Illustration by Van Kevin Opura Design by Karl Adrian Aguro
Experience is the synergy of the mind and the senses. Our lives as beings totally depend on how our senses capture every stimulus in this world – be it natural or man-made. The foundations of our self, our community, and our nation are products of how we perceive the world through the portals of the human body. Our identities and capabilities are not only determined by how nature chooses it to be; that it is also through how we choose to grow based on how we sense and perceive the world as it is. With this season of love, Today’s CAROLINIAN presents its first literary folio since its revival Kuris with the theme Senses. This portfolio features poems, essays, and short stories written by Carolinians that presents the intrinsic power of the human senses and its effect into our interactions with other humans and institutions. From experiences of the bitterness of unrequited love to the glaring sight of the ills of Filipino society, Kuris showcases the panorama of Carolinian experience (or inexperience) worth reading in your pastime. The Editorial Board of TC has chosen to print the entries as they are: no edits, no censors, just fresh products of the human mind. Thus, any form of error, in form or content, is intended to keep the composition of our entries as they are.
POETRY
Untitled by Chelsea Agnes Haley Go
Man was made with absolute craft, Brainstorming the world with each idea, and draft striving to innovate, and improvise it has always been mans vision to globalize. But in a world made instant and easy, Man is disregarding its real responsibility. It was said that Man is made up of senses, not using them right has consequences, Like the cry of pain, and the imbalance of nature, To the world today, man has created an enormous fracture. Isn’t the idea of globalization supposed to be, the world in unity? But why is man trashing the harmony, Making things worse, risking humanity. With eyes that can see near, and far can’t they not see the effects of war? Innocent victims sorrowfully crying Soldiers, who for the wrong reasons, are dying. With a pair of ears that could clearly hear, Will man continue to stick to the falseness of what they adhere? Pretending to be deaf, manipulated by money A problem not only one man is facing, but many. With lips that could acquire taste, Will man continue to endure this bitter phase, When they could speak the truth, and let justice prevail Or will they continue to send innocent lives in jail? With skin that largely covers the body, an organ that senses touch can’t man feel, that what they are doing is too much? Abusing here, and arrogance there Man’s trash is loitered everywhere! With a Nose that can smell the dirt in the air, won’t man show the slightest of care? Or is their concern too selfish, and self-centered, Does it explain why they have plundered? Can’t mans senses be, Induced
2
Kuris 2014 (Literary Folio)
with sensitivity? What is the use of feeling, if man can’t find the heart to feel? What is the use of seeing, when man disregards what is real? What is the point in hearing, if man acts to be deaf? What is the use of smelling the leak, when man won’t expose the truth behind a theft? What’s the use of taste, when man won’t follow this “fair” standard? What is the relevance of these senses, when deep within, man is rock hard? With a mind that’s famous for common sense, Man should wake up, and start building a fence! To protect the world in jeopardy, and build up a sense of unity! With jokes filled with wit, and a sense of humor, when will man be charming enough to soothe the tumor? I only have this challenge for man, That they could try to achieve in any span, I long to see them develop this sense of heart, and slowly try to mend, and rebuild what was once apart.
February 2014
POETRY
Monsters by Frances Paulette Gallardo
I wanted to show you who I really am, to give you a part of me I’ve never entrusted to anyone. Inside me are monsters no one has ever heard of, not even in fairytales. Each day I battle with them unconsciously for the sake of my sanity. I have been defeated countless of times but the world doesn’t stop there for me. I am the thousand shattered pieces of broken glass. I am the vapor of my jasmine scented oil whenever I light my candles at night, saturate me. I am the fragmented sentence of an unfinished paragraph. I am a girl who lives by fairytales and lullabies and falling stars. I am a scared little creature; so weak, so naïve. I built walls around myself to keep my guard up high and contain my monsters within a close parameter. And then you came my way with those deep brown eyes that shone brighter than my precious stars. And I thought “no, how could those eyes be a thousand times enchanting than my stars?” Then I got trapped. I wasn’t able to resist your desolate enigma; I took the bait like a foolish fish hooked by the throat. This is wrong; my monsters lured me to a surprise attack. But you held me in your arms, touched my skin and left me with goosebumps, whispered words I would soon regret to hear. You destroyed the walls that took me a lifetime to build. You stared into my eyes and blinded me but not into my soul; no, not yet. The way you ran your fingers through my hair, the way you caress my face, oh this would be the end of me. You stated your curse “I love you” but I’m so sorry I just don’t believe in love, love is beautiful yet a
http://todayscarolinian.net
hypocrite, a traitor. And you did the one thing that would change my life forever. It was soft and chaste but it hit me like Zeus’ lightning bolt. When you pressed your lips to mine I drowned and died inside. My mind screamed in protest yet my heart skipped a beat. “Il rumore d’un bacio non e cosi forte come quello del cannone, ma la sua eco dura molti piu lungo.” My heart is a traitor; my monsters have won as of the moment. But please understand that this is all so new to me, I wanted to give in to love and not hold back but I don’t know how. To know how it would feel like to give love and be really loved in return but I’m terrified. I’ll surrender to this sweet misery for now. Here, take my heart but please don’t break it. And please teach me to see all of these through a whole new different perspective.
Today’s CAROLINIAN
3
POETRY
The Dreamers
Tabula Rasa
by Arielle Olasiman
by Jessa Gonzales
They watch stars through smoky lens Brimmed with impure gold of dissatisfaction. In real times they search for fictional rooms Behind parking lots under doubtful functions.
A sore throbbing of this shambolic head of mine, hasten, Killing me gently, so I succumb into therapeutic rhyme; ‘Tis remarkable of minds to hold things of space and time, That of the moment we’re born to our future clandestine. This mind is jammed with a mechanical nostalgia… Where neither peace nor chaos is rightfully enthroned, Memories of bliss and past culpabilities yet to be atoned; Muddled and unguided, senses make a lethal anesthesia. Knowledge and corruption are, hand in hand, accrued As innocence dwindled down the sentimental slope, Where only faith and love remains a slice of hope; In a realm of temporal perceptions, senses may delude. Heed that life’s abode is but a cloak of material evanescence And worldly wit unrestrained leads to an apathetic veering; An empty slate for a soul that’s lost would be reassuring, To put this vexed poltergeist in my head to perpetual silence.
They hear the spring of the cord and the roar of lust Beneath bricks of shame, above rusty rocks. They listen to stories from changing times to crawling falls. Amidst chaos they stop, between armies they pause. Through shifting bodies, they smell the rot of muscle And the realizations of a distant doom. They sniff the mists from people’s abandoned faith Replaced by the confusions of a living fool. They taste sun kissed air from a place untainted by cities, Choking from the eagerness to lick precious damp hope. The ignorant swallow their pride but these men chew on it To remind them of the strength eaten by the fearless and bold. Along passing trains, they feel metal rushing beneath fingertip trenches, Filling thoughts with the longing of criminal recklessness. Every chance slides with the fake wind and almost solid smoke. Every moment of trust and promises fading behind a heavy cloak. Yet a prophecy prays about an incoming redemption Fueled by desperate hearts and restless minds of the earth. The Dreamers will be awakened and they will lead the March. The breathing line of true passion. The March for the new revolution.
4
Kuris 2014 (Literary Folio)
February 2014
POETRY
Sky’s Fan
This Oak
by Samantha Angeles Bontuyan
by Lauannah Maningo
I’ve had a share of the mountain’s eyes Have watched and not merely seen The weightless version of the sea with lofty whites dispersed all over Uncertain with the texture really I haven’t touched them Pristine as virgin, gases that came out of the green Became the obsession of my face’s centerpiece And the sound of silence was solely what my ears detected I mostly have a share of a citizen’s vision But as I perk up, wires obstruct the blanket of blue My nose rejects the gases from the tail pipes Car horns, ringtones and chatters dominate this locale Sadly, I remain a townsgirl But peak or not, I will never stop looking up.
The orange flame in the sky is dying, replaced by a cosmic hair-raising black velvet. A gush of cold heartless wind is blowing, forcing woodland creatures to nestle in their homes. Suddenly, a pack of carnivorous beasts are clawing on the red trunk, causing deep irremovable marks. But this oak tree, young and vulnerable, growing solely in the dark parlous woods, remains unfrightened – unfaltered – unharmed. For after darkness comes light, after cold comes warmth, for every paw trying to pull her down, comes faith to lift her from the ground. And every scar that claws have made, Are merely reminders of the trials she faced. This oak tree, young and vulnerable, growing solely in the dark parlous woods, will never be frightened – nor faltered – nor harmed by darkness or wind or any carnivorous beast around.
http://todayscarolinian.net
Today’s CAROLINIAN
5
POETRY
Death within Our Reach
Yolanda by Dave Bensig
by Patrisse Bea D. Prospero
Darkness blanket the skies Grief drips across her skull and eyes Her beauty that was abound Has now been nowhere to be found Her once vivid blue veins afloat Shortly unfathomable to sate ones throat One can only see her burst with unabated tears With storms that made mankind cover up with fears Trees are slapped with her monstrous wrath and austere blowing Until they all crash to the ground unmoving Poisoned waters, devastated land even polluted air Will soon cease man’s life and this planet in despair
Nabati ko ang laing pamation Wa pang unos, sobrang kalmang panahon Nabati kong kangilngig na pamati Nagkakusog ang hanging nasinati Nakabati na ako og kahadlok Samtang among balay imong gigupok Balation ko na nagsagol-sagol Sa unos na naghatag og kaguol Oh Yolanda, ang bagsik mo na dala Naghatag nako’g kusog na way sama Matumba mo man ang among kabalayan Kami’y di matarog sa’mong baroganan
Oh mankind, let this be a lesson and an incessant endeavor As Mother’s fever turned into a dreadful cancer This destruction will come back and summon our death Makes us no less than a criminal pulling the trigger of the gun to our heads
6
Kuris 2014 (Literary Folio)
February 2014
POETRY
L.I.F.E
D.E.A.T.H
by Alex Caballo
by Alex Caballo
In this game called LIFE,
DEATH as it have been seen,
The lines “something once lost
Can never be foreseen.
Shall never return...”
As living witnesses
May be the truth of truths.
To its painful suffering,
But the pain & agony it gives
Its antagonizing regret,
The hardships & obstacles it offers
And its resentful image,
The truth & lies it hides
It repeats its cycle
That this game has in store for us.
Again and again and again…
Everything in the game,
The DEATH that we have seen
Could mean anything
Was never acceptable in our comfort.
But, in time it would start to heal
The pain it has left us—
And the wound would start to seal.
A wound that sears at night
Therefore in this game called LIFE
And there, we see it tonight.
It would be best that we must
The cycle that repeats,
Survive...
Again and again and again…
http://todayscarolinian.net
Today’s CAROLINIAN
7
POETRY
Chirps of Gloom
Ang Loren sa Eden
by Paolo Manghihilot
by Alem Garcia
Radiant, golden lights Lovely feather flies Their chirps resound Eyes open round New day!
Buwak sa Eden Ngalan nako si Loren Yuta ang akong panit Panglantaw kong langit
Sense of blandness Goes with bitterness Radiance in murky Pointless in raillery Daily fever! Gloomy as the woods Tarnished by broods Bewilderment shrouds Banters too crowds Hush! Buzzing like bees Waves in seas Expecting to cease Words in grease Seal those mouths!
Di malimot sa bungtod kung asa Sa bata pa’y maghimaya panagsa Nahanaw sa kaniadtong gugma Loren akong ngan ngadto naamuma Apan niabot ang dambuhala Giwakli ang paraiso, karon wala na Nisukol mi, nakigbisog Sa yutang kinabuhi, karong natandog Ang kanhing Eden sa pobre Empyerno na sa mga datong Conde Mga halas sa kwarta Si satanas ang gisanta
Stand firm, smile Reach a hundred mile Make it lively Not too folly Ignore!
8
Kuris 2014 (Literary Folio)
February 2014
ESSAY
From a Lover of Science by Cesar Carlos L. Heyrosa People say my strangeness bothers them. They declare that it embarrasses them to be with me whenever I sing and dance all in a sudden. They say I see things too differently. They tell me that I am too uncaring for politics, religion, and the petty rumors surrounding other people. They ask me why I ask questions they see as trivial. They whisper that my love for science is beyond what is normal. I guess that is where all of this difference in views comes from. I just love science too much. I agree with them. I sense things too differently. When I feel the breeze on my face, I imagine how molecules of air softly collide with my skin. When I see rust forming, I picture in my head how atoms of iron grab oxygen partners in a wild tango. When I listen to the strum of a guitar, I glimpse how the dancing of the strings sends bands of air to a jig that my ears catch. Do you not agree with me if I say that these things are beautiful? All of these, in fact, are too beautiful that I cannot bother myself with shallow things that commonly plague the human mind. “Normal” people argue about religion, politics, why a naked Miley Cyrus is riding a wrecking ball, or how a video of a sex scandal was leaked online, among many other things. They look at why others are different from them, and then conflicts are formed, dreams are shattered, and lives are destroyed. Why can they not look at our similarities instead? My love of science has taught me that we are all the alike, and this “all” encompasses even the bacteria in our stomach, the waters in the ocean, and the glorious gas clouds in space. All the things and creatures we see, we hear, we smell, we feel, we touch, and even we ourselves are made up of the same particles that were present in the crucible that cooked the entirety of the universe. We may all appear dissimilar, but we are all one. Is there really a necessity to squabble over petty differences? I do hope, my dear reader, that you understand by now that the questions that haunt me are not trivial at all. They were born from the beauty set by the laws of science governing the universe. Imagine how history from the Big Bang billions of years ago has directed to the time when you first savored the taste of your favorite food. Imagine how the separation of the four fundamental interactions has given way to the minute when you first locked eyes with the person you like. Imagine how the nuclear fusion of hydrogen nuclei to form helium in the core of stars has led to all the times when your parents kissed you and told you that they love you. Do these not inspire in you a sense of importance as you continue to live in this universe? I invite you, my dear reader, to contemplate on what I have just said. Then the beauty of the universe would become evident to you. You would begin to sense your importance despite your small size in this vast universe. After that, you would begin to care for everything around you as you realize they also are of equal relevance as you. Would this not be a step to a better world? As you travel through science, you will be called strange. You will even be despised and rejected by some. However, is the sense of epiphany that may come to you in this journey not worth a sudden episode of singing and dancing? http://todayscarolinian.net
Today’s CAROLINIAN
9
10
Kuris 2014 (Literary Folio)
February 2014
http://todayscarolinian.net
Today’s CAROLINIAN
11
ESSAY
Inequality beyond Equality: Senses of Human State by Bryan Ramones We are living in a fair world that is created by a fair God. If the presence of day exist, then the shadows of the night would still cover the earth at the end of day. If the crystalline ocean would remain flowing the bounty of the seas, then the mountains would firmly stand on the roots of the Earth. This will leave the world in balance that is called the equilibrium state of life. Equal or unequal the presence of poverty and wealth appeared to give a strong impact to human life and became a common scenario in the society. But what really puts the world in the chaos of this inequality? The human endeavor for fortune and comfort, their great desire for power, fame and easy way of living, and their misled actions that results the tussling of the one with lower state of existence. Touch and feel; no more glands in the skin could feel the pain and struggle the poor would undergo as they go along the journey of survival. This happens if someone was in the hands of riches. That someone will try to be numb just to keep their wealth and power in the edge of their control. He will determine the fate of others with the name of money. Wealth; rich people lives with a golden spoon and walks through the red carpet. Owning big mansions but void. The father works, the mother goes shopping while the son is out to school leaving only the cute little dog in the mansion. Painful as it seems comparing the son of a rich growing with all the comfort, food, clothes, accessories and money but is spoiled by the parents versus the son of the poor growing in the streets bringing with them a tin can as the only available accessory, the roadside a comfortable house and the leftover food as a grace from heaven. The rich would always drag the poor to the lines of poverty for they can control them, leaving them hopeless and starving and treated like a slave. Fact; the underprivileged would always complain. They are the ones who first thought that the world is unfair because they were born with lower states. They kept on striving harder but they don’t use their coconut shells to look for the possibilities to find change in thinking an easy way of earning better. Taste and savor; how sweet is the food that is the product of hard-work and toil. Doing all the work with optimism and commitment to give the one’s waiting at home the outcome of this labor. How bitter is the food that is rummaged along the garbage bins. The starving stomach that depends only on alms, on left-over in a form of both raw and spoiled, and even on the smallest granule of food available on someone’s plate. How delicious is the food that comes from being industrious towards indulging oneself to corruption of the other’s blood and sweat in working hard. Maybe not all but most, the government officials are acting greedily and viciously to gain more affluence without minding their pledge of honesty to the society. They were the moguls ruling wise and doing their duty for their own good only. They are feeding the poor with deceptive promises and deceitful works. Essential or not essential; a single vote can make a change. The poor will only think of the current situation without looking on tomorrow. They will vote because they are paid. And soon, they will complain because they were not addressed with the best service. They will fell discontented and will suffer.
12
Kuris 2014 (Literary Folio)
February 2014
ESSAY
Smell and listen; ears are made deaf to hear the screaming voice of justice asking for fairness. Nasal tract were clogged to smell the killer fragrance of the rich, as they count the sound of the dropping coins and the odor of the new and crispy bills. They were counting the money they are going to spend while the poor is counting the minutes they are going to breathe. Riches; we do work to survive, to live and to gain this bounty and with our labor, we see our future and we also visualize our. But what would be the future of our children of today? At their very young age, instead of playing, studying, and making fun, they were being used as workers and sometimes played the role of being the bread-winner. They are suffering from ignorance of the modern world. With the same manner of working, our heroic overseas workers are also being scourged in grief and melancholy. Their future comes only in two ways, in safety or in danger. Safe; when they can support their family in their hometowns from the foreign lands without being maltreated. Only the sadness of being away from their family was the biggest emotional hinder in staying long from those foreign countries. Danger; considered being stocked at the midst of controversies or being involved in unexpected crimes. Some will return home cold and lifeless. The family they left will mourn and will throw all the blame to heaven. Truth; the money from the taxes that was automatically deducted from our government workers, where were they spent? The government keeps on increasing the debt of our beloved country for industrial and infrastructural projects but the question is, how are they going to pay it? The hypothesis that was made true by our citizens was that the money of the country were hidden in the depths of this official’s pockets. In the sake of verity, most of this governmental projects where in the name of fraud. See and witness; you, the one’s underprivileged, look not upon the difficult times of your life but on how you can improve the way you live it. You the one’s bountiful, please humble yourself and don’t be hostile desiring more power in your hands. Keeping the riches is not the point of living; it’s about giving and receiving. Learn how to look on other’s emotions and sufferings. Be sensitive enough to feel the way the poor can feel. You, sitting on the high chair of the society, try to be righteous and just. Try to look upon your nation’s need, how is it working now, and how will it turn to be in the future. Do well to your citizens and make wise decisions not for your sake. And to everyone who still breathe and live, don’t just glimpse on your tomorrow. Act now and stare to the point of inequality and change those intersections into the goodness of life’s vertices. Maintain the equilibrium of life by starting the change with the use of the authority above yourself. Start the change within YOU!
http://todayscarolinian.net
Today’s CAROLINIAN
13
ESSAY
Senses and Emotions by Charles Ferolino Human beings are driven by what they see, touch, feel, hear and taste. These senses help us understand life much better and we get to enjoy it. We get to make memories and feel certain emotions as we go along. Our senses make us feel happy, sad, angry, loved, afraid and sentimental. They make us alive. One of the reasons why people get so sentimental is because of the memories we share with the people around us. The memories that we share with people won’t ever change, while everything else does, nor will they disappear, like dust in the wind. We may forget them at times, but something may trigger those memories through our senses. When we remember them, we laugh, cry, frown, get angry or simply, just smile. However, there are things in life that we can’t always hold forever, no matter how hard we fight. Is a person’s destiny a thing like a cloud flowing with an inescapable flow? Or can a person choose the flow he wishes? Destiny is not always forgiving, it plays with us. When you meet someone whom you’ll learn to love, we may think that it was destiny that made our paths cross. But, what if making your paths cross is just a part of the game that destiny creates for us? In the end, you’ll realize that it was never really meant to be. It was just that destiny wanted to let us feel what love is and how much it would hurt. Nothing lasts forever. Forever is nothing but a lie. A lie that people came up with to have something to look up to. Everything in this world is transitory. When we have something in our hands, we should try to make the best out of it. To cherish every moment. To know that the time that we have is just borrowed and that someday it will disappear. To know that it also doesn’t take eternity for us to get over it, for our hearts to mend. They say that love is magical (it truly is!), but magic is nothing but an illusion. Human as we are, we are limited by our emotions, and when we get hurt, we’d wish that we’d never experience pain ever again – to never feel betrayed or disappointed. To never again let our fragile hearts be broken. But, the same thought also means that we’ll never know what true love is. Opening our hearts may be scary, but we’ll get to see a whole new world. When we love someone, it’s always wise to take a moment and just breathe. Life is not a race, so enjoy the ride! Nobody is ever prepared to love. Love comes and love goes. But, when love does come, how much are we willing to give? If I were to answer that question, I won’t know what I would say. I’d probably give it a day’s thought, but still that wouldn’t be enough nor will probably get that answer. I’ll be in an emotional turmoil. Like a storm in a glass of water. Yet, whatever happens and whoever sent our feelings to war, we should continue to believe in love and the adventures it brings. Maybe I’m stupid. Maybe it’s just my youth. Maybe it’s just me being a hopeless romantic. But, maybe I trust in love to give me a chance. Love hurts. It stabs you in the back and brings out your insecurities. It makes us vulnerable and feel so weak. But, it is in our vulnerability that allows us to love – and it is the greatest feeling of all.
14
Kuris 2014 (Literary Folio)
February 2014
ESSAY
Just knowing, that someone out there loves you the way you love them gives us that wonderful feeling of security and assertion. It makes us feel whole. No matter how much we have suffered and how much we have to endure, I would go through all that again. It’s worth it not to let go. To fight. To believe. Once we find that great and true love, we will never lose. Love is made of courage. Courage to face all our fears of the turmoils that love brings us. In love, we are not alone. We will have someone there beside us. If you’re destined for each other, the world can end – but at least you are not alone. It’s better to drown together than to burn alone. Sometimes people just need more time to get it, unlike other people. Not because they are insensitive, but because they are afraid. Afraid to take that risk that accompanies love. Afraid to take their hand into the fiery borders of self-destruction. Afraid to lose their selves. Someday, we’ll all be looking back to those days when we learned how to love, when we got hurt, when we cried and when we struggled. When that time does come, we’ll be laughing at our old selves, realizing how stupid we were for fighting for something that was never really ours. Should we regret it? Of course, not! Without our stupidity, we’d never learn. Mistakes make our journey more fun and worthwhile. Life is what we make it. Love makes the world go round. So, live, laugh, love and take whatever life gives us. Life is really interesting. You honestly don’t know what will happen next. Life can be a fairy tale that unicorns exist and falling stars grant your hearts request. Who knows that a falling star will grant my heart’s request? Or who knows, I might eventually see a unicorn someday? I am neither a saint nor an angel; I am just a plain human being trying to embrace life. LIFE should be shared and enjoyed, so create memories, good and bad. It is alright to chase rainbows and butterflies but never forget to put your feet on the ground.
(This essay is an original work of Charles M. Ferolino. If, in any case, certain statements or sentences may seem similar to that of the work of others is/are purely coincidental and unintentional. It may also be possible that certain ideas may have been heard from other people and has been lingering in my mind passively as that of my own.)
http://todayscarolinian.net
Today’s CAROLINIAN
15
ESSAY
Bakit Ganyan Kang Kachakang Mag Isip? by Alem Garcia Sa panahong lahat ng bagay ay nilalagyan ng presyo, nararapat bang isama rito ang edukasyon? O mas mainam na gawin itong abot kaya para sa kapakinabangan ng lahat? Dahil nasanay tayo na lahat ng batayang serbisyo’y may kaukulang halaga, hindi na natin napapansin at napagtatanto ang kamalian ng ganitong sistema. Ang pagiging komersyalisado ng mga batayang serbisyo katulad ng edukasyon ay taliwas sa nilalaman ng ating konstitusyon na nagsasabing karapatan ng mamamayang Pilipino na matamasa ng abot kaya ang mga batayang serbisyo. Bakit nga tayong lahat at hindi lamang ang mga anakpawis katulad ng mga magsasaka at manggagawa ang dapat makialam sa mga usaping ito? Pagtuonan natin ng pansin ang mga pampribadong paaralan. Kadalasang mga may kaya sa buhay at higit pa ang nakakapasok sa mga paaralang ito. Hindi na kailangan pang ihambing kung paano natin ito masasabi. Kumpara sa mga anakpawis, mas may kakayahan silang magbayad ng matrikula na umaabot ng mahigit Php25, 000 pataas pa. Sa kabilang dako naman, ang mga estudyante na naghihingkahos araw araw sa kaiisip kung talaga bang makakahawak sila ng diploma O mas masama, sa kaiisip kung makakatawid sila sa susunod na semestre. Sa ganitong sitwasyon, ating inaasahan na tanging mga anakpawis lamang ang mananawagan na gawing abot kaya ang edukasyon dahil sila ang direktang naaapektuhan ng isyung nabanggit. Samantalang, ang mga may kaya sa buhay at higit pa ay hindi makikilahok sa laban ng mga anakpawis sapagkat may kakayahan ang una na bayaran ang matrikula at iba pang bayarin nila sa eskwela. Bakit nga ba iba ang pananaw ng mga may kaya sa buhay at higit pa sa mga anakpawis sa usapin ng Tuition and other fee increases (T.O.F.I.)? Pananaw natin sa buhay at sa mga usaping pang-ekonomya, pampulitika at pangkultura ay nakabase sa ating Uring Pinanggalingan (Class Origin). Sa isang malakolonyal at malapyudal na lipunan tulad sa Pilipinas, ang mga Pilipino ay nakapaloob sa mga sumusunod na uri: magsasaka(75%), manggagawa(15%), Peti Burgesya(6-8%), Pambansang Burgesya(2%), Malaking Burgesyang Komprador at Panginoong may Lupa(1%). Ang 1% ang kumukontrol sa ekonomiya, pulitika at kultura sa lipunang Pilipino. Manipestasyon nito ang ilan sa mga polisiyang pinatutupad sa bansa na sila ang nakikinabang at hindi ang kalakhan ng mamamayan. Halimbawa nito ay ang pagbabawas ng badyet sa mga pampublikong mga paaralan samantalang walang batas na pumipigil sa walang habas na pagtaas ng mga magtrikulasa mga pampribadong paaralan. Sa ganitong pangyayari, paano naman ang reaksyon ng mga direktang apektado – ang mga estudyante? Halimbawa, sa isang pribadong paaralan ay maaaring karamihan sa mga estudyante ay mula sa petiburgesya o nakatataas pa na may kakayahang magbayad ng malaking matrikula. May pera sila at mas magaan ang buhay kung kaya’t hindi nila ganoo nararamdaman ang paghihirap di tulad ng mga anakpawis. Bukod dito, marami silang oras para lumahok sa ibang mga gawain at kasiyahan (facebook, twitter at iba pang social media).
16
Kuris 2014 (Literary Folio)
February 2014
ESSAY
Ang magandang kalagayan at pagiging abala sa mga gawaing nauuso ngayon ay nagtutulak sa mga petiburgesya na hindi makita ang ang tunay na kalagayan ng lipunan. Sa hanay ng mga manggagawa at magsasaka naman, natatali sila sa paghahanapbuhay para masiguradong mairaraos ang kada araw mula sa kahirapan. Ang kaibahan ng pamumuhay at mga gawain ng petiburgesya at anakpawis ang naghihiwalay sa dalawa para mas makita ang malaking larawan na kailangan nilang pagkaisahan. Sa kasalukuyan, masasabi nating komersyalisado na ang edukasyon. Sa ganitong sitema, tubo ang nagdidikta at naglilimita sa kung sino na lamang ang makakatamasa ng dekalidad na edukasyon. Nagiging pribelehiyo na ang pag aaral na sana’y karapatan ng lahat kahit anong uri man ang pinanggalingan. Ang edukasyon ay isang karapatan na kailanma’y hindi dapat lagyan ng presyo. Nakasaad sa konstitusyon ng Pilipinas na ang edukasyon ay karapatan ng mamamayan. Kailangang mahamig ang mga petiburgesya sa panig ng mga anakpawis sapagkat parehas lamang silang napagsasamantalahan at napagkakaitan ng karapatan. Ang pagkakaisa ng mga estudyante - mga petiburgesya at mga anakpawis - ang pwersang magpapalakas sa kanilang panawagang para sa abot kayang edukasyon. May mga paraan para mamulat, maorganisa, at mamobilisa ang ating mga sarili. Halimbawa nito ay ang pagsali sa mga progresibong organisasyon na nagsusulong ng mga karapatang ng mga estudyante at mamamayan. Ang paglahok sa mga organisasyong ito ay isang paraan upang mamulat tayo sa mga nangyayari sa ating paligid di lang sa loob ng eskwelahan. Maoorganisa ang ating mga sarili dahil tayo’y nabubuhay para sa isa’t isa at hindi lang sa ating mga sarili. Sa lahat ng ito, mamobilisa ang lahat para kumilos sa panawagang nais nating iparating. Nariyan din ang mga konseho ng mga mag-aaral at iba pang organisasyon sa paaralan at komunidad na maaaring maging daluyan at instrumento para mapagbuklod tayo at maisulong natin ang ating mga karapatan. Hindi ba’t mas masayang isipin kung pati ang mga anakpawis ay makakapasok sa isang paaralang nagbibigay ng magandang edukasyon nang walang pangangabuso sa karapatan? Hindi lang mga anakpawis ang makikinabang rito kundi lahat na nakapaloob sa tatsulok. Hindi kailangang gawing negosyo ang edukasyon. Ipaglaban natin kung ano ang dapat na para sa atin. Ika nga “EDUKASYON! EDUKASYON! KARAPATAN NG MAMAMAYAN!”
http://todayscarolinian.net
Today’s CAROLINIAN
17
SHORT STORY
A Taste of La Rêve by Reina Mae Felicia A. Caturza, BEd ECEd-MontEd 2 Nothing seemed more comforting than the taste of freshly brewed coffee, the sound of classical music, and the sight of good leather-bound books. Nothing, until you came. Holding an Austen book in one hand and the other in your pocket, I could usually spot you leaning against one of the old bookshelves inside La Rêve, where I always went after classes, on weekends, or whenever I had the time. You were, I thought, about the same age as I was, and you were amazingly tall, towering at a height of about six feet and two inches with short auburn hair that seemed to glow at the touch of sunshine and deep brown eyes that had never met mine. I had always found you enigmatic. There was just something in your silence and aloofness that set you apart from everyone else, as if you lived in a castle suspended in midair. Perhaps it was your fascination on books than anything else. Never had I found a lad who tipped the scales in favour of books than video games, for most seventeen-year-old boys had not an idea who Bukowski, Fitzgerald, or Emerson were. Judging by your veneer, I was almost certain you knew them as if they were your childhood friends. That certain day, I was busy writing an analysis of a poem for my literature class when the chimes at the glass doors rang. You went to a nearby bookshelf, grabbed a book, and sat at the table in front of me — a mere one yard in front of me. In your plaid button-down shirt and semifit jeans, you began flipping the pages of Wharton’s The Age of Innocence. You must have noticed the pair of eyes fixed at you, for you gazed up and stared back at them. You were staring at me. Unsure whether to hold my stare and smile or gaze elsewhere and pretend that I was not looking, I did what I thought was sheepishly foolish: I smiled. Next thing I knew, I was no longer alone at my table, and the eyes that were staring back at mine were now staring at the notes on my table. You noticed my commentary on Robert Frost’s Nothing Gold Can Stay and shared how you always thought that poem was about the death of a beloved. I chuckled and told you that interpreting poems seemed to be far-fetched, that interpretation was a personal concept, and that we always saw what we preferred to see. I must have said too much, for you did not utter a single word and stared at me instead. After what seemed like an endless, awkward pause, you smirked and said, “I thought I was the only one.” I did not get your name that day. After that incident, I always made it a habit to go to La Rêve earlier than I usually did. And there you were at the same spot where we had our first conversation, near the window and blocking the sun enough to capture the radiance of your seemingly European complexion. You never failed to greet me not just with a smile but also with a peppermint-andmocha-flavoured coffee on my side of the table — my exact favourite. Perhaps I was not that much of a stranger to you after all. We spent every afternoon at that bookshop-café, exchanging views on contemporary American poetry. Every day we would bring a copy of a poem or a prose along with our own analysis of it, waiting to be analysed by each other’s interpretations. We would stay there for hours just getting to know each other through our views of the poems we had read. I still had not known your name, and for some reason, I preferred it to stay that way. You spoke in a condescending tone, but there was something in your manner of speaking that convinced me you knew what you were saying. I would be in awe every time you opened your
18
Kuris 2014 (Literary Folio)
February 2014
SHORT STORY
mouth and spoke with full confidence. I could not help noticing the uncanny familiarity — a certain déjà vu or je ne sais quoi — that kept on going through my mind each time I looked at you. It was as if we had met in a previous life, in a previous dream, and in a concurrent daydream. I was beginning to be at ease with our setup. I decided it was time to stop peeking at each other’s lives through verses, that it was a great opportunity to know who we really were. Whilst waiting for you at our spot, I grabbed a table napkin and wrote the verses of my favourite poem, the one by Shel Silverstein. “She had blue skin. And so did he. He kept it hid And so did she. They searched for blue Their whole life through, Then passed right by — And never knew.” Below, I inscribed, “No more hiding. No more masks.” Perfect, I thought. I knew you would know what it meant — what it meant to me. We had barely known each other, but I had no doubts that you would understand. Of all the people, I knew you would. The droplets of water on the glass of my frappe were now dripping on the table. People were slowly leaving. The sun was already setting, but there was no sign of you. I began to worry about what could have happened to you, so I waited a little bit longer. Hours passed, but you never came. I still went to our spot every day on the same time, hoping you would show up and tell me how sorry you were for leaving me stranded in midair. Then I would say that it was okay, that I understood, even though I did not. I kept the napkin I had written on months before, just in case time willed that we should meet, that I could give it to you, that I could give a piece of myself to you. But that time never arrived. And I knew now that it probably never would. Part of myself wanted to hold resentment for you, to spill my coffee on your plaid shirt. But I had always managed to silence that part. Just like that, and you were gone. We were a short poem in syncopated time, an iambic pentameter sans a syllable. Instead, I thanked you. I thanked you for the time I had got to spend with you. I thanked you for the proses. I thanked you for the poetry. Most especially, I thanked you for letting me expose who I was not just to you but to myself as well. You allowed me to discover myself deep within and made me live the dream I had inside. Wherever you could be now, I thanked you for giving me a taste of la rêve. “So dawn goes to day, nothing gold can stay.”
http://todayscarolinian.net
Today’s CAROLINIAN
19
SHORT STORY
The Five Times I Followed My Senses (And the One Time I Didn’t) by Marla Arielle B. So, AB POSC IRFS - 2
I. I see him for the first time at the college library. He’s pretty in a way boys usually aren’t: tall, lean, with wavy hair and big eyes. Even when he looked absorbed, posture relaxed and unguarded, a part of him always seemed to be moving. He’d make his chair squeak by fidgeting. His mouth would twitch into a smile. His foot tended to shake and his fingers went tap-tap-tap against his table. Judging from his book choices, he was probably an English Lit major. I say ‘probably’ because I… haven’t exactly spoken to him yet. “You look like a stalker,” says Hazel, after she finds me peeking through the gaps in the shelves to catch a glimpse of the boy. “Why don’t you go over and talk to him? I don’t think he’d mind.” Thinking quickly, I grab the closest book and wave it at her face. “I was just looking for this.” She raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Art history?” “I like the visuals.” “I’m sure you do.” Her smile looks oddly smug. “Man up and talk to him, Himenez,” she commands before walking away. “And if you’re researching art, you’ve got the wrong book.” I glance at the cover, which has the words MOBY DICK in glaringly huge, silver letters. II. I hear from my little sister Kat that the boy is Dylan Salazar, a dean’s lister in her year. Age is yet another reason why I should keep my distance, but when I spot him in Chem, my heart beats so loudly it’s surprising nobody notices. Hazel’s in that class too, which wouldn’t be so bad if she’d just forget about the book incident. Then she has to go and get Dylan as a lab partner. Now she won’t stop spouting random trivia about him whenever I’m in earshot. It gets to a point where Jack, Hazel’s boyfriend, asks, “Should I be jealous of this Dylan guy?” “You know I love you. Besides,” she pauses theatrically, “Dylan belongs with someone else.” We share a glance. I immediately know ‘someone else’ equals ‘me’. I don’t know what’s worse: that I have a crush on a younger guy or that my life is slowly turning into a Taylor Swift song.
20
Kuris 2014 (Literary Folio)
February 2014
SHORT STORY
III. I taste bitterness and sourness in intervals when Dylan first talks to me. Both our lab partners are suspiciously absent. The experiment’s about pH, but I can’t focus because Dylan keeps making me laugh. He tells me his guilty pleasure is One Direction, he’s touchy about Ben Affleck being Batman, he and Hazel have in-depth discussions about My Husband’s Lover (“It’s thought-provoking!”), and he’d gladly have me over for videogames. “My papa’s on duty, so we have the place all to ourselves,” says Dylan. “Want anything to eat?” I look away from the knickknacks on the shelves. “You cook?” “All the time. Papa loves kwek-kwek, so I make sure his meals at home are healthy,” Dylan answers from the kitchen. “But don’t expect anything fancy. I’ll just microwave some popcorn.” I observe the frames in the living room. All contain the same people: Dylan; his father, a familiar man with kind eyes; and a woman, smiling and pale and beautiful. They look like a happy family; that the photos weren’t removed says as much. But why was it just him and his father? “Mom died when I was fourteen,” Dylan says, as if reading my mind. His voice nearly makes me drop a frame. He places a bowl on the table, plops down on the couch and adds, “Cancer.” I grab some salty popcorn, chew, swallow and blurt out, “My parents died in a car accident.” I regret the words as soon as they leave me. What did I think this was? A contest? I look at Dylan, but he doesn’t seem upset. In fact, he’s smiling, a subtle quirk of the lips that gets me staring. A moment passes where we do nothing but breathe, basking in shared experience. Dylan‟s smile vanishes when I prove undefeatable at Mario Kart. After a break — during which we get out some Rocky Road ice-cream from the freezer — Dylan is desperate enough to resort to underhanded tactics: flailing, blocking my view, even pillow throwing. “And you said you’ve never played before!” he says after my third win, pouting. I hate myself for thinking it’s adorable. “It’s just good hand-eye coordination. Comes with being athletic.” I eye his skinny arms. He crosses them over his chest defensively. “I do sports. Tennis and bowling and— ” “Wii games don’t count,” I say. Dylan elbows me in the ribs. We end up laughing about it. Victory tastes as sweet as Dylan’s smile. Or maybe it’s the ice-cream giving me brain freeze. IV. I smell floor wax and cigarettes, the scent of fresh rain spiked with car smoke and sidewalk piss. Aunt Pia is filling in papers. We are at a police station. My shirt is sticky at the shoulder, plastered down by Kat’s tears. She’s sleeping in the car with Kuya Lito. Kuya and I managed not to cry when we heard the news. Be strong for Kat, papa always says — well, he used to.
http://todayscarolinian.net
Today’s CAROLINIAN
21
SHORT STORY
So I make myself feel nothing. I’m as close to dead as numb can be. It’s as if my heart’s forgotten how to beat, as if my lungs have forgotten how to breathe. My hands are shaking but I’m not cold. I see Aunt Pia stand. I open my mouth to cry, to scream, anything. That’s when a kid sits on her chair, a little boy wearing a blue, Batman t-shirt. “Bugs will fly in your mouth if you do that!” he says, pushing my jaw up with a hand that smells of sanitizer, Embarrassed, irritable and feeling a bit stupid, I shake him off and say, “That’s my aunt’s seat.” He snorts. “No it’s not. It belongs to the station, stupid.” I want to hit him, but I remind myself that the boy looks about Kat’s age. I glare at him instead. “I came over „cause you looked sad,” he says, changing the subject. “Wanna tell me about it?” “Why should I?” I ask, wondering why I’m even considering it. “My mama says it helps,” he says proudly. “She’s knows a lot „cause she’s a psychiclogist!” I raise an eyebrow. “A psychologist, you mean?” “Yeah, that too.” The boy crosses his arms resolutely. “I’m not leaving until you tell me!” To shut him up, I tell him. I tell him about how I want to murder the truck driver. I tell him about how unfair God was for letting it happen. I tell him about how much I hate my parents for dying, hate them for making me and my siblings orphans. My words sound so absurd that I start laughing, hysterical laughter that turns into dry, choking sobs. Everything rushes out of me like water through a burst dam: emotions, tears, and nose-clogging snot. I must look pathetic. That’s when I feel arms around me. To my surprise, the kid’s trying to comfort me with a hug. To my even bigger surprise, I let him. He gets me into an awkward embrace and rubs a hand over my back as I bawl for God knows how long. When we separate, I’m not sure what to do. “Sorry for making you cry,” the boy says, looking shame-faced. I smile, wiping at my face. “No. You, uh, actually made me feel a lot better.” “Oh.” The boy grins up at me. “You’re welcome. I— ” He’s cut off by the sound of a man’s voice calling what must be his name. He turns towards it and raises his arms, saying, “Papa!” A policeman nears us and scoops Dylan into his arms. “Sorry. Was my son bothering you?” “I wasn’t being annoying, papa!” Dylan whines. I verify his statement. “Alright, alright, I believe you,” the man tells his son, kissing his forehead. My heart clenches at the scene, something I will never experience with my father again. The man turns to look at me, puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “I lost my own parents in a fire when I was six. This won’t mean much to you right now, but believe me when I say it’ll get better.”
22
Kuris 2014 (Literary Folio)
February 2014
SHORT STORY
For the first time, I find that I believe the statement. The policeman walks away, lightly scolding his son. I have just enough time to see his ID, which says his name is DANIELO SALAZAR. V. I feel pain, pain and more pain. Getting punched in the gut will do that to you. It leaves me overwhelmed. My legs are shaking. It’s as if the world’s been pulled from under my feet. Everything I’ve believed in for the past few months — assumptions, fears, hopes, decisions — has been turned on its head. That last part has less to do with the hit and more to do with finding out Dylan’s big secret. That day, I find Dylan cornered by three thugs. My mind registers the blood trickling from his nose, the bruises on his pale arms, the leader holding Dylan’s collar, and I snap. Grabbing the leader, I throw him down and kick him with enough force that I feel it through my shoes. His friends drag me away and help him up. They start hurling abuse at Dylan, saying things about his mother and calling him a faggot hiding behind his policeman daddy. I step forward and enjoy the way they cringe back. In non-too-delicate terms, I tell them where they should shove their insults. Dylan was more of a man than all three of them combined and he wasn’t gay. My rage flares when the three start smirking at me. I feel Dylan’s hand on my shoulder. Then, he says something directly into my ear, so close that I can’t have misheard it. “You— You’re gay?” My tone sounds accusatory, even to me. Dylan looks at me for a second, expression unreadable, before nodding. “I thought you knew.” No, I didn’t know. I am about to say as much, but the leader takes advantage of my momentary distraction to throw a punch. His fist lands squarely in my stomach, making me keel over. It’s not enough to knock me out but that doesn’t stop the pain. Like a flash, Dylan leaps at the guy and brings him down with strength unexpected from someone so skinny. He’s scrappy and gets a few punches in before they gang up on him. Fists are flying; clothes are torn at. I try to pull them off him but am not much help. In the distance, I see Jack and some guys from the swim team coming to our rescue. VI. The most important sense is common sense, my mother used to say. Right now, it’s telling me to stop, turn around, and walk away. I ignore it. Wherever they are, I hope my parents respect my choice. Kat and Lito do. As does Aunt Pia, which is surprising since I’ve always pegged her as religious. Then again, she is dating JR, who’s recently separated from his wife and has a daughter of his own and… I’m babbling at this point. My eyes look for exit routes. My footsteps sound too loud. My mouth tastes stale. My nose picks
http://todayscarolinian.net
Today’s CAROLINIAN
23
SHORT STORY
up his cologne. My palms feel sweaty. Finally, I’m standing in front of him. “Morning, Dylan.” “Hey,” Dylan says, looking up. I’ve miscalculated my steps and am standing too close. I take a step back. My tongue feels like it’s made of cement. I fight against it. “Do you want to, uh, maybe we could, I don’t know, see that new horror movie you were interested in?” Dylan’s smiles crookedly. “Doesn’t that sound like a date?” “Do you want it to be?” I ask, sounding ridiculously hopeful. “You’re joking, right? You already know about my…” Dylan’s words are stopped when he sees my expression. His eyes search my face, looking for any signs of this being a cruel joke. I surrender myself to his scrutiny, completely understanding his feelings. If only there was a way to convey my feelings without sounding cheesy. Could I tell him that I love his smile, his intelligence, his bravery, even the way he cheats at videogames? That when the sunlight makes gold flecks appear in his brown eyes like the way it does now, I find it hard to breathe? Dylan’s voice breaks me out of my thoughts. “You’re absolutely serious, aren’t you?” He stares for a moment longer, before smiling. “So… A date, right? Sounds like a good idea, Miguel.”
24
Kuris 2014 (Literary Folio)
February 2014
http://todayscarolinian.net
Today’s CAROLINIAN
25
The Progressive Student Publication of the University of San Carlos
OUR COMMITMENT. YOUR PAPER. 26
Kuris 2014 (Literary Folio)
February 2014