution to a particularly oppressive aspect of our urban existence, the infernal sludge that tossing private cars and public buses into the same slurry produces. The traffic’s still bad in many spots on busy days and hours, but at least you could see some order in disorder. For this driver in his car, I can even find some ironic humor in watching buses speed down their lane while I struggle like a jockey in the middle of the pack to keep a nose ahead of the big SUV sniffing at my flank.

We’ve seen these special bus lanes in use elsewhere—most notably in Jakarta and Bangkok—and they seem to work. (Bangkok’s bus lanes have been around since 1980; Chicago adopted the world’s first bus lane in 1940.) London has set aside about 80 kilometers for 24/7 bus lanes, but some other roads also have designated bus lanes during peak hours; the fines are stiff, going up to as much as P11,000 for an infraction.

Here in Manila, according to the Management Association of the Philippines (MAP), just 550 buses transported as many as 450,000 people a day along EDSA as of December 2022; in its 30 months, the busway accommodated 154 million passengers. That’s a lot of traffic and a lot of people, and the true social benefit of a bus lane isn’t that these buses and their passengers are being shunted aside for our cars to move a little faster, but that those passengers—most of them the workers and wage-earners to whom we owe our other comforts—get to work and get to come home to their families sooner. It’s tacit acknowledgment that their lives are hard enough, and every bit of relief counts. In a sense, it’s social justice in practice. 

But now comes a proposal from the Metro Manila Development Authority (MMDA)—already approved by the Department of Transportation (DOTr), we’re told—to grant exemptions to the President, the Vice President, the Senate President, the Speaker of the House, and the Chief Justice, riding in five-car convoys, to use the bus lanes. Even more, senators and congressmen are also being considered for exemption (emergency vehicles and properly identified government vehicles are already exempted).

It might be argued, at least in theory (since the mischievous will ask for proof), that the big poohbahs have important national business to attend to, requiring their expeditious transport from Point A to Point B. (In Jakarta, only the President and the VP are exempt.)

The same cannot be said for senators and especially congressmen whose business it is to know the situation on the ground and to bring relief to their commonest complaints. Chief among those complaints for millions living in the metropolis is the horrendous traffic, a three-hour immersion in which should be part of every politician’s initiation into public service. 

As even Patricia Evangelista noted in her landmark book, Some People Need Killing, President Noynoy Aquino—for all of his virtues—lacked and almost disdained the common touch. But he understood the fundamental relationship between a leader and his people, and what he may have wanted in empathy, he compensated for in correctness. His proscription against the use of sirens and alarms to open a Moses-like path through traffic for government officials may seem trivial but sent absolutely the right message to citizens for whom “Daang Matuwid” might as well have been just another throwaway slogan. 

Sadly, our “wang-wang” culture—which, as a STAR editorial noted just last week, involves “not just the actual use of sirens and blinkers by VIPs whether in government or in the private sector, but the mindset itself that it’s OK to jump the line and that public officials deserve such VIP entitlements”—has crept back after PNoy, with a vengeance. 

The convoys of black, tinted SUVs with their sirens screaming “Tabi kayo riyan!” have become ubiquitous once again, flaunting the perks of power. The MAP deplored this by stating that “Accommodating convoys of officials demonstrates inconsistency of public policy: favoring the privileged few over the overwhelming majority of the commuters and motorists who deserve an efficient EDSA busway.” I’m sure that you and I have shorter and less Latinate words to say every time one of those convoys brushes past us on EDSA and along that larger avenue we call Philippine society.

That society, for better or for worse, takes its cues from the top. When our presidents behave, we (or most of us, at least) try to walk the straight and narrow; when they steal, their minions feel emboldened if not empowered to fill their own pockets; when their mouths spew obscenities like sewers, rudeness and vulgarity become excusable, and even fashionable.

In the Tang dynasty, the Emperor Taizong was known to be a wise ruler, and even wrote The Zenghuan Executive Guide, a kind of management manual. Among his best practices was the employment of “remonstrants”—as many as 36 of them—whose job was to provide the Emperor with “remonstrances,” to tell him to his face what he was doing wrong. “I often sit quietly and reflect on myself. I am concerned that what I have done may … cause public discontent. I hope to get advice and remonstrance from honest men so that I am not out of touch with the outside world,” Taizong was quoted as saying.

There’s no record of whether the Emperor Taizong’s soldiers pushed other wagons and pedestrians aside on the road to make way for the imperial train, but I suspect not. I just wonder, who will be our Taizong, and who will be his remonstrants?

(Photo from topgear.com.ph)

Qwertyman No. 66: Beyond Reportage

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Qwertyman for Monday, November 6, 2023

IT WAS probably fitting that I finished reading Patricia Evangelista’s highly acclaimed account of “murder in my country,” Some People Need Killing (Random House, 2023), over a holiday devoted to remembering the souls of the departed. I had received a pre-publication review copy from the publisher months ago under a strict embargo not to talk about it until its formal launch. As it happened, it lay under a pile of other books to be read until a flurry of posts and reviews reminded me that it was out in the open, and that the secret—not just the book, but also what it contained—could now be shared.

I can still recall the day—May 15, 2004—while we were celebrating Pahiyas in Lucban when I got the news on my phone that our representative to the English Speaking Union’s annual public speaking competition in London—a bright and pretty wisp of a teenager named Patricia Evangelista—had won the top prize. We were new to the ESU—subsequently we would produce two more global champions—and it was a grand way to announce to the world that we Filipinos could produce more than boxing heroes and beauty queens. Here was 18-year-old Patricia who could think on her feet and speak to issues of international importance, the poster child of Filipino intelligence and audacity, whose command of the English language led her to meeting no less than Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, in what amounted to a mini-coronation in recognition of her talent.

As magical as that moment was, I can only imagine how, in the months and years following, it must have begun to grate on the young Patricia to be asked to deliver her prizewinning speech in public forums over and over again, like a wind-up doll, and suffer the fate of prodigies who peak too soon. Surely that was just a beginning; surely there was more she could do—had to do—to outlive her Cinderella-like debut in London. 

I would see some of that when she enrolled in my undergraduate Fiction Writing class in UP. I knew who she was and made sure to give her no special treatment—indeed to lean even a little harder on her, knowing she had what it took—but she got a “1.0” all the same, one of the few I ever gave. I can’t claim to have taught her much how to write imaginatively—her own reading had likely primed her for that—but I can’t pretend not to be proud of what she turned out to be, my pride tempered only by fatherly concern.

Today, almost 20 years later, the sometime ingénue returns to the global stage as a hard-bitten, chain-smoking investigative reporter—a “trauma journalist,” in her own words, very possibly one of the world’s best yet again. But there is no real prize, no princely reward, for this kind of distinction, only pain and sorrow which—subdued too many times as a matter of professional discipline—exact their toll on the body and spirit. Patricia has had to suffer that to be able to tell her story as clearly as she could, unimpeded by the hand-wringing and the preachiness that often accompany such exposés of grave misconduct. 

This is not a review of the book’s explosive investigation into the thousands of extrajudicial killings that happened under the Duterte regime—that’s been done very capably by others, and is already the subject of international inquiry. The book will deserve all the journalistic accolades coming its way as an exemplar of excellent reportage. 

I will not even quote from the book, as there are simply too many quotable paragraphs to choose from. Rather, I want to note, from my privileged perspective and for the benefit of younger writers, how Patricia works with language to best serve the truth. Quite apart from its journalistic merits, Some People Need Killing is one of the best textbooks out there for what we now call “creative nonfiction,” a compound of reportage, memoir, history, and fictional technique. Indeed, beyond reportage, the book is a long personal essay in which the author is inextricably part of the story, a significant step away from the impersonal and largely mythic “objectivity” that we associate with traditional journalism.

Probing murder after ghastly murder—sometimes even coming on-scene to prevent one—Patricia is both chronicler and agent, witness perhaps not to the killing itself but to the larger crime of its planning and the exoneration of its perpetrators. Handling the most sensitive and dangerous of material, she draws on more than skill to tell her story; she demonstrates raw courage, an increasingly rare quality among journalists easily seduced and silenced by pragmatism. She names names, which surely will bear consequences both ways. 

I’ve often remarked in my lectures that the most endangered writers in this country are neither the poets nor the novelists, but the journalists who cannot hide behind metaphor and simile to tell the truth. We fictionists make artful lies which governments rarely have the intelligence or the patience to grapple with. Journalists live in the literal world inhabited as well by cops and crooks; what’s interesting is how the flimsy but oft-repeated fictions of “killed while resisting arrest,” so pervasive in this book, emerge from that reality.

Evangelista’s overarching technique is one of narrative restraint, informed by an English major’s awareness of how language and reality shape each other. She constantly parses the perversions of language—how words like disappear, salvage, encounter, verification, and even her own name assume different uses and meanings over time, in specific contexts. She knows—as I remind my students—that for dramatic effect, less is often more, that short sentences and blunt, single-syllable Anglo-Saxon words rather than the long, Latinate ones favored by lawyers hit closer to the gut and heart.

She is keenly aware of the power of irony—of professed liberals supporting EJK, of a morally ascendant Noynoy Aquino showing little empathy for ordinary folk, of her own journalist-grandfather affixing his signature to a petition supporting the older Marcos, and of communal complicity in the reign of terror. She uses people’s own words against them, quoting from the record. She avoids direct editorializing, or speaking in lofty generalizations like “justice” and “civil liberties,” and instead, in the best noir tradition, sees “sagging two-story tenement buildings (that) opened into dirt roads layered with garbage and last week’s rotten Happy Meal.”

After I had finished the book, I woke up at 4 am from a nightmare about running shirtless down a wet, earthen road. I was lucky. Patricia Evangelista lived through it, and I don’t even know if she’s woken up yet. Have we?

(Image from Rappler.com)

Qwertyman No. 64: The Death of a Crony

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Qwertyman for Monday, October 23, 2023

WHEN A friend asked me, about 15 years ago, if I would meet with another friend of his who wanted me to write his biography, I almost fell off my chair when I learned who my prospective subject was.

“It’s Rudy Cuenca,” I was told. 

I knew who he was, of course—a “Marcos crony,” which had become an almost generic term at one point, there being so many. I had actually met the man once before, on a bus trip to the Pahiyas festival in Lucban arranged by the late Adrian Cristobal. My first impression had been a surprisingly positive one: he was polite, urbane, funny, hardly the obnoxious and domineering person I had imagined a crony might be.

Still, he was who he was, and I didn’t know that writing a book about his life was the right or smart thing to do. I has already written Wash SyCip’s biography, and that man was almost saintly, or sainted by the acclaim of his peers and juniors. A Marcos crony was something else.

“How can I work with someone whose boss put me in prison?” I told my friend. As a student activist, I had spent seven months in Bicutan under martial law.

“Just meet with him, listen to what he has to say,” he said. “No commitments, no promises.”

And so I did. “I have a story to tell,” Cuenca told me over coffee. I knew what he was saying: he had been privy to the Marcos regime’s internal workings, and had been one of the President’s closest golfing buddies, but, at one point, had found himself fallen from favor, eased out of the inner circle by a more unctuous lieutenant. As stories went, it was irresistible. 

I took a deep breath and told him in so many words what I’ve said to many other clients since: “I’ll help you tell your story, but I won’t lie or lawyer for you; your story will speak for itself. What I leave within quotation marks will be you speaking, not me. I’m under no illusion that you will tell me everything you know, but to the extent possible, I’d appreciate your being honest with me, so I can tell your story the best way I can.” He agreed. What followed was Builder of Bridges: The Rudy Cuenca Story, co-authored by a former student of mine, Antonette Reyes. It was published by Anvil Publishing in 2010 and became a finalist for the National Book Award the following year.

A college dropout, Cuenca taught himself the basics of business and civil engineering, and went on from small public-works contracts to some of the country’s biggest infrastructure projects such as the North Luzon Expressway and the San Juanico bridge. It was widely believed that Cuenca’s Construction Development Corporation of the Philippines (CDCP), then the region’s largest construction company, benefited from his closeness to Marcos, whom he had supported since his first presidential campaign.

Most interesting were Rudy’s stories of Palace life. Herewith, some excerpts from the book:

“I was a member of Wack Wack and Valley Golf for a number of years before I joined Manila Golf’s ‘Mafia’ group in 1973 with Charlie Palanca as the head man. Golf helped me gain some ground in business. I became a Marcos golfing crony around 1969. Marcos ended the afternoons at the nine-hole Malacañang course. Typically, a call came from the Study Room—either golf at 4:30 in the afternoon or party organized by the First Lady. The afternoon golf was meant to be the President’s peaceful time, but this was taken advantage of by those who wanted to get his undivided attention. The HIS and HERS were with their folders and envelopes for endorsement or approval. The HERS usually could not get to see him, so they were inserted as part of the regular golfing group.

“The Study Room was operated by Presidential Security Command personnel. Blue Ladies and cronies alike waited for this office to call them to major Palace functions. If no such call came, they would run around like headless chickens in search of that awaited invitation. One crony got the message that the President no longer wanted his company through the Study Room, obviously on Imelda’s instructions. As Marcos was the sole source of dispensation, those seeking approval tried to find parings or sponsors. Sometimes, those projects were so absurd that they were rejected outright.”

Rudy remembers that “Every morning, Marcos got a written report from Fabian Ver about what was going on in the country. But Marcos also got two more reports, one from Alex Melchor, and one more I think from Johnny Ponce Enrile. Marcos read these three reports at breakfast, so he knew what was going on everywhere. These reports contained lots of information—who was the boss of who, who went where, and even who was fooling around with who. He knew everything.”

Rudy doesn’t deny the systemic—but relatively small—pay-offs that got projects approved and claims processed and released in the ‘50s, ‘60s, and ‘70s. But he also says that they were amateurs compared to today’s pros, and that the scale of greed has grown exponentially. “In the old days, nobody asked you to give,” he says. “If you did, you gave them dinner. Today, people are told outright and up front what they’re expected to pay, and those amounts are outrageous. No advance payment, no contract.” 

When asked why, for example, Philippine roads seem visibly inferior to those of even other Southeast Asian countries like Malaysia, he says: “It’s simply a matter of greed. In Malaysia there’s also corruption—I’ve lived there, I should know—but the thieves there make their money by overpricing the materials. Here in the Philippines people are extraordinarily greedy. Not only do they overprice, they also steal the materials. The cement’s deficient, the gravel’s deficient. So the thing crumbles that easily.”

Rodolfo Magsaysay Cuenca’s passing last week at the age of 95 reminded me of how many stories about Ferdinand Marcos and martial law remain to be told. Fifteen years ago, it might have been considered safe for the members of that generation to spill their secrets (or justify their choices—no one will deny that these biographies are essentially self-serving), but the present dispensation will likely make people think twice about being so candid. 

I will leave it to more qualified scholars and more intrepid journalists to sift through the material and annotate the margins of my Cuenca biography, but I feel privileged to have listened to the man and to put him on the record. By any measure, it was a remarkable life. (In an even stranger twist, another crony approached me after I had done the Cuenca book, wanting me to do the same for him—the late Herminio Disini, of Westinghouse fame. I completed a draft but had to walk away, and the book never came out—but that’s another story.)

(Photo from riles.upd.edu.ph)

Qwertyman No. 62: Remembering Ed Hagedorn

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Qwertyman for Monday, October 9, 2023

LIKE MANY Filipinos, I was surprised to hear last week that former Puerto Princesa mayor and Palawan congressman Edward “Ed” Hagedorn had passed away aged 76. It was a peaceful death, according to reports, which might have raised some eyebrows among those who knew him and his colorful past. Beyond surprised, I felt genuinely sad, because I had met the man and been much impressed by what he had been able to achieve, despite the brickbats thrown his way by his enemies and critics until the very end. (Only last July, the Sandiganbayan found him guilty of malversation of public property for failing to return some firearms issued to him when he was mayor.)

Hagedorn was one of those larger-than-life figures who stick in your memory like a barnacle. I came to know him two decades ago when he needed someone to write a book about Puerto Princesa’s regreening; I was available and happy to fly down to Puerto to see for myself what the buzz was all about, and looked forward to quiet beachside chats over beer and broiled squid. Instead I found myself rattling in the front seat of Hagedorn’s SUV on earthen roads at breakneck speeds, absorbing his stories, which never failed to make me wonder, “Is this guy for real?” But he was—a true politico, to be sure, who ate controversy for breakfast, but also a game-changer who left an indelible imprint on the community he served, just as Dick Gordon did for Subic and Bayani Fernando did for Marikina.

In memory of that man, let me share some unpublished notes I took for that project (which itself was overtaken by events, but that’s another story). Flash back to the early 2000s, and say hello to Ed Hagedorn:

With his well-combed pompadour, mestizo looks, and neat moustache, Hagedorn looks like a cross between actor-turned-President Joseph “Erap” Estrada and rebel-turned-Senator Gregorio “Gringo” Honasan. The resemblance goes beyond the physical, and the key lies in the movement of these men from the fringe to the center, in their mutation from outcast to power player.

For a man once feared as a teenage toughie, gambling lord, logger, and survivor of at least two assassination attempts, the two-term mayor of Puerto Princesa, Palawan, can be surprisingly gentle and charming. He speaks with an easy smile and a quiet, slightly raspy voice, the golden pin of a Christian dove bright on the collar of his gray bush jacket. He knows that the past hangs on his shoulders—something he has the honesty and the good PR sense not to deny—but he speaks much more enthusiastically about Puerto Princesa’s future, and its own transformation from sleepy island town to a global model for ecotourism, as acknowledged by no less than the United Nations.

Hagedorn appreciates the irony of his situation, and attributes his conversion to a religious faith that he now applies with a fanatic’s fervor to his job. Mayor since 1992, Hagedorn drove his former partners in crime out of the city, set down clear and strict environmentalist policies, especially those having to do with illegal logging, illegal fishing, and waste disposal. Today most of the land within Puerto has been reforested; a “Baywatch” program patrols the water; and a cigarette butt on the open street is about as common as hen’s teeth.

The story of Puerto Princesa’s regreening into a world-class showcase of Philippine environmentalism is an inspiring one, but the Hagedorn story is clearly the stuff of action movies. In fact, not one but two movies have already been made about the flamboyant mayor, who reconnoiters the city in his Chevy Suburban, wearing his trademark wraparound Cazal sunglasses and Rolex wristwatch (“It’s fake,” he says with a grin). 

He doesn’t drink, but until a few years ago couldn’t quit smoking, needing the nicotine to keep him going on typical killer workdays that begin at 6:00 a.m. and end at around 1:00 or 2:00 a.m. the next morning. (He kicked the habit in 2002.) “When I came into office in 1992,” he says, “I inherited the grand total of P26,000, plus one tractor and two dump trucks. In three years, we were able to pave 340 kilometers of roads—just 1,000 kilometers more to go!” Appalled by the city’s conditions when he assumed the mayorship, Hagedorn declared a state of calamity to gain access to P20 million in calamity funds; the government balked at his move, but the courts have since upheld the mayor. He talks about setting up International Environmental University on a large estate already blocked off in Puerto for environmental development.

People wait along the road for his SUV and flag him down. He stops to listen to an assortment of complaints; a secretary takes down notes and his instructions. Like a good politician, Hagedorn has a phenomenal memory: hosting several hundred guests at a banquet at a major hotel, he greets all the luminaries present by name, without notes. The next day he takes his guests to a bayside sari-sari store for a snack of cheap sweet biscuits and soft drinks; the tab comes out to P155; he hands the giggling storeowner a P500 bill and tells her to keep the change. “Don’t evict, develop,” he says of a squatter community that had sprung up on the bayshore. He has also set up 160 low-cost housing units on 100-square meter lots, payable at P500 a month for 25 years. Like an automatic wristwatch, the man’s mind is constantly working, kept alive by motion.

In quick succession, the mayor answers the typical interviewer’s questions:

“Is there anyone next to God whom Edward Hagedorn fears?” Answer: “My wife Ellen!”

“Whom did you grow up admiring the most?” Answer: “The Godfather!”

“Any political plans?” A job, he says, that would let him do more for the environment.

When Joseph Estrada was forced out of the Palace in early 2001, his staunch friend Ed Hagedorn stood by him to the end. That probably cost him the governorship in the election that May, when he challenged incumbent Gov. Joel Reyes for the job, running under the fallen Erap’s standard. We’ve heard that many trees have also fallen since in Palawan’s forests—one of them, reputedly the province’s largest, said to have been carted off to become a centerpiece for a politician’s house. 

I remember remarking then that to call Ed Hagedorn a saint would send St. Ignatius of Loyola—himself a colorful character in his time—into a spasm, but Edward Hagedorn is beginning to look like someone we’ll sorely miss when those trees start coming down for some bigshot’s dining table.

Qwertyman No. 61: Funding Real Intelligence

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Qwertyman for Monday, October 2, 2023

YOU COULD hear the gnashing of teeth from Aparri to Zamboanga when the Filipino men’s basketball team crashed out of the recent FIBA tournament with three losses, the fans’ dismay relieved only momentarily by the locals’ drubbing of arch-nemesis China. All over social media and even in the mainstream press, there was a lot of hand-wringing, with soul-piercing questions like “Is basketball really a Filipino sport?” and “How do we regain our hardcourt glory?”, followed by angry demands for certain heads to roll and fresh calls for a renewed grassroots-based sports development program.

Aside from politics—arguably the most vicious blood sport hereabouts—nothing gets us Pinoys more worked up than sports (and maybe beauty contests, another kind of sport). We know all the players and coaches, can recite the history, analyze all the moves, surveille the opposition, and scout and spot the best prospects. You would think that it was a national industry, although it all comes down to one thing: Pinoy pride, our fervent desire to matter in the world at large, if not be No. 1.

That’s all understandable, so hold that in your memory while I rattle off some other “sporting” statistics for the Philippines.

In a 2018 PISA ranking of 15-year-old students from more than 100 countries worldwide in terms of their abilities in reading, math, and science, the Philippines scored second to last in both math and science, next only to the Dominican Republic. If that sounds bad, we scored last in reading. (The Program for International Student Assessment is run by the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development.)

Maybe they got something wrong? In 2019, the Trends in International Mathematics and Science Study or TIMMS, with covered fourth-graders from 58 countries in math and science, ranked the Philippines last. That same year, the Southeast Asia Primary Learning Metrics, checking up on fifth-graders and their proficiency in reading, writing, and math, scored the Philippines below the regional average in all three; more than 40 percent of all Filipino students tested failed to meet the minimum proficiency standard for math.

Did we hear or do I hear any gasps of dismay or demands for accountability from our government and educational leaders—or from the general public, for that matter? Of course not. The private sector has taken note, knowing they’ll be paying for these gross deficiencies down the road, but they don’t make policy, or decide the budget. Otherwise, we don’t seem to be seeing ourselves in any kind of race in global education, which just isn’t sexy or entertaining enough like singing, dancing, or basketball. We’d all be insulted if anyone called us “stupid”—and these surveys don’t use the word—so we pretend that it’s not a real problem and that we can get by on our natural smarts, like we always have. 

If we’re feeling feistier, we can even trot out the names of all the Pinoy Spelling Bee and Quiz Bee winners, chess grandmasters, Moot Court victors, World Poetry Laureates, inventors of this and that gizmo, and so on. In the meanwhile, we scratch our heads and wonder why our neighbors like the Thais and Vietnamese are surging ahead of us (“Why, we have nicer beaches! And didn’t we teach those people advanced rice technology?)

So instead of ensuring adequate funding for  programs, reforms, and resources to address these shameful scores, what do we do?

We cut the budget of the Philippine Science High School System—our flagship secondary school system, especially in math and science—from P3 billion to P2.7 billion, an 11 percent reduction. Not only the PSHS, but other agencies in our science and technology cluster found their 2024 budgets slashed as well—a 14.17 percent budget cut for the Advanced Science and Technology Institute, 18.04 percent for the Food and Nutrition Research Institute, and 83.7 percent cut for the National Research Council of the Philippines.

“We can no longer sustain our cloud-based Knowledge Hub or KHUB learning system because of this cut,” PSHS Executive Director Lilia Habacon was quoted as saying. “We developed KHUB during the pandemic, and it was being accessed by 10,000 students.” The PSHS System now comprises 16 science high schools nationwide. “Even as we’ve returned to face-to-face learning, many of our modules remain online, and the students really learn from there.” The cut will also halt the system’s infrastructure projects such as gymnasiums, dormitories and multipurpose halls in Mimaropa, Zamboanga, Soccsksargen, Calabarzon and Caraga.

The Department of Budget and Management says that the cut corresponds to “38 non-recurring and terminating locally-funded projects in FY 2023,” but as Dir. Habacon points out, there are clearly many ongoing and vital projects that need continuing funding through to at least next year. 

The DBM also took the PSHS to task for its lack of “absorptive capacity,” meaning that it couldn’t spend its allotted funds fast enough. And here’s where the irony of this whole budget business and our national priorities really gets me. (Granted, the problem goes much deeper and at more basic levels than the PSHS, but if they can do that to our premier high school, what do you think they’re doing with the less illustrious others?)

The Office of the Vice President (OVP)—under recent criticism for spending P125 million in “confidential funds” in 11 days in 2022—claimed in its defense that it did so not in 11 days, but 19. Oh, okay—is that supposed to make us feel better? Does that qualify in the DBM’s books as proof of “absorptive capacity?”

Confidential funds here, intelligence funds there in the hundreds of millions, and the recipients even feel demeaned if they’re asked to account for the money, for which their fawning friends in Congress are only too happy to give a free pass.

Meanwhile, we scrutinize every line in our budget for science education, and probably in other areas as well, and get all uptight when we spot some tiny item we can’t figure out, like some alien cockroach, and squash it with gusto, thinking we’ve done our job. When it comes to funding real intelligence, we balk.

The sad part is, we’ll get away with it, because appallingly low science, math, and reading proficiency doesn’t get people worked up as much as poor basketball tactics do. We don’t even know who our National Scientists are (there are now 42 of them), nor care what they’ve done. Fire the education coach? What for? No harm, no foul.

Penman No. 455: A Musical for Our Generation

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Penman for Sunday, October 1, 2023

PINOYS WHO came of age in the 1990s like our daughter Demi, born 1974, will swear by “Ang Huling El Bimbo” as their collective anthem—not just the song, but the whole musical and its score by the Eraserheads, who might as well be Martians to Beatles and Woodstock fans like me. On her last vacation her from her long and happy life in California, Demi made sure that she and her cousin KC got to see the show, no matter the cost, and the two girls stepped out of the theater misty-eyed. 

It got me wondering if our generation—boomers, I think we’re called—had something similar to get us all thoughtful and even weepy about what we’d been through. If you were born in the ‘50s, you’d be in your late 60s or in your 70s by now, and that’s a long time to be alive, relatively speaking, especially given that so many of us died so young (read my Qwertyman piece on this from a few weeks ago on “A long grace note”). That usually means college, jobs, marriage, kids, affairs, separations, houses, cars, debts, accidents, ailments, responsibilities, recognitions, disappointments, losses, homecomings, and all the sundry little things that make up a life. That’s what happened to us, and the ordinariness of it doesn’t seem to suggest much worthiness as entertainment material. 

But someone our age apparently thinks otherwise, and beyond just thinking about it, has actually co-written and produced a musical titled “Silver Lining” for our generation—and our children who may want to understand what their folks went through, and why they think the way they do.

That someone is Jack Teotico, better known these days as the man behind Galerie Joaquin, Fundacion Sanso, and other art-related ventures that have opened doors for Filipino artists here and abroad. (When we last met, he was on his way to Madrid to scout prospects for a gallery there.)

Jack and I happen to be friends for half a century now, having met at UP where we were both student activists. We had actually been grade-school batchmates in La Salle Green Hills but hadn’t really connected there. We were both arrested after martial law, and our lives would inevitably intersect every now and then. An economist by training, he headed the Fiber Industry Development Authority at one time, while I worked for the National Economic and Development Authority. We ran into each other more often when he devoted himself almost exclusively to the art world.

Still, it was a great surprise when he told me, at his recent 70th birthday party, that he was staging a musical titled “Silver Lining,” using songs he had written over the years. I knew Jack also loved music and had been performing with a group called Rockitwell.

“I think it’s time to share our generation’s experience,” Jack said. “Not just the political part, but our story of growing up and growing old, the friendships we make along the way, the trials we’ve been through, and what life looks like today from our point of view.” No literary piece touching on the 1970s would be complete or credible without mentioning or implicating martial law, and it’s there in the dark shadows of Jack’s story, but he’s chosen to foreground what to most people were the more familiar rituals and milestones of early adulthood—high school and college life, relationships, love and loss, acceptance, and intimations of mortality. 

Based loosely on real-life events, the musical traces the journey of three high-school buddies who, in their senior years, form a band for their Golden Anniversary homecoming, drawing in their wives and children. They soon decide to work on a musical together—so yes, this a play within a play—and as they do so, the past unfolds in poignant contrast to the present. Even as the narrative unavoidably reaches into the darkest corners of our lives—dependencies, betrayals, disappearances, and such—it ends of a note of hope and redemption.

Working with Palanca-prizewinning scriptwriter Joshua Lim So and musical director Vince Lim, Jack tells these stories through songs with titles like “Brothers,” “Losing Our Way,” “Rambolan,” and “Atin Ito.” The script is in Taglish, given the middle-class milieu of the characters, and the melodies should be easily relatable, reflecting the musical variety of the period covered, from ballads to disco. 

Directed by Maribel Legarda, the musical is headlined by veteran actor Ricky Davao as Leo, Joel Nuñez as Anton, Raul Montesa as Raul, and Nenel Arcayan as Josie, with Krystal Brimner playing a special role as Julia.

As every Broadway aficionado knows (and Jack is one), musical theater is a risky business, but I suspect that Jack really isn’t into this for the money, but rather to leave his signature on our cultural memory. He’s done more than enough to support and promote other artists, and indeed it’s time for him to tell his own story—our story.

“Silver Lining” will have a limited run of only six performances over two weekends  at the Carlos P. Romulo Auditorium in RCBC Plaza, Ayala Avenue, Makati City—at 8 pm on Fridays, October 20 and 27, 8 pm on Saturdays October 21 and 28, and a 3 pm matinee on Sundays, October 22 and 29. Book your tickets now via Ticket2Me or bit.ly/silverliningmusical.