IngliseraKuno

Compassion Fatigue. I did not know there was a name for what I was feeling all along. And the manifestations are all there: mood swings, migraines, weight gain, sadness, sleepless nights. Well I know what you all are thinking. These are the same manifestations of depression, and yes, menopause. But indulge me. I need to put this out there. I cannot remember when I started to have this notion that I could solve the problems of the world. Thinking of it now, maybe a factor is my family background. I grew up in a family of public servants, paternal and maternal side. So ever since I was a kid, I was surrounded by people who needed help: someone in the family is sick, or someone died, someone needed a job; and our role was to help. The worst I could recall was seeing a mother who had nothing to feed her children except sweet potatoes. I was on a campaign trail when Papa first ran for Mayor in our town that time. Papa was so consumed with pity that gave the mother money. Perhaps that memo...

It breaks my heart. You give your all to someone, and this someone just lets you down. So easily. It is not that I expect the same from this someone. I, however, feel strongly I have earned a little respect. I took the courage to take this someone as my own. I looked after this someone, just like any parent would. Up until this someone began another chapter of life. My hands were there to hold, to catch, to keep out the 'irritants', to push people who push around this someone, to give, to love. Yet nothing seemed to be enough. Everyone in this person's life is either inadequate, or useless. If things do not go this person's way, lashes go out to the world. The 'world owes me, I do not owe anyone', that's how this person deals with life. A victim in any circumstance. No accountability to be exacted from actions, or the consequnces of such. Even in our company, this person is a hologram, just there but really not, just wrapped up in a world not of 'us...

Studies I read about grief reveal that people go through this cycle: of denial, anger, acceptance and closure. It has been two decades since Papa left us and I have yet to move on from anger. I know. That is so over-the-top. Then again when your father was Edgar, you would understand. They say I took after him. Aside from the good looks, of course. That's a 'given'. Hahaha. But at the risk of being presumptuous, I feel I have Papa's good heart. Not that I claim to be as kind, as generous, as sweet, as loving, as compassionate, as charming, as smart. I would want to but (I just claimed all, actually) no one comes close to Papa. I guess any daughter would say their fathers are their first loves. Papa, to me, is the only man I choose to take that indescribable aching spot in this crazy heart I have. Oh he was not without fault, there were times when I had to watch him risk all because of his enthusiastic support to the breweries in the country. The funny thing is, whil...

The priest, in his homily during the Independence Day mass in Vigan City said that he would at times be offended when people say 'Only in the Philippines' abroad, as a snide remark to some news from the country. Like the Philippines is some weird, funny country tucked away where people are fed beans all their lives hence, the 'oddity' in their psyche. I wanted to yell back to the priest, yeah! I feel the same way most times, especially on social media where you read about how people see us. I reacted so cheaply to a travel blog where this woman wrote she would rather go hungry than eat Filipino food. Hindsight, she deserved to be called stupid, but she did not deserve the attention. Which brings me as to why I write this. Today, we celebrate our independence. However the intellectuals would like to educate us on history, analyze events that led to our freedom, etc., I would rather celebrate my Filipino-hood, the freedom to take pride in being a citizen of this country...

I was confined in a hospital for pneumonia a couple of years back, and I got this text from her. Apparently she learned I was in the hospital so she asked how I was, and if I needed help. I recall vaguely my reply, I think I said, 'Well, sis, I feel like I am dying'. Her reply was, 'di bale, sis, pag namatay ka, akin na lang yung mga anak mo'. What do you say to that? I was speechless, because I expected her to say the usual things people say when you are wallowing in self-pity, for example, 'Don't say that, you are not going to die', or something sugarcoated so that you would feel reassured. After a few seconds, I got my balance back and I was so glad she said that. Aside from it being soooo cute, her reply was the most reassuring thing I heard from anyone in my lifetime. Not only is she the mother of my Ana's boyfriend, Wilquin, she has always been a friend. Decades back. We were not really close friends back then but now is a different story. The An...

I have never seen so much raw passion, honesty and depth in a person in my life. I met him first in Davao, although I have heard his affluent-sounding name (well, not just 'sounding' we all know that) from the information officers all over. He handled public affairs for our agency, so he is always up and running, especially if we were in a crisis, which was often. We had lunch at this restaurant in Davao, after farmers rallied in front of our conference venue with placards bearing God knows what, beating up our agency performance. He was cool throughout lunch, discussed strategies on dealing with the anger of the farmers, and how to contain the damage with the media. He spoke softly, while slowly munching on lunch. If I were in his situation then, I would have been rushed to the nearest hospital for hyperventilating, and lunch would definitely be out of the question. I met him, worked with him several times after that, with him knowing my first name. He came to my province of...

'Di ba 'Tianne?', she always asks, when speaking of something important.  Like people would believe her if I answered 'Yes', or 'Weeeen'. She is often in need of validation. I don't blame her. Even as a kid, she was the odd one. She is the only fair-skinned sibling, and she was called all sorts of names, 'mestiza', 'puraw', 'kulot', 'ampon'. Perhaps she is an illegitimate child of Papa with some other mestiza out there? Growing up, she was terrified of strangers. She would peep from the sides of Papa's pants she clung to tightly, in the presence of visitors, looking at them suspiciously. She did not smile often. The only times I would hear her laugh was with our pet dogs. She loved dogs even then. She obssessed over Barbie, and Papa would buy her those dolls and other weird-looking toy people. Like any normal kid. The obssession lasted up to when she was in high school, and that, is not normal. She loved food, blocks...

He used to come to class in really short shorts, cropped jeans I recall. And a trench coat over it. He drove a red fiera jeep, always with this guy, 'ungga' he was called. He would sit in class with nothing in his hands, except I guess a pen. His chin propped on his hand, he looked at me while teaching with this air of confidence as if saying,'yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that already, let's get it done and over with'. At the end of each day, he and his buddy would take me home to our apartment near the school, did not allow me to hold my books home (but instead of him helping me, he would signal to his buddy to carry the books for me, what a gentleman). At the apartment, he would say hello to Papa and Mama. Linger for a while, make it a point to be charming to my mother, and polite to my father. He did that almost everyday, until Papa started to have interesting conversations with him. Politics, of course. Then they started having beer together. Ultimately, when he was...