Different Loves

July 24, 2008

For someone born in the 80s, I’m amazingly technophobic. I’d rather use a mouse than a touch pad, a desktop over a computer, Nokia over any other mobile model. This isn’t paid advertising from Nokia, by the way. I’m just pointing out the obvious. Nokia is so much more user-friendly, from its keypad and icons to its interface.

Last year, the hub gave me a Samsung phone for a birthday present. Thin, maroon, and pretty, the phone seemed perfect. The moment I started pecking away on the keys, however, it quickly turned from new BFF to foe. How could it not? It was far too complex for my low-resolution, old-processor-run brain. A full year had to pass before I started using the Samsung unit; and even at that, it was only because my old Nokia unit conked out.

This abiding love for all things low-tech spills onto my choice of games as well. I’d pick cards and scrabbles over computer games any time of day, the lone exemptions being Sid Meier’s Civilization series and the Sims - before it got too complex. The hub could not be more different. A techie since spermhood, he likes to take things apart to see how they work. He tinkers with computers and putters about with gadgets. He downloads all sorts of things, too. If there’s one thing he and the little girl have in common aside from the nose, it’s this love for all things high-tech and electronic. A loves logging in to NickJr. and playing games online.More recently, all the hub ever talks about is playing diamond poker at a place near The Forum. He’s been googling top online casinos, too, and studying how to brush up on his game. I find this recent behavior scary - very, very scary. I know W well, and I’m sure it won’t be long before he asks me to go play a round of Blackjack with him.

 

1:06 Brown

July 2, 2008

No one should play drama queen at 1:06 a.m, but I was awake, and he was waking up, and I truly wanted to learn how he would answer. So, I popped the question. “What color are my eyes?”

“What a weird question! You should go to sleep.”

“What color are my eyes?”

“Brown.”

I poked him with a banana, and scowled.

He looks annoyed. “Is there a wrong and correct answer to that question? Because really, your eyes are brown.”

“You could have said ‘Well, at first glance your eyes are brown. But when the light hits them, they change to amber. And if you look really close around the iris, the color is pure honey. But when you look into the sun, they almost look green. That’s my favorite.’ But that’s a line out of a movie, and I’m sure there’s no way my eyes would ever look almost green. So I’ll give you another chance, and ask you the same question tomorrow.”

He looks amused. “Okay, but next time, can we leave questions like that for when I’m fully awake in the daytime?” 

Black, Not Rid

July 1, 2008

When I found out several pages of the little girl’s workbooks have already been answered even when she was supposed to do these at home, the hub and I came up with two theories:

1. the teacher had them do the activity in school, and turned it into homework because a few were not able to finish;

2. the teacher explained how homework should be done, thus giving Alex a clue how to do hers once she reaches home.

The second theory does not explain how she got the page number right, though. She could not recognize the number 46 even if it slapped her in the face.

Today, the hub finally solved the mystery of the answered pages. Alex has been letting the yaya read out loud the day’s Assignment Notebook content, flip to the book pages concerned, and read activity directions.

“But wait! The yaya doesn’t understand English.”

“No, but Alex does. What Alex cannot do is read, so she has the yaya do it for her.”

Given the yaya’s atrocious pronounciation and my daughter’s limited English, it’s no wonder that in one activity, Alex correctly encircled all “Spot the Not” items, but ended up using the wrong crayon color - red instead of black. Sneaky, sneaky; but I’m impressed. I can’t wait until she’s old enough to play Sid Meier’s Civilization. 

 

All the Wrong Ms To Be Thinking About

Messy and magical - it’s difficult to imagine these two adjectives in one sentence; but one of these days, I’ll tell you about something that’s both messy and magical, and you will understand why even now, until now, I feel like tearing up whenever I hear Sting’s Fields of Gold.

This, from someone with the sentimentality of a teaspoon.

Maybe a sandwich will cure this?

 

The Nevergirl’s Fact-Finding Diaries: The Road to Kanangga

I was 19 when, armed with the biggest enthusiasm this side of the equator, I went with friends on a fact-finding mission to Kanangga. We went there to investigate a murder - several cold-blooded murders, in fact - but I did not know this then; and so I went, feeding the delusion that by going, I was fulfilling every young journalist’s dream of being where the action is. I was seeing parallelisms between  Molly Moore and myself, only she covered the Persian Gulf War while I was going to Kanangga, Leyte in a yellow shirt and matching shorts.

I thought I would not survive the first night. We were housed at a center, and there were mosquitoes everywhere. It was my first fact-finding mission, you see, and while I knew we were going to a province, I had no idea it was that kind of province. I expected the touristy kind, the one where you could ring for room service or at least buy bottled water from a sari-sari store. It was not that kind of province. There were hills everywhere, and nary a sari-sari in sight. Fearful of the mosquitoes and the dark, I ditched the small, dinghy quarters assigned to us, and slept on a duyan swinging from a tree just outside the shelter.

Minutes later, L was hissing into my ear. “Get down! Quickly!”

“Wha-huh?”

“Hawa diha! There are plain-clothed soldiers down there. You make an easy target.”

In my naivete, I saw nothing wrong with being watched by soldiers, or sleeping on a duyan; but L seemed alarmed, and not wanting to upset her further, I went back to where the darkness and the bugs waited.

The next day, my education began. We walked to the site where the killing took place. The journey took three hours on foot. We passed by huts, carabaos, and children keeping house. Another hour was spent going up a mountain where there was no trail, where we had to walk barefoot because feet provided better traction than slippers or shoes, and physically push our way past grass that were almost as tall as we are. We held on to roots and trees, and made use of walking sticks to keep from slipping. By then, the glamour of the trip had worn off, and far from feeling Moore-esque, I was beginning to see myself as a prisoner of war, forced to march through desolate jungles.

We reached the site by lunchtime. I felt physically sick at the sight we stumbled upon: a bedraggled hut, a bullet-riddled shirt, slippers missing pairs, charred stones and wood, dried blood.

“One of the victims had been pregnant,” said one woman.

“Yes, and I heard tell there where children killed, too.”

I hunkered down on a rock, stunned, confused, hungry. Around me, people took photos, documented where they found bullets and casings, drew sketches of the area, made a map to the site, interviewed the guide. It was my first brush with violent death, up-close, and I had no idea it would be so vivid and terrifying.

On the way back, no one spoke. It was almost as if what we had seen robbed us of words. I overheard the organizers plotting out the next day’s schedule: exhumation of the bodies that were buried nearby. Hours back, curiousity - if nothing else- would have prompted me to tag along. I’d had enough of death, however, and nothing, not curiousity or wild horses, could have dragged me to the exhumation the next day.

To be continued (because this is a depressing post and the writer lost steam)…