< for heaven's sake, marocharim >

   So I have a hyperactive sociological imagination.  I tend to follow in the footsteps of an extremist reading of Durkheim: anything that has anything to do with human beings is eminently social, and since everything has to do with humans, everything is a social fact.  Like this apple-flavored C2 I'm drinking, although it's kind of hard to think of a social implication to C2... oh, here's one.

   "Taken-for-grantedness" is something that defined an epoché in social-scientific theorizing, but I don't suggest that you start reading Alfred Schutz at this point (heck, my photocopied books of Schutz at home still smell like they were photocopied yesterday, even if I had them for a couple of years now).  The mundane things in our lives often have manifold implications: take the Micromatic.

   Micromatic is, of course, a brand name for those big multicolored umbrellas used by many sidewalk vendors to sell their wares.  Micromatic is synonymous with much of illegal vending in the Philippines: it protects vendors from the elements of nature (like sun and rain) and the elements of law (it makes for a good weapon for whacking urban development authorities from confiscating your wares).

   If anything, Micromatic to me serves as a signifier for the signified concept (so that class on Saussure was valuable after all) of ambulant vending: I take it that the original intent for Micromatic umbrellas was for yard tables and gazebos, but somehow the Micromatic best concretizes the abstract concept of illegal vending.  Rich people who can afford to make awnings for their outdoor furniture would dare not use something as garish as a rainbow-colored Micromatic, but it works just fine for vendors who peddle corn snacks like Japanese sweet corn or binatog.

   Yet I prefer to stretch the semiotic a bit: red, blue and yellow Micromatic umbrellas sort of speak to how Filipino it is to appropriate pedestrian space to participate in capitalism.  In other nations, there's hawking and the traveling salesman, but in the Philippines, nothing speaks more of the right to earn a living in capitalist society than to invest in a Micromatic umbrella.  Under that umbrella, we see everything that makes our capitalism so interesting to the point of humorousness: all this talk about "industrialization" and "information economies" still can't get rid of our needs to indulge in affordable, simple treats like samalamig and odoks.  If anything, the Micromatic to me is a symbol of Filipiñana: something that peppers our urban landscape as significations of how we view laissez-faire, and how we as a nation interpret Adam Smith.

   Sensible enough, if you asked me.  Often, the most mundane of objects have the most implications to our lives.  So here's a hoo-hah for Micromatic, and a hoo-hah for the sociological imagination.

< romantic experiment >

   I was talking to my old Philosophy teacher a few days ago, and what I expected to be a droning conversation on Charles Taylor's philosophy of language ended up in a pretty valuable lesson in life: some of the best experiences in life are often those situations where we are vulnerable, when we are not in control.  "There's a reason why the expression is 'falling' in love," he said, "and why the game is called 'trust-fall.'  You put yourself on the line."

   I can be a control freak at times, especially when it comes to romance.  Whenever I'm in love, I start to live my life in clockwork: weeksaries, monthsaries (I only got so far as a monthsary), dates arranged so that absolutely nothing will go wrong, conversations that won't end up in arguments.  I always took charge of the course of the relationship.  It works: I don't miss the weeksary or the monthsary, nothing goes wrong in the date, we never argue.  Often, I end up the one being hurt the most from a relationship lived like clockwork.  I take the plunge down to love, but instead of free falling with the girl, I use the convenient parachute midway through the fall.  The only argument comes with the big split-up: the clock doesn't break, it explodes.

   Somehow, if I get another shot at romance, I should be able to have the confidence to do the falling on my own.  All too often, I rely on a "bridge" to do my initial courting for me, and then I become extremely tentative and predictable when I do the courting myself after the first two weeks of proxy courtship.  By the time I'm in the relationship, I start to take control of everything: often, I'm too afraid of getting hurt or hurting my significant other.  My relationship takes the character of a general's war-room: if Plan A doesn't work, I go to Plan B, then Plan C, and so on.  In my first relationship, I worked from Plan A to Plan G: seven plans that went bust in my face by the time we split up.

   The way I see it, the most successful and longest-lasting romantic relationships don't take the character of the way I did mine: no plans, no premeditated conferences with friends and possible allies, no strategy by romantic design.  The most blissful moments of love is when you're tethered to nothing, throwing the lifeline of trust, knowing that someone will catch it for you in the 70 or so years you are suspended in free fall.

   Take it from me: you don't plan for love.  Love plans for you.  Dammit, I hate clichés.

< well then, kind of late >

   I was walking to school yesterday when I saw this huge streamer crying out the same slogan I've heard in UP for six years: "Fight for Higher State Subsidy."  Being a "traitor" to the ideals of militant activism, I sometimes think that this whole issue surrounding UP's recent tuition fee increases is something we should rethink.

   To be honest, I find more reasons to agree with a tuition fee increase than to disagree with it.  I don't agree with how the increase was implemented: I would rather have it that the Administration increased fees incrementally over the course of a well ironed-out medium-term plan.  UP should have structured a more relevant socialized tuition fee assistance program before jacking up the price of education to rather alarming five-digit figures.  Other than that, along with issues of transparency, I'm going out on a limb: yes, I agree that the current UP Administration was right in increasing tuition fees.

   The way I see it, UP is not the only state educational institution that needs funds from the government.  It is obvious that we are not the absolute priority of the government: in fact, UP is a distant priority of the government.  It is obvious that the government prioritizes debt servicing and dubious wars against equally dubious insurgents over social programs like education.  That's the way the cookie crumbles: we get the crumbs.

   Now we have every right to assert our right to more than the crumbs we get, but we must also be aware that we're dealing with a measly cookie that is the education and social services budget.  Giving UP more means taking away from other educational institutions that end up with less.  UP is not the only educational institution in a dire need of a higher budget, and UP is definitely not the only educational institution in the Philippines.  To say that "UP is a state university" must also come to acknowledge that it's not the only state university in the country.  If we deserve more, the rest should also deserve more.

   I agree: the government should spend more on education.  If we stand any chance to holistically develop our country beyond stock market economics, we must invest in the economics of intelligence.  A smart workforce is at the core of a smart economy.  But it is obvious that the government has other more pressing needs to attend to: after all, we put them there, regardless of if they cheated their way to victory or not.  If the public's mistrust in them is so blatant and obvious as so many "tibak's" claim, we should all now be in EDSA and overthrowing Presidents and high-ranking government officials every week.  Pardon me for being simplistic, but I think I have a very good point: now is not the time to talk about political science, though.

   To me, UP President Ermelinda Roman's move to increase tuition fees is a better move than to go to Congress and to the Senate to ask for higher subsidies from a government that will obviously not add a few more digits to the UP subsidy.  To lease out UP's idle lands and assets to generate much-needed revenue is a better solution than to keep these lands and assets idle to pacify a fear of "commercialization."  To associate with mega-corporations is a better solution than to churn out UP graduates who end up underemployed for the lack of bridges between the promise of UP and the promise of wealth.

   Beyond the idealisms of "higher state subsidy" lies the pragmatics and practicalities of good fiscal management: it makes more sense to improve on basic public education than to splurge on higher education.  If we can get our high school students to get the kind of learning attainments required for a smart workforce, we can get our smart economy.  With a properly and justly structured Socialized Tuition Fee Assistance Program (STFAP) that does not define assistance and stipends along the lines of a presence of a cellphone, we can get these kids the kind of initiative and opportunity to go to UP.

   This may sound shallow, but it makes perfect sense to me: poor parents who realize the potential of their child to succeed and to make better lives for themselves will not hesitate to sell the family cow for that opportunity.  They will run into onerous debts just to see to it that their smart kid will get the education and the opportunities they never had.  A kid bent on getting that education and the opportunity that comes with it is the same kid you'll see mopping the floor of a Jollibee, clearing the tables of a McDonald's, or working the cash registers of a 7-Eleven.  Can you blame them?  No: Filipinos value education, diplomas occupy central spaces in the home.  Can you blame the government?  No: parental love and personal sacrifice are things you cannot legislate.

   I'm all for a higher budget for UP, but I cannot expect that from the government.  If anything, those who drafted the primer on the tuition fee increases have a very good point: UP's needs cannot wait for the outcome of Congressional debates where the vast majority of them are disgraces for UP alumni.  Had UP continued to fight for higher state subsidy, UP would have starved and bled to death.  That, I think, is a good thinking point.

< vice city stories, anyone? >

   The concept of "vice" is relative.  As a smoker, I consider myself to be in good health with cigarettes, but non-smokers look down on me like I'm a pariah.  The consumption of alcohol is a vice in itself, but it's socially acceptable to drink at a social event, or to drink highballs if you're not buying.  There is such a thing as medical marijuana, and heroin was once used as a painkiller.  A kid addicted to computer games would say that the games sharpen the mind better than long division.

   I don't chew betel nuts, though.  Here in the Cordilleras, to "mama" (mild stress on the second syllable), or to chew betel nuts, is considered a "better vice" than smoking.  Apparently, the betel nut serves as an appetizer and as a dessert, as a source of strength, and to while away boredom.  These are the same reasons why most people smoke: but like I said before, there's really no good reason for anyone to smoke.

   Back in an NGO I volunteered for a few years back, some full-blooded Cordillerans who saw me chain-smoking offered me an alternative in betel nuts.  I was curious, but quite tentative: there is some effort in having to peel a nut and to chew on it.  Being lazy, I find it quite laborious.  Smoking is basically respiration: if you know how to breathe through a straw, you already know how to smoke.  Betel nuts are an acquired taste: I never developed a taste for its rather pungent taste.

   I know that smoking is gross: I don't even want to take a look at my lungs if I have the chance to do so.  I know I shouldn't be ethnocentric considering that I'm an anthropology major, but even my own pretensions of "objectivity" are tested whenever I see old people spitting out the chewed-up nuts.  I've vomited blood before, and I'm sure that the reddish-orange spit is no more grotesque than bloody vomit.  But I'm not so sure about the aesthetic value of red spit and chewed-up betel nuts beside a park bench.  It's not that I'm squeamish, it's just that my stomach gets all knotted up whenever I see the spitwads.

   Different strokes for different folks, I remind myself, and I take a deep drag off my cigarette.  Don't get me started on chewing tobacco, though.

< hmmm... >

   When confronted with writer's block while blogging, you write about blogging.

   There was a time that the blog was heralded as the "alternative" to newspapers, and that bloggers are "alternative journalists."  "Herald" (OK, the past tense) is an understatement: I've been a blogger long enough to know that this was part of the hype that surrounded the promise of blogging.  Which is a nicer way of putting into words what's really on my mind: "alternative newspaper," my ass.

   Since I mentioned the human ass, I'm not saying that newspapers are substitutes for toilet paper: but if you crumple it just so to soften it enough and run it quickly through running water, it works fine (after all, you have to heat a banana leaf to make it soft and pliable).  Paper has been around for centuries: there's no substitute for it.  The e-book and the Adobe PDF didn't replace the book as much as blogs didn't replace newspapers.  The Philippine Daily Inquirer is still there (and the past month's issues piling up again under the space where the aquarium is at home) even with Inquirer.net.

   In the 1960s, Alvin Toffler wrote "Future Shock," and laid down the foundations of the "sociology of the future."  Toffler's work spawned so many ideas about the "futuristic" world: we went back to Jules Verne, and we nerds gamble on the accuracy of Arthur C. Clarke's futuristic predictions.  We're still not at that point where we mastered artificial intelligence, artificially created non-carbon based life forms or created a race of sentient cyborgs with sophisticated sentience ready to destroy us all.  Even the antihumanistic "postmodern world" has yet to materialize: to echo Lyotard, at most and definitely not the very least, we are living in a "postmodern condition."

   Even the way we make sliced bread never changed: we still use this sharp edged steel object called a "knife," or some variant thereof.  Those who watch "Spongebob Squarepants" would probably know that "canned bread" is health food that Squidward Tentacles likes, but I doubt that will even kick off a revolution in the sale and consumption of bread.  Bread Stix is not "bread" per se, but a powdered form of "bread."

   I sometimes delude myself into thinking that in order to change the world, we don't really have to change politics and culture, nor do we have to engage in lengthy debates (particularly with French academics) about the foundations of (Western) metaphysics.  It all begins with finding something better than sliced bread, in the literal sense.  I'm not talking about gourmet baguettes or if Mr. del Rosario of Sunshine Supermarket here in Baguio spreads the gospel of Sunshine Raisin Bread all throughout the four corners of the globe (using a Mercator projection), but even that is sliced.  If anyone makes an exceptionally successful way to eat bread without using a knife or any other edge, we changed the world.

   Really, the "revolution" in eating bread consists of only one step: from breaking bread, we sliced it.  Obsessing ourselves with these "revolutionary" narratives of changing the way we perceive the world has led us to believe in the grand narrative of "changing the system."  We get a lot of our news in pretty much the same way it has been done since the invention of the printing press: by reading a newspaper.  The same is true with society: with all this talk of "resistance" and "revolution," we always seek the green grass on the other side.  But if Ginger Foutley (the main character in "As Told By Ginger") is right, from where I'm standing, my grass is green.

   I'm not saying that we can't change the world: all I'm saying is that "changing the world" means to get at the very root, at the very axis, at the very foundations of what makes up our world.  Sliced bread is a good place to start.  Call me delusional, but if we get around finding something better than sliced bread, we are all on our way to solving global warming and preventing the extinction of our species.

   As far as the blog being the "alternative newspaper" is concerned, we still haven't got a better material to wrap tinapa with.

< i'm such a sap >

   People usually know me to be a "writer" of essay-like pseudo-articles, but there was a time I dabbled in theater.  Seven years ago today, I made my first "major theatrical production:" a (cough) high school musical, a rendition of Aeschylus' classical Greek drama, "Prometheus Bound."

   Most of my high school classmates remember the "West Side Story" production more than "Prometheus Bound:" if anything, there's more fun in watching the dance routines of the Jets and the Sharks than to watch a rehashed version of the most overused story in Greek literature.  I can't say that I'm very proud of "Prometheus Bound," but I can't say that I'm ashamed of it either.  It was, after all, my very first play.

   The idea for "Prometheus Bound" came when our junior English teacher, Mrs. Raquel Luna, offered our class (III-Silver) a "special project" to capitalize on our "talents."  At that time, I was just kicked out of the Special Science sections for calling my Biology teacher a "horse," and I was really not accepted into the inner circles of my new class.  An idea of a play was raised: the only question was that nobody really knew how to go about it.

   My friend Andrew Santos, who was also a new student, offered the idea of a Japanese-themed play based on the "Lord of the Five Rings" trading card game.  It didn't really click, though: it was not a bad story, but it takes someone raised on animé and "Dungeons and Dragons" to understand the fable of Yoritomo.  In all my timidity, I raised the idea of a Greek-themed play: the story of a Greek god who stole fire from the heavens to give to the mortals.  Everyone liked it, but I didn't: after all, since it was my idea, I had to write the script.

   Andrew handled the art direction and the props: being an excellent artist, he really did a very good job with the background and the other stuff needed to make the play possible.  I was tasked with the unenviable task of writing the script from scratch and at the same time, I was also to direct the play.  I was dealing with 68 people I barely knew: 68 people who all had to be in the play because everyone had to have a grade.  I had the feeling they didn't like me either: after all, who would take directions from a reject from those uppity, privileged students in the advanced curriculum?

   Not being liked by 68 people is one thing, but when you have them memorize their lines and ask them to put a bit of effort in the play for the grade that's in it, "not being liked" becomes an underestimation.  I gave in around the second week of practice: people started complaining that it was "useless," that that play was "nonsense," and that despite all my efforts, I was not doing a good job.

   I would have quit right then and there, but then I realized where they were coming from.  I realized that some of them can't practice until the early evening because they had chores to do, that they had to help out with their families, that they really had problems of their own outside of a school play.  I realized that their negativity with the play came with life being negative towards them: that the way things are going, they'd always be rejected, that they will always be second best.  I thought I had problems when I got kicked out of the Science sections, but boy, was I wrong.

   Somehow, I realized that if anything, I was going to have to be a Prometheus to this bunch of second-best rejects: to steal the proverbial fire from the proverbial gods.  Students from the Regular sections don't get to perform in school plays, much less in crowded city auditoriums.  Nobody was letting anyone down: this was a shot at showing the world, and letting the world see.

   No, play date didn't turn out like the "Mr. Holland's Opus" thing we were all expecting: we played to a cold, indifferent crowd, our performance deemed half-assed by self-styled Siskel's and Ebert's.  I didn't care, Andrew didn't care, and 68 people in that stage didn't care either.  In the end, this bunch of second-best rejects welcomed me into their inner circle.

   We don't talk about "Prometheus Bound" whenever we come together for a reunion: it's something best left on the shelf in favor of mocking our teachers, of truths-or-dares, of laughing our hearts out whenever we think of those days gone by.  I think the lot of them even forgot about it... nah, I don't think so.

   But every time I meet an old classmate, I remember exactly what role they played in "Prometheus Bound:" whether they were Muses, a Greek deity, Prometheus, or vulture.  Often, whenever I see them, I get reminded of the real message of the Prometheus legend: not even the gods can take back the fire when it starts burning from within.

< oh please oh please oh please >

   Guys and gals, I never asked you for anything that cost you.  Nobody pays for a reading of The Marocharim Experiment save for your Internet expenses (prepaid cards, electricity, rental fees).  I never asked for anything from you other than a few minutes of your time to read what I have to write, to listen to what I have to say.  I don't get paid for writing here: in fact, I pay for writing here.  I choose to forego the niceties of eating out at a nice place or to add to my mounting bill of vices to write for you: to hypothesize, to test, to conclude.

   Some of my friends say that I could do a lot more than to write on free blog-hosting services.  The truth is, I can't really afford it: I still get my allowance from my parents, and like I said earlier, I never earned a single solitary cent from what I've written here.  I quit trying to "cash in:" somehow, the best thing I could give the world is what I can give it for free.  I can't afford Marocharim.com.

   Marocharim.com is not my dream: the Marochaholics have clamored for me to make Marocharim.com a reality.  The idea is to buy my own domain and spread the cybernetic gospel to the world, freed from the constraints of free blog hosting services.  However, as with everything, this costs money: I'm not about to plop down a thousand pesos of my parents' money to realize the project of Marocharim.com.

   Here's where YOU come in.  Join the cause for Marocharim.com.

   The other day, I wrote an entry called "Pista ng Wikang Filipino/The Spectacle of the Filipino Language," an entry for the Wika2007 Blog Writing Contest.  The prize for winning this contest is a few thousand pesos and a one year free domain registration and a one year 100 MB hosting.  If my entry wins, we all get the chance to realize the dream of Marocharim.com.  Forget the money: this is a free website we're talking about.  It's not just mine, it is also yours.

   So why am I groveling here on my figurative hands and knees?  It's rather simple, really: I need YOUR help.  I could get around blogging for free for the rest of my life, but free blog hosting services don't last forever.  The truth is, I can't afford to buy my own domain: there are just so many things in life that need more financial attention to than a website.  This is a chance for me to give the world a simple gift of words and ideas beyond what I can already do here.

   Join the cause: simply go to the PinoyBlogoSphere.com website and follow the link to the Wika2007 Blog Writing Contest.  There, among so many entries to this contest, you will find the single Marocharim experiment that took me a full week to write (against TMX rules, where you should write everything under an hour), entitled "Pista ng Wikang Filipino/The Spectacle of the Filipino Language."  From there, follow the links to read the entry, and if you think that I've done enough to merit a vote from you (or if you're a compassionate heart who would like to help a struggling writer in a dream of giving the world a simple gift of words and ideas), vote for the entry.  Don't forget to register, though.  It's as simple as that.

   Tell your blogging friends.  Spread the word, that they may also join in the cause.  Time is against us: we only have until August 25, 2007 to vote.  What's in it for you?  I can't make promises of giving you money or include your name in TMXSix the e-book or whatnot, but this I swear upon my name: I will continue to give you what you came here for.

   Join the cause.  Let me stand on your shoulders (or at least vote for my entry), that we may see further: that indeed, this is the science behind The Marocharim Experiment, and if it does happen, Marocharim.com.

< whoa >

   I'm going on record in saying that Bohol Gov. Erico Aumentado is a dickwad.  By "dickwad," I don't mean that as an all-too-common cursory expression: I mean that if anything, a good metaphor for Aumentado is that of a male tampon.

   Because Rey "Boom-Boom" Bautista lost his match against Daniel Ponce de Leon, the proposed cementing of the road in his village of Can-uling in Candijay, Bohol, will not push through.  Apparently, Aumentado promised Boom-Boom that he will only cement the provincial road running through his village if and only if Boom-Boom won his fight.  Boom-Boom lost, and the loss also cost his village a lifeline and a promise to national development.  Never mind that Boom-Boom lost: I don't know why Aumentado would even gamble on national development.

   To me, the term "trapo" (or "traditional politician;" derived from the Filipino term for "dishrag") is overused.  I can understand "trapos:" if anything, I'd rather vote for a "trapo" than a neophyte snot-nosed politician, for all the experience a "trapo" has in the Philippine political arena.  But I have yet to hear of a "trapo" who did the same thing Aumentado did: "trapos" will name infrastructure projects after their kin, and perhaps skim out a few million pesos out of their pork barrel funds to add to next elections' campaign coffers.

   Aumentado, on the other hand, is a dickwad.  Maybe I'm a bit too harsh, but I don't know what's harsher: to call people names, or to deny people the promise to improve their lives just because someone among them lost a boxing match.

   Somebody give me Aumentado's e-mail: I'll send him cotton balls.

< oh man >

   A few days ago, I wrote about the sad state of what passes for "investigative journalism" in this country.  Especially those "undercover sting operations" shown on Saturday evening "news exposé" programs.

   I came home last night to the tune of Julius Babao in "XXX" narrating this "surveillance video" from a strip joint somewhere in Quezon City, where the floor show highlights a woman smoking a cigarette through her genitals.  This is what passes for "crime" in the Philippines nowadays: again, there's a strip joint somewhere in Quezon City, where the floor show highlights a woman smoking a cigarette through her genitals.

   This might be one of them "talent night" things in strip joints.  I don't frequent nightclubs as much as I should given my age and my marital status (22 and single), but handstands, splits, and maybe a rendition of an Aegis song while doing the handstand or the splits can get a bit stale around the third Saturday of the month.  "Shower shows," or those nights where you pay to watch a dancer take a bath onstage (and pay extra to soap and lather the dancer), can get a bit boring at times.  The novelty of stripping wears off quite quickly, considering that 99% of the time, you'll end up with a naked woman onstage.

   But smoking through your genitals?  I've read more than my fair share of the works of the Marquis de Sade, and I don't recall anything that strange even in something already as perverse as the 120 Days of Sodom.  I don't even have an idea of how you can smoke a cigarette through your genitals: it's nowhere near possible with men, but I have a faint idea of how it's possible with women.

   With this faint idea in mind, let me explain what smoking is: smoking is to inhale potentially toxic substances found in plant leaves suitable for smoking (the verb is not limited to tobacco, but I'm not condoning anything here) through organs of respiration.  For all I care, you can smoke a cigarette through your nose, after you get around the initial irritation.  Unless your fallopian tubes are connected to your windpipe, there's just no way you can smoke through your vagina.  It's not smoking, by its strictest definition: basically, you're just holding smoke in.

   I'm no feminist, but I don't see anything particularly wrong with stripping: it's still a living.  Stripping routines are things I leave to the subjectivity of men (by "men" I mean the engendered sense of the word): it's all a matter of preference, or to use the term loosely, a matter of différance.  I'm not at liberty to judge how erotic such an act of smoking is.

   But if anything, this is the state of Philippine "investigative journalism" today.  To those of you who smoke cigarettes through any other orifice in your body (like your ear, for example), I suggest you quit now before the "investigative journalists" of this decrepit nation bust you in an undercover sting.

< orihinal na filipino >

Pista ng Wikang Filipino

   Kadalasan, sa ganitong paraan natin ipinagdiriwang ang "Buwan ng Wika:" magsusuot tayo ng barong at salakot, baro at saya.  Magluluto tayo ng bibingka, magbabalot ng suman.  Maghahanap tayo ng pagkarami-raming kawayan: magbubukod tayo ng ilan para sa tinikling, ang isa'y papahiran natin ng langis para sa palo sebo, at ang nalalabi ay puputulin natin para gumawa ng aparato para sa pabitin.  Sa loob ng isang linggo ng Agosto, o kung di man sa mga Biyernes ng Agosto, lahat ng ating kurso ay itinuturo sa wikang Filipino.

   Maraming nagsasabi na hindi sapat ang isang buwan para ipagdiwang ang wikang Filipino.  Ngunit sa aking palagay, sa tuwing sasapit ang Agosto, madalas na ipinagdiriwang natin ang salitang Filipino, at hindi ang wikang Filipino.  Madalas na ang Buwan ng Wika ay isang selebrasyon ng bukabularyo: ang pag-unawa natin sa ating sariling wika ay limitado lamang sa nilalaman ng diksyunaryong Filipino, sa mga kumbensyon ng balarila, at sa isang linggong tagubilin na ituro ang mga kurso sa paaralan "sa wikang Filipino."

   Ngunit limitado ang ganitong pag-unawa: ikinakahon ang wikang Filipino sa isang sistema ng pananalita, sa isang paraan ng komunikasyon.  Madalas na ang wikang Filipino ay limitado sa mga limitasyon ng pagsasalin, sa pagiging bukambibig lamang.  Sa panahon na isinusulat ko ang sanaysay na ito, sumasangguni ako sa isang diksyunaryong nagsasalin ng Ingles sa Filipino: aminado akong limitado ang aking kasanayan sa pagsusulat sa aking sariling wika.  Si Rizal na mismo ang nagsabi: higit akong sanay sa wikang banyaga (Ingles), kung kaya't higit pa ang amoy ko sa malansang isda.

   Dumanak ang dugo at buhay ang itinaya upang tayo ay magkaroon ng sarili nating wika.  Dumanas ang wikang Filipino ng pagkarami-raming isyu ng pulitika upang maging ating pambansang wika.  Nagbabago ang wikang Filipino upang sumabay sa mga pagbabago ng kultura at kasaysayan.  Kung tutuusin, ang wikang Filipino ay siya na ring nagsisilbing kulturang Filipino: ano man ang mga pagkakaiba natin bilang mga rehiyon, bilang mga katutubo/grupong etniko, kaibahan sa kasarian o antas natin sa buhay, ang wikang Filipino ang siyang nagbubuklod sa atin.  Ang wikang Filipino ang siyang pangunahing pamantayan ng pagiging isang Pilipino.

   Ngunit kasabay ng pagbabago sa kultura at kasaysayan ang "globalisasyon" at pagbabago sa pagtingin sa wikang Filipino.  Sa isang "globalisadong" mundo na Ingles ang siyang "wika ng komersyo at kalakalan," nakalulungkot na isipin na hindi na tinitingala ang wikang Filipino: kadalasang mas may prayoridad ang kahusayan sa Ingles kaysa sa kahusayan sa sariling wika.  Kadalasang "tunog-mayaman" ang Ingles, na ang kahusayan dito ay puhunan at susi tungo sa pag-unlad ng sarili at ng bayan.

   Ngunit ang ganitong pag-unawa sa wika ang isa sa mga pinakamalaking problema ng wikang Filipino: ang pagtalakay sa wika bilang isang bagay na walang buhay o kabuluhan, bilang isang materyal na konsepto.  Para sa akin, ang wika ay hindi lamang isang koleksyon ng samu't-saring mga salita na ginagamit ng isang grupo ng mga tao sa isang lugar o panahon.  Ang wika ang siyang pagpapakahulugan ng kultura o isang manipestasyon ng kultura.  O kung hindi man, ang wika ay hindi maiihiwalay sa kultura: maaari nating sabihin na ang wika ay kultura.

   Sa ganitong pagpapakahulugan, nagiging palaisipan sa akin kung bakit "pobre" at "masa" ang pagtingin sa wikang Filipino, at kung bakit sa tuwing sasapit ang Buwan ng Wika ay nagmimistulang may pista sa mga paaralan na kung saan talagang "ipinagdiriwang" ito.  Kung di man nakakatawa ay nakakabahala ang "pagdiwang" sa wika at kultura: hindi ito tumitigil sa tagubiling ituro ang mga klase sa wikang Filipino, kundi sa pagsusuot na rin tuwing Biyernes ng mga pambansang kasuotan tulad ng barong Tagalog at patadyong.  "Ipinagdiriwang" natin ang ating kultura sa pamamagitan ng paligsahan sa pagluto ng bibingka at suman.  May mga patimpalak sa kung sino ang pinakamagaling sa pagsasadula sa trahedya ni Sisa sa "Noli Me Tangere."  Dito rin natin makikita ang mga sari-saring sayaw tulad ng cariñosa, tinikling, pandanggo sa ilaw at iba pa, at may paligsahan pa nito.  Dito rin natin malalaman kung ano ba talaga ang pambansang ibon (maya ba o agila) sa mga quiz bee.  At pagkatapos ng pistang ito ay babalik muli tayo sa kulturang kolonyal: sa kulturang hindi atin, sa wikang hindi sariling atin.

   Totoong hindi nasusukat ang pagiging makabayan sa pagiging bihasa sa sariling wika.  Kung sa akin lamang, hindi ako nakabababang uri ng makabayang Pilipino dahil lamang hindi ako makapagsulat sa Filipino na walang disksyunaryong pansalin, o di kaya'y dahil hindi ako kumain ng bibingka at nagsuot ng salakot ngayong buwan.  Ngunit hindi rin nasusukat ang pagiging makabayan ng isang lipunan sa pamamagitan ng pagtatabi ng isang buwan o linggo sa kalendaryo para ipagdiwang ang kanyang sariling wika at sariling kultura.

   Para sa akin, ang Buwan ng Wika ay hindi panahon upang magsuot ng barong, magpakabusog sa suman o magpumilit na magsalita o magsulat sa baluktot at mala-librong uri ng Filipino.  Hindi ito panahon upang magnilay-nilay kung bakit si Manuel L. Quezon ang nasa dalawampung piso at hindi si Lope K. Santos.  Hindi ito pagdiriwang ng mga salita sa talasalitaang Filipino at kumbensyon sa balarilang Filipino.  Ito ay pagdiriwang ng kultura.  Ito ay pagdiriwang ng kasaysayan sa ating buhay.  Ito ay pagdiriwang ng Pilipino.  Ito ay pagdiriwang ng wikang Filipino: isip ng Pilipino, salita ng Pilipino, gawa ng Pilipino, diwa ng Pilipino.

   Maraming nagsasabi na hindi sapat ang isang buwan upang ipagdiwang ang wikang Filipino.  Sang-ayon ako dito, kung di man dahil hindi natin sapat na ipinagdiwang ang wikang Filipino.  Nawa'y magsilbing tanda ang Buwan ng Wika na masyadong mayaman at matatag ang wikang Filipino, ang kulturang Filipino - at ang Pilipino mismo - para sa iisang buwan lamang.  Dahil sa lahat na ito, sigurado akong hindi limitado ang Pilipino sa isang balot ng bibingka, at ang kanyang yaman sa wika ay hindi nasusukat sa dalawampung piso na may mukha ni Manuel Quezon.

*      *      *

< english translation >

The Spectacle of the Filipino Language

   Often, this is how we celebrate "Buwan ng Wika:" we wear a barong and a salakot, a baro at saya.  We cook bibingka, we wrap suman.  We look for all lengths and kinds of bamboo: we take a couple lengths for tinikling, we grease one up for palo sebo, and cut up the rest to make a frame for pabitin.  For one week in August, or perhaps all Fridays of August, all our courses in school are taught in Filipino.

   Many people say that a month is not enough to celebrate the Filipino language.  But for me, August becomes a spectacle, a celebration of Filipino words, and not the Filipino language.  Often, Buwan ng Wika becomes a celebration of vocabulary: our understanding of our own language is limited to the words in a dictionary, the conventions of grammar, and the recommendation that for one week, school subjects should be taught "in Filipino."

   But this understanding is limited: the Filipino language is boxed into a system for conversation, a method of communication.  Often, the Filipino language is limited to the very limitations of translation, that it is a coherent utterance.  At the time I'm writing this essay, I consult from time-to-time with an English-Filipino dictionary: I admit to having a limited grasp in writing in my own language.  I take my cues from Rizal: since I'm more used with a foreign language (English), I reek more of the smell of rotting fish.

   Blood was shed and lives were put at stake that we may have our own language.  The Filipino language went through a gauntlet of politics to be our national language.  Filipino changes to go with the changes and dynamisms of culture and history.  Come to think of it, the Filipino language is itself constitutive of Filipino culture: whatever differences we may have in the way of regional identity, ethnicity, gender or economic class, the Filipino language binds us all in being Filipino.  The Filipino language becomes deterministic of what makes a Filipino.

   But with these dynamic changes in culture and history comes "globalization" and a change in the way we view the Filipino language.  In this "globalized" world where English is the "language of commerce and trade," it is quite saddening to think that we no longer look at the Filipino language with the same accord and esteem we did back then: often, there is a premium put in English skills and proficiency than skills and proficiency in the language of one's motherland.  Often, we look at English as "rich," that English skills are investments and are keys to self-development and national development.

   Understanding our language this way is one of the biggest hurdles confronted by the Filipino language: an understanding of language as lifeless, meaningless, as something inanimate and material.  For me, language is not a mere collection of different words used by a group of people in a point in time and a location in space.  Language is what defines our culture, much less what manifests our culture.  If not, language is inextricable from culture: we can even say that language is culture.

   Given this definition, it puzzles me why the Filipino language is seen as "poor" or "declassé," and why every time we celebrate Buwan ng Wika we are entreated to a spectacle: particularly in schools where we this is often "celebrated."  If there's nothing remotely funny about it, there is something bothersome about the spectacle of language and culture: it doesn't end with the recommendation to teach classes in the Filipino language, but it is further extended into wearing national costumes like the barong Tagalog and the patadyong on Fridays.  We "celebrate" our culture through cooking contests for bibingka and suman.  We hold contests on who acts out the best portrayal of the tragedy of Sisa in "Noli Me Tangere."  It is in this spectacle where we see our national dances like the cariñosa, the tinikling, the pandanggo sa ilaw, and others, in the form of dance contests.  It is here that we know what really is the national bird (is it the maya or the monkey-eating eagle) in quiz bees.  After this spectacle, this festival, we go back to our old colonial ways: we go back to a culture which is not ours, a language we cannot call - and never was - our own.

   True: nationalism and national pride cannot be measured in one's proficiency in one's own language.  In my case, I don't consider myself a lower form of a nationalist or that I have no pride for my country because I can't write in Filipino without a dictionary with translations, much less that I didn't eat my share of bibingka or wore my straw hat this month.  But nationalism and national pride for a people cannot be measured by setting aside a month or a week in the calendar to "celebrate" its own language and its own culture.

   To me, Buwan ng Wika is not the time to wear a barong, to stuff one's stomach full with suman, or to force one's self to speak or write in a crooked bookish kind of Filipino.  This is not a time to wonder and ruminate about why Manuel L. Quezon is in the 20-peso bill and not Lope K. Santos.  This is not a festival of words in the Filipino vocabulary and the rules of Filipino grammar.  This is a constant celebration of culture.  This is a constant celebration of history.  To celebrate Buwan ng Wika is to celebrate the Filipino.  This is indeed Buwan ng Wikang Filipino: the mind of the Filipino, the talk of the Filipino, made by the Filipino, the Filipino spirit.

   Many people say that a month is not enough to celebrate the Filipino language.  I agree: if only because we have not celebrated our language enough beyond the spectacle we have for it.  I hope that Buwan ng Wika serves as a reminder that our language, or culture - the Filipino people themselves - are far too culturally wealthy and culturally diverse for us to confine ourselves to a month of spectacular and superficial celebration.  For all this is worth, I'm quite sure that the Filipino is not limited to a bibingka wrapped in a banana leaf, and that the Filipino's wealth found in his/her language and his/her culture is not worth the 20-peso bill with Manuel Quezon's face.