LIV 1

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Volume liv Number I

Ateneo de Manila University 2006

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Volume liv Number 1 Copyright © 2006 Copyright reverts to the respective authors and artists whose works appear in this issue. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced in any means whatsoever without the written permission of the copyright holder.

This publication is not for sale.

Correspondence may be addressed to: Heights, Publications Room, Gonzaga Hall, Room 206 Ateneo de Manila University, p.o. Box 154, Manila Tel. No. 426­­­–6001 Loc. 5089 thinking_chair@Heights-Ateneo.org www.Heights-Ateneo.org Heights is the official literary publication and organization of the Ateneo de Manila University Cover Design Genevieve Go

JPaul Marasigan Design and Layout JPaul Marasigan Printed in the Philippines by Midtown Printing Co., Inc.

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editorial

After 54 years, Heights is still able to come up with issues filled with the works of students who have only begun to develop their potential along with faculty members whose experience and commitment have led them to become masters of their craft. As times have changed, so do the writers, the subjects they use, and the words they choose.

MEvery year, the editorial board is faced with the question of setting the standards or criteria to define a quality literary or art work.

Indeed, there is always the risk of becoming trapped under the weight of precedence—to adhere to a single school of criticism or a medium of expression simply because it has worked before. However, the answer to this question must always be that there is none. In recognizing that every creative work is the product of the world created by the writer or the artist who made it, Heights realizes that there is no single mold or measure with which to define what is good and what is not.

Instead, the deliberation staffs look for a certain “formula� of words, images, and sounds as well as lines, shadows, and shapes to convey its message as a starting point in our discussions of any submitted work. But more importantly, we look for the unique insight brought by the individual writer or artist because this is what reaches out and takes hold of the readers. In this regard, every issue is a celebration of the compelling verses and images which have pushed the limits of what has already been said and done. Indeed, despite constant concern about the death of literature in Ateneo, Heights has continued vol. liv no. 1

to thrive. Readers continue to pick up their copies because they can identify with words and the images of student-writers and artists who understand the changing world they belong to and how these factor into their experiences.

MAs you look through these pages, you may find that some of the experiences these writers and artists have rendered may be a reflection of your own. Each work is a product of the inner workings of the mind and the conflicts that are characteristic of everyday life. In a world that is marked with complexities and limits, they have found freedom through expression in the written word or visual arts. Take inspiration from them.

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Audrey Trinidad Editor-in-Chief November 2006

contents

POETRY Lawrence Lacambra Ypil 31MMFive Fragments: A Confession Erica Clariz De Los Reyes 81MM Maaga Akong Tinuruan Tungkol sa Disiplina Jason Tabinas 91MMResureksiyon 11MMSa mga Tutuliin

FICTION Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon 15M Grimace

ART GALLERY Eliana Laurice Javier 31M Simply Feel

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Sam de Guzman 32M The Great Repression JPaul Marasigan 33M Sinisilip ang Langit Maurice Wong 34M Engulfed Miguel Mercado 35M Me and My Little Friend Noelle Alana Intal 36M Blind

ESSAY Martin Villanueva 41M He’d Rather be Relevant Lawrence Lacambra Ypil 59M Frivolous Words and the World

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Poetry

first prize Poetry (English) 2006 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature

Five Fragments: A Confession Lawrence Lacambra Ypil

i.

Why is the beginning of a story the discovery of a boy?

A dead one. In the garden.

Under a mound of flowers.

With his arms tied behind him, and his mouth shattered And his eyes flayed into stars.

A hole in his chest the shape of a key.

Why is the beginning of a boy the telling of a story? ii.

Let’s say there’s a boy who lives at the end of the street who likes flowers; grows them. Tends them in a pot that’s orange to match the table he puts it on, which is brown. Right under the east window to catch the sun at its brightest, its yellowest. vol. liv no. 1

Orange pot, living flower, sun of all colors! in a hierarchy of hope.

And an otherwise happy picture: What does he think of when he wipes the dust off the leaves?

Where does the water come from at night?

Only he doesn’t leave it.

What do you think of when I say: Beautiful garden of his world.

When he writes in his diary: beautiful garden of my room.

Confession: When I came out to my mom, it was night. We were in the sala. And there was no one else in the house. She had asked the question, so all I had to do was answer. The one who asks the question risks the bigger mistake. So she was in tears and I was thinking of my boyfriend.

When she was asking the question, I was thinking of what story I could tell to make her stop.

Let us say the room of the boy is locked and no one can open it because the key is inside. In the belly of the boy. In its tendrilled lock.

Having swallowed the key in a fit of fear.

Let us say he reads a book in the morning after watering the plants In the beginning was the Word and he does not understand it because

the Word was with God and he was alone.

And the Word was God; and he didn’t believe it because although

he was in the beginning with God he was in the beginning by himself standing stiff on the fulcrum of his heart.

Let us say that this is a story that fixes the parts of this room to the natural movement of the boy’s desires when he rises from his bed of petals to water the world.

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Let us say we know his name. iii.

And we have called him it when he was out of hearing, or at its edges. Murmured our snides to his back while his arms a-flutter. And his fine hands hold a tip of his glass for his lip to kiss. And this seemed enough evidence for us. For the longest time. while his mother’s pregnant wish for a girl bloomed his aromatic amniotic fluid.

We believed the books of Science would herald in a new age iv. and all the old sins be forgiven: all its ribbons. The pins for each part of the body and the long, tedious experiment of its reading.

Knife of the eye on the eye, and one slit precisely the wide girth of the hand and the belly, shin of the leg to the edge of the foot, till one reached the hole of the mouth where slept the tongue with its many questions: presuming you needed these questions: What is the longest vein of the body?

What lay posterior to the heart?

What is the pubis? -A confession: Forgive me/father, my words, for they have sinned. I have no control over them. Especially at night. When I sleep with my mouth open, my legs open, my hand--- Three times last week; and I couldn’t get enough vol. liv no. 1

of it. Not when the man from across the street cleaned his car every morning without a shirt on and I could see his glorious body glisten where the sun hit the water and he scrubbed wind-shield, rearview mirror, edge of the bumper, roof of the car, rear of the car, scrubbed / clean / rough, shiny edge of the left door, left tire, right, round hard steering wheel, polished smoothly without scratch, smooth corner of the car, headlights, till he jacked open the belly of the car, slid under to look under it, with his legs / wide / open.

The world was shining with what I could not understand.

In grade school, one Valentine’s day, the boy who sat at the back of the class held in his hands my heart and he didn’t know it. What pain when he slammed his hands on the desk! And the teacher asked: You. You have a question?

I had a question. I had a question to end all questions. All of them. v.

When the mouth had screamed its dark secret from its dark center and the eye held intently the gaze of the suffering world--Whoever said it was going to be quiet after?

I was five and holding into the air a bowl of marbles catching the light of the day. When I felt a strong wind blow from above my head the leaves that had covered the window from next door. And I saw from where I stood what I was not:

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Hand in the sleeve of a shirt.

Hair mid-way between what it covered.

Someone wanting to kiss the thin bone of a woman who did not.

The enterprise of shock at the level of description where what was hidden became violent became beautiful.

The day after, I did not want to be touched. Slow days long after. Long into the cruel aesthetic of the slow years that were spent not moving.

Fixed into that place in the garden years ago where instead of the sympathy for the maimed I was filled with the wish to enter the picture of the window in any way.

Anyway, it was not my story. This was: O Adam, O lonely lonely Adam before you were split into Eve--

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first prize Timpalak Tula Filipino Department

Maaga Akong Tinuruan Tungkol sa Disiplina Erica Clariz De Los Reyes

Nakatayo sa harapan ng pintuan ng banyo, namimilipit, kinikilig, ang mumunting kamay iniipit sa pagitan ng mga hita, sinabi sa akin ni Inay ang halaga ng pagpipigil.

Hindi ako maaaring bumigay sa sariling kama sa gabi o sa silid-aralan habang nagkaklase – ang turo ng mga matatanda (at huwag itong pakalilimutan nang hindi maparusahan!): ang dumi ng tao ay nabibilang sa banyo at sa banyo lamang hindi sa mga pader ng kanto hindi sa mga gulong ng sasakyan hindi sa gilid ng mga basurahan hindi sa likuran ng restawran hindi sa damuhan basta wala ka sa palikuran ay bawal ang mag-kuwan!

Nang buksan na niya ang pinto at nagmadali akong umupo sa marmol na trono, naalala ko ang mahalagang bilin: maupo na para bang isang prinsesa. Magpunas. Mag-flush.

Maghugas.

At nang pinakawalan ko ang pilak na pindutan, umikot nang umikot nang umikot nang mabilis ang utos ni Inay na maging malinis

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Resureksiyon Jason Tabinas

(Mary Higby) Scweitzer gazed through a microscope in her laboratory at North Carolina State University and saw lifelike tissue that had no business inhabiting a fossilized dinosaur skeleton....

MThis discovery gives immensely powerful support to the proposition that dinosaurs were mostly fossilized‌a few thousand years ago at most.

MThe reports were quickly embraced by biblical literalists who believe God created life on earth less than 10,000 years ago.

MNow there is no clear limit to how far science can go in bringing back the past. —discover, April 2006

Hamak na ang nalabi mo’y nagiging likido sa patak ng asido. Ikinakahon ang iyong buhay sa lumuting nakaraan, hindi makahulagpos sa kipot ng pagtatakda sa iyong pag-iral: maringal sa binting banat sa pag-igkas, kalamnang nagpapauga sa lupa, pikpik na pangil, at parang mga bagwis na kamay na hindi na kailanman gagalaw.

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Subalit ngayo’y tumututol kang hamakin sa pagkakabaon sa lumisang panahon.

Natisod ang dilat na siyentista ng pumipintig mong pulso: litid, selulang buo, at mga ugat na animo’y umaahong mga kamay.

Ikaw ang humahamak sa gulang ng daigdig na nasa sinapupunan pa lang ng panahon: sampung libong taon, hindi bilyon.

At kung susuyurin ang hiwaga ng bawat litid, hindi malayong huminga ang imahen sa malikot na haraya ng mga dalubhasa: magbabalik ang iyong mga yapak sa ibabaw ng lupang matagal ring sa iyo’y yumakap.

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third prize Timpalak Tula Filipino Department

Sa mga Tutuliin

Maghubad ka sa lilim ng kawayan.

Simulang isalin ang init ng lawas sa pagkuskos ng yelo sa iyong balat.

Damhin mo ang lamig hanggang hindi mo na maramdaman.

Marahang maupo sa bato. Magpapiring at pawalan ang sarili sa yakap ng dilim. Huwag mong isipin ang dahan-dahang pagpasok ng pato-patong wari’y tinik sa pagitan ng balat at laman.

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Sa halip, damhin mo ang paypay ng matutulis na dahon ng kawayan.

Sa paglapat ng talim ng labaha sa saliw ng tak-tak-tak tak-tak, isipin mong hindi iigpaw sa haraya ang nakabaong alaala ng pagkahiwa ng iyong hinlalaki noong naglaro ka ng kutsilyo.

Akuin mong dinudugo ka sa pagbatak ng hiniwang balat na lalagyan ng nginuyang dahon ng bayabas at sariling laway.

Mahihinto rin yan sa pagsuklob ng bado-bado at pagbigkis ng tela sa palibot.

Marahang harapin ang sinag ng araw sa pagtanggal ng piring.

Tumayo ka, unatin ang bisig, lawas, at binti nang di masaring ng malugod na paanyaya ng pag-idlip.

Magpalda.

Dahan-dahang taluntunin ang pilapil habang hawak-hawak ang aring tigmak sa dugo, mabigat sa yerba’ t laway, at kumapal sa tela at balat na nagpatong.

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Fiction

Grimace

Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

“put it on,” instructed Vic, the branch manager, before he left the storage room.

MDexter stared at the large heap of purple fabric sitting in the corner.

Even without a person inside it, the Grimace costume was as tall as he was and twice as wide. It was made of two main pieces: a pearshaped torso with all four limbs already attached, and a head with large plastic eyes and a hollowed-out smile.

MThe mascot’s identity was something to ponder over. With or without someone inside it, the costume remained a huge, purple, indistinguishable blob. What Grimace was had always provided bored lunch-goers with something to debate about, and there were three popular assumptions.

MThe first was that Grimace was a blueberry shake. Back in the eighties in the United States, blueberry shakes were a part of the McDonald’s menu. But why make a mascot of thick liquid? Why not a drink container mascot? And if Grimace was based on something that existed somewhere else two decades ago, why have him in the Philippines at all?

MThe second was that Grimace was everyone’s inner child. Grimace, vol. liv no. 1

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supposedly, represented the faculty of wonder. Why McDonald’s felt that wonder should look like a big purple lout was the problem.

MThe third was that Grimace was a taste bud. This made slightly more sense. Since McDonald’s was an eating establishment, having a taste bud mascot seemed logical enough, albeit eccentric. And it looked more like a taste bud than it did a blueberry shake.

MBut the biggest problem about Grimace, which immediately affected whatever it was, was its name. Why call the mascot Grimace? The word implied disapproval, which was the last thing one would want from an advocate of a fast food chain. It didn’t seem likely of McDonald’s to promote an unhappy palate or an unhappy inner child. Plus, the mascot was always smiling. Why call it Grimace if it never does? Why didn’t anyone bother changing its name?

MOf course, all these mental crises were not evident to Dexter, who had been a trainee at McDonald’s for almost three weeks. He never questioned why Grimace was what it was. He wasn’t going to spend his time speculating on a big piece of foam. There were other, more harrowing things on his mind, things like: You’re about to prance around in a big piece of foam.

MDexter approached the costume cautiously. He picked the head up and stared deep into its scratched, plastic eyes. He was going to become this, because this, apparently, was what “miscellaneous tasks” meant on his application form. An almost hysterical sadness surged through him.

MHe was a familiar face among his fellow scholars and Dean’s Listers at the university across the street, so if anyone found out about him and Grimace, they all would. It would have been bad enough to be seen working the sundae machine or buffing up the Ronald McDonald on the sidewalk, which had happened a few times already. It was a lowly job for someone as smart as he was.

MStill, nothing would be more humiliating than to be caught dancing around in a Grimace costume. He would never wish the wrong kind of attention on himself.

MIt was Dexter’s sense of duty that kept him from running off. Though 16

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his scholarship covered every bit of his private school tuition, food, transportation, books and all those other little beasts still gnawed at his heels. If he didn’t attend to them, he feared that his life as a top student—along with his dream of becoming someone of significance— could be over. The problem was, all his old tutoring jobs had fizzled out one by one. The kids he taught found him too overbearing.

MThe little commercial district across his school was his only other option, and the McDonald’s job was the only one available at the time.

It was a far cry from the more cerebral chores he was used to, but it was in the right location and fit his schedule best. It would have been more foolish not to give it a try. At least, that was how Dexter reasoned it out with himself before he took the job.

MDexter jutted his lip out a little. Grimace continued to stare back, its eyes wide, wide open, urging him to zip up.

MHe set the head aside, stripped to his shorts and undershirt and heaved the torso upright. It was heavy, and it took him a minute to shuffle towards the zipper running down its back. He pulled it down to reveal darkness, stepped inside and found it to be a particularly warm and itchy darkness. As he began adjusting his lanky limbs to Grimace’s fat frame, he could feel an extra, despicable heaviness hugging his skin. It was from neither the foam nor the fabric.

MAnd then, the head; it took some time for the new, plump Dexter to bend over and pick it up, and when he finally did, he gave it one last look of disdain. He turned the head around and placed it over his own, a tight fit because of his thick glasses It was as dark as he expected.

M“Ready?” a voice asked through the door. Before Dexter could say anything, Vic burst in and tugged the torso’s zipper up. “The kids are getting bored.” He escorted Dexter out of the storage room, through the kitchen and out into the dining area, guiding him by his huge, grapey paw.

MDexter was relieved that there was someone to maneuver his bulk around. It was difficult to walk in Grimace’s huge, padded feet and to see clearly through Grimace’s meshed mouth. He felt handicapped— imperfect, incompetent, fodder for the diners’ pity and amusement. vol. liv no. 1

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He could feel their eyes prying through the purple, trying to figure out what the sad fuck inside looked like. At least Vic would be by his side throughout all of it.

M“I’ll leave you here,” Vic said as they approached the glass-walled party room.

MDexter jerked to a stop, bear-hugging Vic for balance.

M“You can’t leave me here!” Dexter gasped during their embrace.

M“You’ll do fine,” Vic replied, pulling away. He placed a hand on Grimace’s shoulder and looked into Grimace’s mouth. “Just dance around and be nice. Anybody can do that.”

MDexter wished Vic could see the absolute panic in his eyes.

M“I have to go, Dex. I have a lot more to do.”

MThe moment Vic left, a mob of small, screaming children gathered at Dexter’s feet, pounding on his belly. Dexter couldn’t tell whether the glint in their eyes was of wonder or murderous intent.

M“Look, kids! It’s Grimace!” a muffled voice exclaimed.

MDexter recognized Mayelle, one of his fellow trainees, holding a microphone and waving at him from inside the party room. He waved back reluctantly.

M“Come on, kids!” Mayelle continued, hyped up on something Dexter couldn’t distinguish. “Bring Grimace in! Woohoo! Goooo Grimaaaaace!”

MDexter yelped as a dozen tiny hands pulled his fur towards the glass door. Once the kids had pulled him completely inside, he felt an immediate, overwhelming alarm. Every bit of the celebration was right before him, and though Dexter could see and hear little from inside the suit, whatever little he saw and heard was frightening enough.

MThe music was the first thing that jarred him. It was “Jumbo Hotdog,” a hit by a group of topless, muscle-bound men called the Masculados.

MDexter hated these novelty songs. There was nothing novel about bad, sexual metaphors set against a bass-laden melody. It was mindless, vulgar and hideously catchy. It made him want to boogie for all the wrong reasons, to dance and feel disgust at the same time. The fact that it was on full blast at a children’s party made things worse, not to 18

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mention that some children were singing along by memory.

M“Jum-bo hotdog, kaya mo ba ’to?” a little girl in a little pink jumper sang in her little voice, wiggling her little body to the synthesized song.

“Kaya mo ba ‘to? Kaya mo ba ’to?”

MDexter was also disturbed by the decorations. It wasn’t just because of the gigantic tarp with a single picture of the birthday boy stretched out and pixilated. It was also because the image of Grimace waving was on every other printed surface he could see, his smiling purple face like some all-pervading force. There were Grimaces waving from placemats, Grimaces waving from table napkins, Grimaces waving from posters, Grimaces waving from cardboard party hats, Grimaces waving from loot bags, Grimaces waving from pencil-toppers sticking out of the loot bags.

MNow all we need is Grimace, Dexter thought, rolling his eyes. Then he remembered that he was hot, itchy and looking through a hole.

M“Grimace! Grimace!” a grown-up man with a digicam called out in excitement. “Quick! Quick! Take a picture with Miko!” Sitting stiffly beside the man was the birthday boy, normal-sized and un-pixilated but with a look on his face that was very much distorted.

MDexter took a deep breath to ready himself and then waddled over to Miko, waving. Miko remained stiff and dour as the countless other Grimaces waved back.

M“There! Be friends with Grimace!” the man with the digicam exclaimed, stepping back. He made a fanning gesture with his free hand. “Stick closer to each other! Closer! Grimace, put your arm around Miko’s shoulder! There! Now, be friends! Be friends!” Dexter did as he was told, the huge arm completely enveloping Miko’s own. The man crouched and examined his lcd screen. “There! Perfect! Now look at daddy’s cameraaaaa! Say ‘cheeeeeeese!’”

MDexter refused to smile. He wasn’t exactly in the mood, and was never really one to smile in the first place. He had always made sure to depict himself in photographs as a thinker, with the piercing eyes, hint of a scowl and chin held up high. It was important to look dignified, not giddy with ignorance. vol. liv no. 1

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MAs he stared at the cocked digicam from the dimness of his suit, however, he realized that no expression was necessary. No matter what kind of grimace he made, Grimace’s large, permanent, open-mouthed smile would endure.

MDexter stuck his tongue out.

MSuddenly, right before the camera flashed, he noticed a figure smirking at him from one of the tables. It was jb, his blockmate. With him at the table were three other varsity basketball members, all wearing the same, generic look of disrespect.

MThe camera flashed.

MAs Dexter waited for the green and red flecks to dissolve from sight, he hoped that jb and his crew would cease to be there once his vision had cleared.

Mjb gave Grimace the finger. The four of them laughed.

MDexter was glad to be inside the suit for the first time. In fact, he hoped that there would be no way for him to take it off ever again. jb had it in for Dexter ever since their Asian History group project, which was 35% of their grade for that course. jb attended only one out of four planning sessions, contributed only half a page of shoddy research and did not show up for their presentation, so Dexter, the group leader, thought it only right to report his ineptitude to Ma’am Ramirez. jb had to do a solo report because of this, did predictably badly, and failed Asian History. “You’re dead meat, fucktard,” were his last words to Dexter, and Dexter never forgot them.

M“I love you Grimaaace!” jb gushed.

MDexter’s reputation was for him to slaughter.

MBut only if he knew it was you, Dexter reminded himself. So keep your head on your shoulders.

M“Heeere comes the birthday cake!” Mayelle screeched into the microphone. “Jumbo Hotdog” slowly faded out, innuendo by innuendo.

“Come on, kids! You know what that means! Let’s sing ‘Happy Birthday’ for Mikoooo!”

MVic and a trainee wheeled a large, red and yellow-frosted cake up to Miko and Dexter. A plastic Grimace figurine waved from the edge, 20

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dwarfed by a gold-glittered Styrofoam “M” wedged into the cake’s center. The “M” glowed from the light of the six purple candles right below it.

M“Are you alright?” Vic whispered to Dexter as the guests shuffled around the cake. Dexter noticed that jb and his crew had stayed put at their table, grinning diabolically.

M“There are Grimaces everywhere.”

M“He’s Miko’s favorite character,” Vic explained. “It was a special request.”

MDexter glanced at the unsmiling birthday boy, whose arm was still bound by a long wad of fur. Dexter moved his hand away. Miko’s empty expression remained.

M“Grimace!” Miko’s father cried out in panic. “Put your arm back!

Now!” MDexter quickly placed his arm back, frowning.

MSuddenly, Mayelle appeared by Dexter’s side, grinning frantically at everyone. “Is everyone ready? Ready? Okay? ‘Happy Birthday,’ okay?

Okay! Five, six. Five, six, seven, eight!”

MThe guests sang ‘Happy Birthday’ the way Dexter found appropriate, like a requiem. They prolonged note after flat note, droning through the melody, staring at the cake as they sang. Miko stared at his doubleknotted shoelaces.

MThe song ended.

M“Blow the candles, Miko!” Miko’s father instructed, puffing his cheeks out and nodding encouragingly.

M“Blow the candles, Miko!” the other guests echoed, making the same funny faces. Purple candle wax had begun to sink into the yellow frosting, making tiny, brownish puddles. Miko still refused to look up.

M“What’s wrong with your brother?” one of the varsity boys asked jb. jb shrugged with the least bit of concern.

MDexter bent his knees as much as his suit would allow and pointed at the candles with his free paw. The boy was probably slow in the head.

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responsibility to encourage him. It was the least he could do for the poor boy.

M“Blow the candles, Miko,” he repeated.

MAn entire minute passed, punctuated by soft, awkward come-onMikos from one person or another. Miko still refused to look up.

M“It’s okay, Miko, it’s okay,” Miko’s father finally murmured. “I’ll do it. It’s okay.” He went up to the candles and blew them out. They had already sunk halfway into the cake, their wax’s brownish puddles linked into a firm, opaque stream. The applause from the guests was as quick and delicate as the smoke trembling from the six wicks.

M“Oookay!” Mayelle screeched, blowing the calm apart. Another novelty song barged in. “Who wants cake?”

M“Caaake!” jb and his crew cried out from their table.

MAs they and the other guests scrambled for paper plates and plastic forks, Dexter slowly shuffled away from the table and up to Vic, who was dumping burger wrappers into a giant trash bag.

M“Is something wrong with Miko?” Dexter asked. “Is he sick? Is he autistic?”

M“No,” Vic replied, shaking his head. “I talked to his father earlier.

Miko had a bad time at school yesterday.”

M“Bullies?” Dexter glanced over at jb, who had taken a corner piece of the cake and was skimming icing off the other slices.

M“No, not bullies.”

M“What? Did anyone die?”

M“He lost the spelling bee.”

MDexter fell silent.

M“Even the father thinks it’s a tragedy. He said they trained for months,” Vic continued, picking up an empty ketchup sachet. “To be honest, it sounds ridiculous.”

M“Yeah,” Dexter mumbled. “Crazy.”

MDexter didn’t find it ridiculous at all. In fact, he completely understood where their misery came from. Spelling bees required a special, intellectual skill. He could already imagine how taxing Miko’s training must have been, and how important it was that he win.

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MPeople don’t join academic competitions for love of the game. They join it to conquer it, to emerge the most learned, the most advanced, the most worthy of everyone’s hatred and admiration. Losing—coming in second, even—was rightfully tragic; it meant that someone else knew more. What smart little boy wouldn’t be crushed? What father of a smart little boy wouldn’t be crushed?

MOf course, people like Vic, who had neither the brains nor the drive to take on a bee, would never understand this. But Dexter, who had achieved so much academically in the first two decades of his life, and thus knew how different it was to be smart and special, understood it all too well. Miko’s silence was as piercing as a million fire alarms and fog horns. It was no wonder the boy was miserable.

M“More than crazy,” Vic added. “Sad.” M“Pathetic?”

M“No, not pathetic. Just sad.” Vic twisted the trash bag’s mouth with finality. “It’s your job to make him happy.”

M“I’ll try,” Dexter mumbled, meaning it.

M“Please try. This party is terrible.”

MDexter watched his manager drag the trash bag away.

M“Okay, everybodyyyy!”

MDexter turned around. In the middle of the party room stood Mayelle, a ten-foot pole wrapped in alternate strips of gold and ruby in her hand. It gleamed with deceit.

M“It’s time for party gaaaaames! Whooooo knows how to limbo rooooock?”

MA high-pitched sound began pulsing from the speakers, like a softer, subtler Psycho screech. Dexter eyed the glass door in panic, his sentiments for Miko quickly draining away. He knew immediately what the song was. A decade of suppression had failed to temper its menace. It was the Macarena.

MDexter quickly waddled to the door, hoping by some miracle that nobody would notice an enormous wad of purple fur wobbling away.

M“Grimace loooves to limbooo!”

MDexter froze, the glass door right in front of him. The reflection vol. liv no. 1

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wasn’t his but that of a large, purple, indistinguishable blob smiling with endless earnestness. Serving as a backdrop were the customers outside, eating, talking, looking for free tables, giving him the occasional glance of amusement. Some even waved. He slowly lifted his hand in response. They knew nothing of his torment.

M“Come on, Grimace!” Mayelle tugged Dexter away from the door.

“Why don’t you go first?”

M“I hate you,” Dexter hissed as Mayelle brought him right in the center of the room. Two middle-aged men—Miko’s uncles, most probably—approached him holding both ends of the limbo pole. “I’m never lending you jeep fare again.”

M“Okay, round oooone!” Mayelle announced, deaf to his threat. The guests had begun to crowd around and clap. jb and the other three were standing on their seats and hooting.

M“Grimaaace! I love youuu!” they called out, blowing kisses spiked with scorn.

MThe Macarena rose in volume, becoming one long, loud, Latino mantra, and the uncles lifted the pole to Grimace’s eye level, two inches above Dexter’s own head.

MThis was a situation Dexter’s schooling hadn’t prepared him for.

He could wrestle his way out of a mean thesis statement. He could wrench apart formulae and clobber bad grammar. But defeating a pole in a foam suit was a trial that had never, ever crossed Dexter’s mind. In fact, it was probably the one thing that was beyond his great comprehension.

MDexter glanced at Miko, who was still stoic in his seat, and suddenly remembered the tragedy behind the boy’s silence. He moved his gaze to the sparkling pole.

MNo way to go but down, Dexter told himself.

MHe bent his back. Finding the pole still a few inches from his face, he remembered that Grimace was much taller. He bit his lip and bent back even further just to make sure. Then, he began to make very tiny hops forward. The hooting and clapping around him intensified. He closed his eyes and just kept edging onward, and then, before he knew 24

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it, he could hear people screaming in delight. He opened his eyes. The pole was behind him. Dexter and Grimace jumped up and beamed in triumph.

M“That was great, Grimace!” Mayelle cried. “Time for round twoooo!”

MThe uncles lowered the pole to Dexter’s own eye level. Dexter bent his back with more confidence, making sure to dip lower than the last time.

MHe seemed to be good at this.

MHe shuffled forward. The crowd cheered.

M“Go Grimace!” Mayelle shrieked as Dexter dodged the pole. “Time for round threeee!”

MThe uncles dropped the pole all the way to Dexter’s chin. It was uncompromisingly low. Dexter tried bending back as much as he could, but the suit prevented him from going completely horizontal.

He wasn’t sure if it was enough to clear the pole.

M“How looow can you go?” everyone around him started to chant.

“How looow can you go?”

MDexter gritted his teeth and tried bending even lower. He refused to be disheartened. He was good at limbo. He was very good at limbo.

And if there was one thing Dexter could never ignore, it was the call to greatness.

M“How looow can you go?” jb called out as he wiggled his hips. “How looow can you go?”

MDexter began to shimmy.

MAfter a few moments, realizing that he still hadn’t grazed the pole, Dexter shimmied with even more finesse. It was official. He was an expert at limbo rock. He had never been happier.

M“How looow can you go?”

MDexter shimmied.

M“How looow can you go?”

MDexter shimmied again.

M“How looow can you go?”

MDexter shimmied some more.

M“How lo—” vol. liv no. 1

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MA sudden surge of light stung Dexter’s eyes. The dark felt smothering his face was gone. He held his position, staring at the tiny cardboard Grimace twirling from the ceiling right across from him. The airconditioning swiftly cooling his head filled him with fear.

M“Dexter!” jb proclaimed, guffawing with pure happiness.

MDexter slowly heaved himself upright. Everyone else had begun laughing their own heads off. The uncles were chuckling so hard that the dratted pole had dropped from their fingers. Mayelle, still holding the microphone to her lips, amplified the most genuine giggle she had given all afternoon, the children’s cackles echoing along. Even Grimace’s head, which had rolled right up to Dexter’s feet, stared at him with scratched, plastic, laughing eyes, its hollowed-out smile packed tight with contempt.

MDexter tried reaching for the head, but his padded paws and thick torso made for tricky maneuvering. He was bumbling, ridiculous.

M“I love you, Grimaaace!” jb repeated amidst his friends’ hard, hearty laughter.

MAs he continued to fumble for the head, Dexter glanced over at Miko.

The birthday boy, still stiff in his seat, was staring straight at him. A smile had formed on his lips.

Art Gallery

art editorial

it is said that freedom is not given but earned. More than a hundred years ago, 2 literary works of a famous Atenean became a catalyst for rifles, bolos, and hearts to unite for the country to emerge as a nation. Twenty years ago, a sea of yellow men armed with flowers, rosaries, and prayers flooded an avenue in Pasig in pursuit of a lawful government that did not rule with fear and bloodshed.

MThroughout our nation’s history, Art in its various forms, has been there to serve as a constant reminder about the signs of our times. Art not only reflects society but more importantly, begs for action from its audience. Revolving around the theme entrapment, the collection of artworks in this issue attempts to do just that. We felt that there is a need to again remind the people of the various economic, political, or personal crises—forms of entrapment—we are suffering from. The work of de Guzman illustrates that being trapped is not only physical but can be mental as well; a cerebral incarceration can lead one to escape through mirages. However, the attempt to break free might not always be in this manner, as Mercado’s painting suggests. Sometimes the unbearable feeling of being bound can lead one to befriend blood and pain to in order forget and even long for death. Being locked in can also be sees as deprivation of senses, being unaesthetic. In Intal’s digital artwork, the fear of being in the dark, unable to experience the world, and a sense of being deceived, is portrayed. This probably is one of the saddest forms of captivity; being inside one’s empty self.

MThe artwork of Wong reveals that confinement does not necessarily vol. liv no. 1

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apply to humans alone but can be evident in nature. The environment experiences an entrapment of its own, caused both by humans or the Divine.

MWhile the other artworks view entrapment as suffering, some artists tend to be optimistic and see it as something positive. Javier’s drawing surrounds its audience in a relaxing ambiance. A soothing touch can indeed calm you, binding you into an experience of ecstasy.

MThese works may not present solutions to the issues each of us face today but they can serve as reminders for reflection. Hopefully, you the viewer of our works, will somehow be moved to take time and join us in our struggle for freedom.

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JPaul Marasigan Art Editor October 2006

Eliana Laurice Javier Simply Feel Ink and colored pencils on paper 2005 vol. liv no. 1

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Sam de Guzman The Great Repression Pencils paper 2006 32

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JPaul Marasigan Sinisilip ang Langit Pencils on paper 2006 vol. liv no. 1

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Maurice Wong Engulfed Ink on paper 2006 34

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Miguel Mercado Me and my Little Friend Watercolor on board and digital 2006 vol. liv no. 1

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Noelle Alana Intal Blind Photomanipulation 2006 36

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Essay

third prize, Essay (English) 2006 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature

He’d Rather Be Relevant Martin Villanueva

“lemme ask you something… Has there ever been a dying old lady who eventually lost her life in a landslide?” Just a casual opening question he throws out there.

M“Has a robber ever broken into a house, and shot the tuberculose owner?” The first question has yet to fully register before he lets that one out.

M“How come you never hear of a cancer patient who dies in a car crash?”

MHe’s establishing his tone—feeling you out, testing where he can go and how he can get there. It’s these sorts of odd-ball statements that need some getting used to when you first meet M. While settling in, trying to develop a comfort, a trust, in the presence of unfamiliar individuals, M becomes this strange guy who seemingly loves to question life’s peculiarities. And just when you’re about to question him, question where he’s going with everything, he levels you with a stunner: M“Do you think that there’s an authority, a spiritual force…I don’t know…a maintainer of order, maybe, that exists in this world that preempts a potential death of a certain kind, given the victim is already vol. liv no. 1

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going to die because of something else?”

MSilence.

MThe quietness is merited, in a way. It’s an interesting question.

MA dying lady losing her life in a landslide… A man with tuberculosis shot in a break-in…

MYou look at this guy, this twenty-year-old college kid with a smirk on his face—there’s a lot going on in that head. And he’s looking to share.

M“I believe such an authority exists, man.” Strong, mature conviction.

“Hell, if someone has cancer, he should be happy ’cuz at least for the time it takes to get well, probably nothing could kill him except for the cancer.”

MUnder this philosophical assumption, it’s true: if a person is diagnosed with cancer, the only thing he has to worry about is cancer.

Which is not to say that there’s nothing to worry about. Even for us who don’t know much about the disease, we can at least agree that it’s a serious thing to deal with.

MM knew nothing about cancer before he was diagnosed. He was too busy dealing with his regular teenage life. M grew up with his middle-class family in the suburbs of Parañaque. Part of his growing up was actually spent abroad, where his father was assigned by a multinational company. Having been around the world, growing up with kids from different cultures, M was exposed to the different ways people around the world lived life.

M“I remember going to school with a kid from Papua New Guinea.

Can you imagine that? Papua New Guinea!” It’s as if he were the first to discover the country. “I was forced to learn where some of these places were on the map ’cuz I went to school with the kids of those countries’ ambassadors.”

MHis accent is heavy but familiar to the local ear. Not quite American, but not so Filipino either. In fact, the tone goes back and forth between both extremes.

MBelow a map of the Philippines in M’s room is a bookshelf with names like Joaquin, Murakami, Kipling, Yuson, Fitzgerald, Camus, and Zafra.

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Next to the wooden blinds that cover the windows is a photo print of Lennon’s profile. In an adjacent wall, prints of Gandhi and Ali look on.

MIgnorance was something circumstances forced out of M’s system.

He learned to be open to different ways because few shared the same ways with him growing up.

MHe was an active kid. Like many a Filipino, basketball was his favorite sport. Rounds of golf with his father took up his weekends. He tried all sorts of sports. “The only sport I sucked at was soccer, man,” he claims. “Must be the Pinoy in me.”

MM was an above average student. He was a relatively quiet kid, though, preferring a reserved profile as opposed to the popularity most his peers aspired for. He started formulating strong opinions early—opinions he rarely shared openly but wasn’t afraid to express when asked.

M“One teacher, an Indian, once complained that I didn’t speak up much in class. But when I spoke up, didn’t I make sense? Weren’t my answers correct? Teacher couldn’t say anything.” There’s a not-sohidden arrogance in him. “Enough said. Stop complaining.” Pause. “I like to pick my spots.”

MMoving to a new campus for his freshman year of high school in Manila was tough on M—introversion perhaps being a hindrance to a fast settling-in. But it was the kind of thing most thirteen-year-olds were dealing with, struggling through those awkward adolescent years. The pains of social acceptance were lost to the joys of things M was good at. Basketball played its role. While he walked the hallways of his new school almost trying to be invisible, M walked the courts with a swagger. Basketball became a social crutch, an excuse not to completely socialize through conversation. There was joy because of a shared love of a game. For the most part, there was much joy in his life, period.

MAll that would be taken away…at least for a while.

MThe reasons why people get cancer vary. At times, it may be appropriate for the victim to blame his ancestry. Other times, the cancer vol. liv no. 1

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is earned through years of hard work, persistence, and stubbornness.

And then there are those who become winners of a lottery that no one really wants to win. Non-believers of bad luck might want to think their skepticism over.

MM was a winner of that lottery.

MTowards the end of the first quarter of his freshman year, M suffered what was initially diagnosed as pulled ligaments due to a slip on the basketball court. After three weeks of having his left leg in a cast, a follow-up x-ray hinted a horrifying reality. On the x-ray plate, there appeared to be a haze—a fuzzy area right above M’s left knee. An mri and a biopsy confirmed that it was a tumor.

MM had bone cancer.

M“I remember the doctor sitting me and my family down. He didn’t even concretely say the C-word…he gave us this clinical term for it. It was only a few days later…I don’t even know how it came up…but the C-word was just blurted out by someone.”

MEye contact is something M never got used to. Sometimes, it’s like he’s not even talking to anyone. He’s just speaking. He’s in front of you…alone with himself.

M“Then when you hear yourself say the word for the first time… cancer…and you realize that this word is associated to you… Damn, man.” Pause. “Then you realize how fucked up life can get for you in a hurry.” There’s bitterness in his tone. There’s suppressed baggage there that he has yet to completely sort through.

MHe was the first in his family to get cancer. Doctors said his brand of cancer was the type that merely happened to people; few semblances of causes are known. To think that the tumor was a result of the basketball injury had no scientific backing. But its diagnosis coinciding with the injury was nothing short of miraculous. The basketball injury got M to the doctor. Otherwise, who knows if the cancer would’ve been diagnosed at all?

MIt was the least expected thing. As a psychologist reasoned with M and his family, it was ludicrous to think that this was inflicted by God. “Why would God do such a thing?” he challenged. In trying 44

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to find answers to unanswerable questions, their faiths were tested, frustrations often prevailing.

M“Then people started giving me the ‘you’re the chosen one’ crap.”

Clearly, he’s never bought into that idea. “I don’t know…just too vague for me.” M starts to rub the back of his scalp causing the hair above his neck to stick out a bit. It’s a gesture he returns to a lot, as if massaging the thoughts that still bother him.

MLife consists of episodes of chance, and M got the wrong end of the deal. “You still don’t believe in bad luck?”

MThere was no time to hesitate. Limb salvage surgery was scheduled after a few cycles of chemotherapy. More cycles were to follow the surgery. The timetable involved months of numerous changes. M and his family had to be prepared whether they liked it or not.

MChemotherapy is systematic in that scheduled cycles of treatment are prescribed by the doctor. “In short, hindi siya one-time big time.”

M recalls various interns struggling to find suitable veins in both his hands to insert iv tubes. By the third or fourth cycle of chemo, the largest veins on both M’s hands were that of an old man. They were worn out from having been punctured by so many needles every month. The veins were shriveled from having such powerful drugs flow through them. By the third or fourth cycle, it was a try-andtry-again situation for the interns. The initial veins of choice almost always rejected the needles, causing blood to momentarily clot into small visible lumps on M’s hand.

MHe grimaces. He remembers.

M“Sometimes I felt like a dummy for these young interns. Parang pang-practice lang ako!”

MAt times, they had no choice but to look for veins on M’s feet.

Managing to find the right veins for the iv tubes were part of a host of small victories during the battle—victories that would only lead to bigger obstacles.

MM leans against the back of the white monobloc chair by his desk.

He starts tapping his right foot against the wooden floor.

MHis oncologist, M recalls, was quite a character. “The guy was nuts, vol. liv no. 1

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man. He’d take this motorcycle around to all the hospitals where he had patients…and he would proudly park the thing right by the entrance of the hospital, right by where nuns would be waiting for God-knows-what.” He chuckles. “And the guy was just so fucking loud…he would announce himself before entering the room. And he’d have these strong colognes on…e may kahalong pawis na yan…I thought the hospital smell was bad enough.” But he has much respect for the doctor. “You gotta hand it to the guy, though…he knew his shit...” Pause. “I guess I’m living proof of that, right?”

MChemotherapy has many side effects, all of which M would rather not relive. “It’s constantly like the morning after an inuman but without the fun the night before.” He starts to fiddle with the key-chain-slashbottle-opener that sits on his desk—a birthday gift from a friend. “You can forget about eating, man. Everything I ate I threw up. Even when I didn’t eat anything, I’d throw up.”

MLosing his hair (a common side effect of chemo) was a pretty big deal for M, as well. Having always worn his hair on the longer side, and having spent hundreds of pesos on stuff like gel, M dreaded the moment when a barber was called to come to his family’s house to shave off all his hair before it started to fall off. M spent the first day of baldness at home wearing a bandana. When going out, he traded in his bandana for his growing collection of baseball caps.

M“But eventually, the baldness grew on me…pun intended.”

MIn his favorite plain grey t-shirt and faded denims, M digresses, “Looks…vanity…it’s all bullshit in the end. I admit I was vain…I guess I still am.” Across the room from where he sits are a mirror and a builtin dresser. Two bottles each of deodorant, cologne, and hair wax sit next to a comb. “When I was under chemo, being bald bugged me. But aside from that, cancer ate up my knee, leaving me with a limp…a limp I’ll have for the rest of my life.” Subconsciously, his left leg twitches.

“But when you’re dealing with that shit…something that could take away your life and has taken the lives of so many like you…you just gotta ask yourself, ‘so what?’”

MHe gives the hair at the back of his scalp a tug.

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M“Just survive, man. Just survive.”

MIn between cycles of chemo, M was rushed to the emergency room at least three times. “I would wake up shivering. I had fevers of upwards of forty-degrees. My fingers and toes…they would cramp-up because of a lack of potassium.” He mimics his experience with his fingers. His eyes are squinting. He starts to slowly rub the back of his scalp, again.

“I couldn’t even walk myself to the car to be driven to the emergency room.” M’s family would have him sit on a monobloc chair, while their houseboy would carry him on the chair to the car. “Chemo takes a lot out of you.”

MAfter two or three nights stabilizing in the hospital, medicines being administered by his doctors, fluids being pumped into him through more iv tubes, M would be released enabling him to rest at home.

M“But after a week or so, I’d have to go back to the hospital for another round of chemo.” Pause. “That was my life for an entire year.”

Bitterness can’t be suppressed. “That was my life when everyone else my age was having late nights out, having fun, testing their parents’ patience… I was stuck in hospital rooms where nurses would wake me up during the few times I could actually get to sleep just to check my blood pressure!”

MThis was when M changed, alone with his thoughts on a hospital bed for many nights. He would imagine how different life would be after chemo, while the upset stomach, the constant dizziness, the aches, the pains reminded him that he was still a long ways off.

MSometimes, there was disbelief over the whole situation. “I just didn’t think I deserved all of it…that’s how I thought, at times—“ He cuts himself short. Maybe he still thinks that way, but he won’t admit it. “But whatever…I mean…my prognosis was good so I just tried to do what the doctors told me…tried not to let all the thoughts overwhelm me.” The thoughts are still there, though.

M“Just fucking survive, man. No choice. Just fucking survive.”

MIt’s his battle cry.

MToday, M can call himself a survivor. He and his family have scrapped their way through a tremendous battle—but there’s a catch. vol. liv no. 1

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After treatment, a patient may be clinically healed, but it marks only the beginning of a lifelong war. Essentially, a survivor is living on borrowed time. A survivor is much more likely to get the disease again than those who have yet to deal with it. But many go on not having to deal with the disease for the rest of their lives.

MIt becomes a game of chance again. But history’s not on the survivor’s side.

M“Lance Armstrong…cancer survivor. He’s got this Livestrong Campaign now with the yellow bracelets and stuff…” M tries to restrain the connection he feels, but there’s undoubtedly a connection there—a feeling of brotherhood between two who have never met, but who are both a part of the fraternity of survivors. But M’s careful not to associate himself with superstars. He’s not a superstar. He doesn’t want to be. Ali and Gandhi continue to look on from the opposite wall.

M“Maybe there’s a reason why Armstrong had to win all those Tour de France titles in a row.” What? “Maybe he had to get them out of the way just in case he’s gotta deal with cancer again in the future.”

MSilence.

MM can say things that leave those around him with an awkward feeling. He senses it from others; he loves it. It’s all part of the game he’s playing, trying to test the limits of others with the frankness, at times the trivialness, in which he discusses the seriousness of cancer. He casually drops tidbits of dark humor here and there. He’s setting you up—preparing you to dive into his world. He doesn’t allow sympathy towards him creep into the conversation. He tries to challenge not with a melodramatic wisdom of a survivor, rather with his intellect.

Sometimes, the statements fall flat. He doesn’t care.

M “I’m lucky. No doubt about it. Just as easily as I’ve asked ‘why me’ when I got cancer, I could easily ask the same question about my survival.” There’s a change in his voice. It’s lower, and almost a whisper. Inside, he knows he doesn’t want to sound dramatic, but he takes his next few reflections seriously. In between A Death in the Family, Sin, and The Plague, there is no room for Chicken Soup for any 48

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soul in his bookshelf.

MM leans forward, little eye contact—he’s almost staring at the ground. He rubs the back of his scalp, and then looks up at grey walls.

Again, little eye contact. He’s talking…to those who’ll listen. But he’s speaking to himself.

M“Some people make it…some don’t.” Pause. “Why? Who determines that? It’s beyond just the seriousness of the disease.” Others with worse situations than him survive, as well, while others with less serious ailments don’t make it at all. That’s the reality—he thinks about it a lot. “You start to question things, man…you can’t help but question.

Doesn’t mean I’m not thankful...” Undoubtedly he is thankful. “Just makes you think… I don’t know much about stuff like fate, but on the practical side of things, I’ve seen my hospital bills…they’re pretty damn high…I survived ’cuz my family can shoulder those bills. I hate sounding like some advocate or anything, but how the hell are most families supposed to deal with this shit?”

MWith this sudden shift comes a dent in the cool front he tries to keep up. He disguises the sentiment with the profanity, with rational facts.

It doesn’t always work, though. You can see it.

M“I don’t know, man…you start questioning the situation in so many fucking angles that your whole view of everything…of any situation… becomes convoluted. It’s like I’m always looking at things from too many angles…as if looking for…for reasons…for explanations to things that are beyond anything we can comprehend. Then I realized that there are just so many things beyond us…beyond our power...and that irritated me.”

MHe voices these musings with a measured, understated intensity.

He has a strong handle on concepts, as well as an understanding of himself, the verbalization of which he has mastered in the form of a smart rant stained with slang and profanity that come out partly because of vanity, but often just out of emotion. He tries—maybe too hard, at times—to strike a balance between appearing beyond his age in thought, and still being his age. It’s a controlled way of letting it all hang out. vol. liv no. 1

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M“You think and think…you reflect, reflect, and reflect some more… the harder you look, the more baffling life becomes.” He’s thinking as he speaks—searching for answers but getting nothing in return.

“But then you just stop and realize that man can only control what he can control.” And just when you thought he was letting up, “But that’s what makes it even more confusing…all the bullshit that goes on in the world is a result of man!”

MHe shifts slightly in his chair. “Two factors have been at the center of all conflict to this day.” He counts them off with his fingers. “Beliefs.”

One. “And money.” Two. “You think fighting cancer is any different?”

MPatients with an extreme devotion to God abhor treatment, for they claim it to be a resistance to the will of a higher power. For those people, M holds the greatest pity, for they fail to see treatment as possibly one of God’s tools.

M“When you deal with people like that, it’s not hard to figure out what their real problem is. Their rationalizations…the stupid excuses based on religion…it reflects a deeper sentiment of secular proportions.

They’re choosing what they want to believe instead of dealing with the reality…religion becomes a noble scapegoat.”

MPause.

M“They’re in denial.” Denial. He knows the word well.

M“Feeling invincible sila. People don’t suspect that shit like cancer can happen to them. I didn’t. I felt like I didn’t do anything to warrant such a thing. But that was the problem…you can’t think that way. The point is that stuff happens to people…many things are beyond us.

But often the time it takes for people to question why certain things happen…or sometimes the time spent trying to convince yourself that nothing’s wrong…it all delays actually getting help to fix the problem.

It’s amazing how the biggest challenge for many is just admitting that they’re sick. Just admit it and get help! Not having that urgency baffles me. Do you really wanna die?”

MUrgency or a lack thereof: a one-way ticket to regret.

M“All of our biggest problems can really be solved when we try to be the complete opposite of politicians.” It’s a strange hyperbole. “So if 50

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you have cancer, you don’t have time to sit around reveling, lobbying, talking, and above all, hesitating…take action immediately, man.

Cancer can be beaten. Don’t just stand around like those fucking distinguished men and women up there…do something!”

MThere’s obvious detest when speaking of politics. There’s a genuine resentment towards those who he feels are often the biggest culprits of a stagnated society. “They’re killers of the disadvantaged,” M claims.

In digression, something M does a lot, the extent of his intellect plays loud and clear, as well as the brashness of his convictions. Existential talk crosses over to social realism.

MM’s cancer is an anomaly. It’s virtually unpreventable, and if it weren’t for M’s freak basketball injury, it would’ve gone undetected.

“But once it was detected, my family and I took immediate action, searching for the best doctors, exploring the best and most suitable methods of treatment, and using the financial resources that we had to exhaust the best medical resources available. No hesitation, no pity-party.”

MNote: financial resources that they had…

M“Quite frankly, without my middle-class family and the kind financial support from middle-class family friends, I would just be another statistic…another victim succumbing to more than just a disease…”

MMore than just a disease…

M“I bet a lot of those victims who didn’t make it had less serious cancers than I did.” There might be some guilt there that he tries to fight with mature reasoning. But there’s undeniable angst. “But they were financially incapable of fighting…they couldn’t afford to live.”

MIt becomes obvious that the second factor—money—is something M feels strongly about.

Chemotherapy, or any treatment for that matter, is a privilege in this country. One cycle of chemotherapy can set you back p15,000.

And that’s just the drugs; it doesn’t account for the supplementary medicine needed to keep the side effects—detrimental or otherwise— at bay. Add to them the hospitalization cost and professional fees of doctors. And all these are only good for one cycle. As chemotherapy is vol. liv no. 1

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a systematic treatment, its effectiveness is dependent on a scheduled program of succeeding cycles.

M“Now how can Juan De La Cruz afford such treatment when he is struggling to pay next month’s rent? And don’t get me started on the plight of all the best nurses and doctors from our country...” A fair warning. Opinions he has aplenty. Often, it’s hard to stay on topic.

He’ll touch on everything.

MThe Pediatric Cancer Ward of the Philippine General Hospital along Taft, where most of M’s doctors were trained, and where most of them practice today (aside from their private practices in the hospitals of the more affluent), is a disturbing reality. All these children, invaded at a young age, are left defenseless. For most of them, traditional beliefs, an over reliance on the divine, poverty, and a lack of awareness and initiative, has made the ward their last resort.

MWhile in the ward, these patients live on false hopes—waiting for generous donors to sponsor their treatment until they pull through.

At the very least, donations can aid in one cycle of chemotherapy. But without the succeeding cycles, the effect of the drug and the merit of the donations are lost. To add insult to injury, the patient is subjected to the hellish side effects of chemotherapy. And for what? Nothing.

M“Mamamatay na nga ang bata, binugbog mo pa.”

MIt’s like there’s a silent echo in the room.

MMamamatay na nga ang bata, binugbog mo pa…

MM admits that he doesn’t have the solutions to the problems, nor is he claiming the initiative of solving the problems himself. “I’m just a cocky twenty-year old student,” M claims. “But here are just some ideas thrown out there…maybe the prioritization of importing lowcost cancer medicines…or maybe having money go into the country’s health care system as opposed to the pockets of politicians...”

MMaybe.

M“It’s not my job to solve these problems…nor do I want such a job. But sometimes I just can’t shut-up about the bullshit I see.” He continues, “I bring up the socio-economic issues of battling disease because I’ve experienced the paradox, man…I’ve experienced the better end of the 52

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deal while I’ve seen patients suffer the consequences of being on the wrong end. I’m familiar with the schizophrenic feeling of thankfulness and guilt for surviving a monstrosity that many Filipinos are left defenseless against ’cuz they simply can’t afford the weapons…”

MPause.

M“I know that feeling.”

MM is a cancer survivor—one of many in the Philippines who are lucky to have resources to be able to call themselves so. And as many are left with hopelessness amidst their harsh medical circumstances, M struggles to fight hopelessness as he lives on and witnesses such social and economical diseases. And yet, he hesitates to claim some form of a cure. All he can concretely offer is the truth behind fighting cancer.

M“Chemotherapy’s hell-on-earth, but you have to go through it if you have cancer. It’s a necessary evil…like a right of passage into the fraternity of survivors. Sure, some don’t pull through…but unlike other frats, a hesitation to join doesn’t spare you from becoming a victim.”

MAs M puts it, inevitably, approaching the process must be all about an attitude, a mindset—one with the determined intention of surviving, with splashes of good humor and self-deprecation to make the grim days a little more bearable.

M“Cancer beats you the minute thoughts of death overpower your desire to live. You have to fight negativity…try to laugh things off as much as possible…but you can’t treat the thing as a joke either...”

MHe rehearses his next line in his head before saying it. “There’s undoubtedly going to be thoughts that will creep into your mind… thoughts that challenge the very things you believe in...” A portrait of the Laughing Christ hangs on the wall next to the red door of the room. “You gotta deal with those…introspection’s a good thing.”

MIntrospection’s a good thing…

M“From the social side of things, as chemotherapy defeats cancer cells at the expense of others, treating one cancer patient in this country comes at the expense of another. Funds can only help so many people. The availability of drugs is also a problem. And this is really vol. liv no. 1

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a microcosm of the entire medical care system in the country…no… check that…a microcosm of the entire country.”

MMicrocosm of the ENTIRE country…

M“I was once accused of being a Marxist by my sociology professor.”

M chuckles. “In my defense, I don’t see everything as a conflict of economic proportions…I do go to this country’s premiere school for the rich, right? Go ’Teneo!” He says this in a sarcastic, self-deprecating tone, which lowers to seriousness for a final conclusion. “But I still can’t be convinced that the problem of medical care is not one of money.”

MTrue.

MWhat ought to be a right has become a privilege. Those who live on are those who can afford to live on. Money improves your odds.

“I’ve said many things before that would make others question me, but this injustice is not right.” M hesitates. He knows he has just said something that makes him sound like some sort of authoritative political figure. He hates that. “It’s bullshit.” Just an added line of profanity to rough up the “campaign statement” while driving home the point even more.

MMany survivors’ lives have seemingly been taken over by the innerlight of some imagined spirit. Such survivors are the most open about celebrating their surviving. “They talk about cancer during their dinners, at the salon, while watching their kids’ soccer games...”

Such are the people that end up organizing charities and fundraising activities for the cause, while handing out prayer cards and inspirational leaflets to anyone under the sun. Noble these acts are.

For a lot of them, the ultimate sign of gratitude is consuming their lives with the disease even more. “It’s like they’re subconsciously trying to live up to labels bestowed upon them…labels like inspiration.” He doesn’t like the word.

MOther survivors are quietly content taking the blessings of a second chance and living subdued lives. They speak of cancer as having set their priorities in order as they perhaps give that extra kiss everyday to their husbands, hug their kids just a little tighter, and smile to their neighbors just a little bit more. The “peace” they live in often 54

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evolves into almost nonexistent lives. “In their quietness, they lose their relevance in the world, beyond the comfort of their immediate family.”

M“I’m a part of neither group, man. Truth be told, I hate talking about this…many don’t believe me when I say this but it’s true. People look at you differently after you tell them stuff like this…they put that inspiration label on you and that’s a load of crap!”

MThe source of the arrogance begins to peer through. M continues: M“To let surviving define me is to let cancer win. To be so open and so preachy does two things…one…it negates my growth as a person having gone through it ’cuz it’s like I’m advertising it out of vanity.

That’s not growth…that’s immaturity.”

MGandhi continues to look on from the opposite wall.

M“Secondly…it’s as if to say that I was a bad-ass human being before having gone through it…as if I had nothing to offer the world before I got sick…that’s bullshit. Sure, I’ve grown because of cancer but I wasn’t a bad person before…I’ve gained a lot from it but it doesn’t mean I was inadequate before I got sick… I don’t know…call it youthful pride or ignorance but I refuse to accept that.”

MAli raises his hands in victory.

M“Does that make any sense?”

MIt does.

MWhile surviving cancer has made others more meek and humble, and has made others more celebratory and charismatic, it has made M…well…angrier. He goes about this new stage of his life with a chip on his shoulder, from many things personal, but also from being more aware of how lucky he is and, most especially, how unfair having that luck can be.

MOn the red door to the left of the Laughing Christ, there’s a picture from an old copy of Life Magazine. It’s a shot of three African American kids being hosed down in a scuffle during the Civil Rights Movement.

It reminds M of how the world works.

MPeople speak of change in M. M thinks he’s just more himself now, more attuned to his thoughts, and more aware of who he is. When he’s vol. liv no. 1

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in front of you, he’s there, perhaps guarded at times, but not leaning on any superficial crutch, not trying to be anybody else.

M“I hate talking about my survival…I think it trivializes the profundity of the experience. If anything, surviving...and surviving with the relative ease in which I did…it’s made me more open to seeing the fucked up world around me and where I fit in.”

MThis twenty-year-old limps with something to prove to others, and more importantly, to himself. With every stride being a reminder that he is lucky, he is also wary of the fact that he lives with the threat of an old enemy’s return. Pride tells him that he doesn’t want to be an inspiration—a mere story to which people look upon to sit there and feel good.

MHe’d rather be relevant.

M On borrowed time, he’s off to prove to himself that he can be more than a person with an interesting year of his life to tell people about.

He’d rather be one that has translated the past into a fruitful, productive life—a life with many things accomplished, but most especially, a life lived fully with integrity.

M“One way of looking at it…it’s a fight to make cancer a mere subtext in my life story. But it’s really a fight for not fucking up my life…it’s a fight for maximizing this chance I’ve got.” He then challenges, “And it’s a fight that’s generally lacking in us. When times are tough, we like to dwell and complain. When life’s good, we sit around and do nothing, while we wait for survival stories to make us feel good…to offset the guilt, maybe, from spreading gossip for fun.” He allows those statements to marinate a bit. He hopes that what was said has provoked something in those around.

M“It’s hard to see the big picture when you’re life’s not on the line.” It’s the lyrics to one of his favorite songs. “I can’t see the big picture…but I kinda have an idea about how it works. And it doesn’t just make me wanna wait around…it makes me wanna do more. That’s how I feel after everything.”

MAfter battling cancer, this is M’s new fight. And it’s a fight he finds essential for everyone.

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MWhile continuing the fight, M tries to find peace in cultivating personal inclinations. cds ranging from Coldplay to opm bands like Bamboo and Sandwich to Jay-Z’s Blueprint album are stacked on top of his stereo. Books overflow a shelf while old issues of Esquire, Matanglawin, and the Inquirer lie on the banig by his bed. His desk is cluttered with drafts of essays and stories, hinting of his aspirations.

MHe pursues his interest while being with the family who does not completely understand him but who has remained with him ever since. He tries to surround himself with good-hearted people with ambition—those who remind him of the fight they share.

MIt’s a fight for relevance as individuals in this country…and in this world.

MM has a point with his original philosophical proposition. Maybe there is an authority, a spiritual force, a maintainer of order in this world that preempts a potential death of a certain kind, given the victim is already going to die because of something else. Unfortunately, man and his selfish, unjust institutions give rise to more and more ways to override this force to bring about death for the already dying, while taking away the fight in others.

M“Aba, kung ako yung cancer patient na nakahiga sa cancer ward ng pgh, may gana pa ba akong mabuhay sa ganitong mundo?” Such brash statements are reminders of M’s age. He’s still young, still learning.

And for many, maybe he’s a little too bitter for someone who’s still in college. But M stands behind his strong sentiments.

MBattling cancer was a gut-check to M’s consciousness—an existential exercise. “When you survive something like cancer, and go through something like chemo…you start to question stuff like purpose and place, and all that shit self-help authors make millions off of.”

MThis questioning leads one to being more conscious of the life around him, which in this country—in this world—inevitably leads to frustration. There’s frustration because of injustices, disparities, vanity, greed, and neglect—especially from those who are equipped to do the most.

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survived something like cancer…I ain’t shit…there’s gotta be more to my life than that.”

MThere’s a spirit being advocated here—a spirit M tries to display in his brashness. It’s a spirit that says fuck being special, fuck being inspirational…we’re all just individuals like everyone else who should do something substantial with our lives.

M“Inspiration can come from a mere story…but what inspires me are people who live fruitful lives and do so honestly. They do something with what they have…they take care of their families…and they respect others. They make noise when injustices are seen…they advocate the things that are for the greater good of their countrymen…but they also know that the biggest injustice is when they fail in their own lives.

These people are determined to be relevant…and they fight to remain so. These people I admire, but most importantly, their spirit rubs off on me in my life, in my fight.”

MThere are many faces looking on in this room. The Laughing Christ maintains his jolliness. Lennon is contemplative, and so is Gandhi.

Ali celebrates another victory. The three young black kids are still struggling—drenched but fighting on. M’s face is reflected on the mirror, so is the Philippine map above the bookshelf.

MOn a small table by the computer lies a small clock. It’s ticking away.

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Frivolous Words and the World Lawrence Lacambra Ypil

nothing, perhaps, has been more greatly misunderstood than the task of creative writing. Relegated, in many cases, to the areas of hobby, or leisure, or midnight madness (as any friendster account or curriculum vitae or personal confession is easily bound to testify), writing (yes, in italics) is in many ways seen by society as frivolous, as extemporaneous, as what-one-does after one does the “real work”. It becomes weekend pleasure. It becomes “my real passion, you know.”

It becomes “maybe when I’m sitting in a nice chair and watching the apos, I will write about my life.” After the fact of life. If one’s lucky one writes when one’s drunk.

MNot that society hasn’t come up with its many awards, grants, and honorary titles to confer upon the writer. (And therefore prove in front of the world stage its civility in giving recognition to “the heart and soul” of the nation). But after the pomp and, if one is lucky, the pageantry, of such events, everything slips a little too easily back into silence. After recognizing the writer, there is hardly any talk about the writing. The poems and stories are placed certainly on full display, but like the painting in the museum, or the newly acquired computer in the old school, it is not to be touched. It is treated like an epitaph. It vol. liv no. 1

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remains beautiful, but hands-free. It becomes the script of the dead.

MAnd we, ourselves, are not innocent of this glorious, but aseptic idea of writing, this insular view of the writer: moody, gregarious, insane, in a room, alone, faced with the blank page or screen, his heart, his bleeding heart on the table for everyone to see. Privy to some divine message, or to some “intense emotion recollected in tranquility”, the creative writer has become our contemporary sage (in a cave), our scientist (or magician) of words (stuck in his laboratory somewhere), our overly sentimental, and isolated aunt. We visit her on a free day.

MSo much so, that as readers and as writers, we occupy ourselves with what we deem to be the sole responsibility of writing: craft. Slaves to the adoration of the “beautiful” and the “eloquent”, we spend days honing the “well-written” phrase, the “perfect” word, poring over our books on philosophy for that one weighty argument on death. Or if one were a staunch believer of writing as self-help or as desperate attempt at self-expression, as adolescent purging of parental psychosis, then perhaps the craft of writing becomes the futile attempt at decorating a confession, forgetting what is perhaps that other allegiance of the creative writer. Not just a fidelity to stanza, line, and word but more importantly to an active engagement with the world.

MIn the quest for the uncovering of the elusive “authentic self”, creative writing, sometimes, limns over the necessity of examining the degree to which that self is in fact shaped by what is around it.

And I’m not even talking about that bourgeois attempt at assuaging guilt by “speaking for those without voice” (Hundreds of sampaguita vendor poems and farmer stories written by Donyas come to mind). Or even allowing an almost total take-over of the lyric poem by political sentiment and slogan. (Perhaps the mere replacement of the blind discourse of sentimentality with the sometimes equally uncritical language of propaganda.)

MBetween the fidelity to craft and a critique of the world, perhaps the task of creative writing is involved with that careful, and deliberate examination of the self, of that moment when (I romantically call) the “inner life” meets the public realm. Far from a call to complacency (a 60

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certain perhaps comfort in “writing about what one knows”), perhaps creative writing calls for an exploration of that space precisely where the private dream meets the scream of the street, where desire sits beside a truck of hogs on the way to the wet market, or the speech of a president is sung to the tune of a neighbor’s radio from oh so long ago.

MBecause that sacred space we like to protect with our walls, and the all too familiar armors of a comfortable life, is certainly not as singular, and isolated, and fulfilling as we like to pretend it is. And the street that lies beyond, flooded and scarred and ripped apart by the latest in-lay of pipes, is not so dangerous for our manners.

MAnd the imagination is perhaps one way in which the here meets the there. Here and there. On weekdays and weekends. Where we leave our rooms to sing at the door. Imagination, writing, creative writing, may just be the best way to stay awake.

Originally delivered as a speech to the Freshman Batch of Creative Writing Majors 27 September 2006. Ateneo de Manila University

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contributors

Sam de Guzman i bfa Information Design MMMM “There once was a flatulent cattle, MMMM whose round belly gave a big rattle.

MMMM He shot through the trees MMMM to the moon made of cheese, MMMM where his behind was free to prattle.”

MMMM *bow*

MMMM MMMM—Mikki Crisostomo Marguerite de Leon iv ab Communications Margie is a Creative Writing graduate of the Philippine High School for the Arts and was a fellow for English Fiction in the 11th Ateneo-Heights Writers Workshop.

She is and always will be in a state of recovery.

Erica Clariz C. De Los Reyes iv bs Management, major in Communications Technology Management MMMM Kung tatanungin mo ako kung saan nagmula, MMMM dapat kong sabihing, “Maraming nangyari.”

MMMM MMMM—Pablo Neruda, Walang Paglimot (Sonata) MMMM MMMMSalin ni Romulo P. Baquiran, Jr.

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Noelle Alana Intal ii ab Management Economics Take me to that place where dreams ome true. I’d like to know if mine will turn out to be nightmares.

My thanks goes out to lebstock, dholms, and photobreed for stock photography usage.

Elie Javier i ab Economics MMMM “You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees MMMM and the stars. You have a right to be here.”

MMMM MMMM—Desiderata JPaul Marasigan iii bfa Information Design MMMM “Why keep fighting? Do you believe you’re fighting for MMMM something for more than your survival? Can you tell MMMM me what it is? Do you even know? Is it freedom? Or MMMM truth? Perhaps peace? Yes? No? Could it be for love?

MMMM Illusions, Mr. Anderson. Vagaries of perception. The MMMM temporary constructs of a feeble human intellect trying MMMM desperately to justify an existence that is without meaning MMMM or purpose. And all of them as artificial as the Matrix itself, MMMM although only a human mind could invent something as MMMM insipid as love.”

MMMM MMMM—Agent Smith, The Matrix Revolutions Para sa pag-ibig.

Miguel Mercado i ab Interdisciplinary Studies Sabuning paalis ang amoy ng keso, ngunit huwag gagamitin ang Safeguard.

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Jason Tabinas ii ab Economics Tumimo sa aking pandama ang halinghing ng musa sa pagdaop ng aming mga laman sa huling sandali ng panaginip. Ngayong hipo-hipo ang pluma at nakatanghod ang papel sa nasang ambon ng pagniniig, wala akong masalat sa libog at ligaya. Nakaligtaan yatang mag-iwan ng paraluman ng kinatawan sa lupa.

Martin Villanueva iii bfa Creative Writing Martin doesn’t want to work in a call center or be a nurse. Please hire him when he graduates in ’08.

Maurice Wong ii bs Chemistry - Materials Science Engineering MMMM “In the right light, at the right time, everything is extraordinary.”

MMMM MMMM—Aaron Rose Lawrence Lacambra Ypil bs Biology ’99 English Department Lawrence Lacambra Ypil is a member of the English Department. He grew up in Cebu and is now finishing his ma in Literary and Cultural Studies. His collection, “The Highest Hiding-Place” won first prize English Poetry at the 2006 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature. He is working on a book of the same title.

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The 12th Ateneo-Heights

Writers Workshop

Sacred Heart Novitiate 24-27 August 2006

Director Louise Andrea Bacoy Moderator Edgar Calabia Samar Fellows Dominique Felbaum i bfa Creative Writing

Julio Benigno Julongbayan i ab History

Kevin Bryan Marin ii bs Health Science

Jason Martin Naniong

i bs Applied Mathematics, major in Mathematical Finance

Jasmine Nikki Paredes ii bfa Creative Writing

Geriandre Piquero

iii bs Applied Mathematics, major in Mathematical Finance

Andrew Robles

iii bfa Creative Writing, Information Design

Fidelis Angela Tan ii ab Psychology

Panelists Exie Abola Danilo Reyes Edgar Calabia Samar Dr. Benilda Santos Luna Sicat-Cleto Alvin Yapan Larry Ypil

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acknowledgments

Fr. Bienvenido F. Nebres, s.j. and the Office of the President Dr. Maria Assunta Cuyegkeng and the Office of the Vice President for the MLoyola Schools Ms. Miriam de los Santos and the Office of Student Activities Ms. Karen B. Cardenas and the Office of Research and Publications Mr. Rene San Andres and the Office of the Associate Dean for Student MAffairs Ms. Lourdes Sumpaico, Ms. Kat Faustino, and the Office of MAdministrative Services Ms. Elizabeth Aquino of the Central Accounting Office and the MPurchasing Office Dr. Leovino Ma. Garcia, Ms. Angeli Tugado, and the Office of the Dean, MSchool of Humanities Dr. Maria Luz Vilches and the Department of English Ms. Corazon Lalu-Santos and the Department of Filipino Fr. Rene Javellana, s.j. and Mr. Xander Soriano of the Fine Arts Program Dr. Benilda Santos and the Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts and Practices Ms. Deng Azaray and the Sacred Heart Novitiate Staff, R. Javier Bengzon, MMitch Cerda, Douglas Candano, Margie de Leon, Twinkle De Los Reyes, MEm Ferrer, Martin Gonzales, Ino Habana, Arkaye Kierulf, Rap Menchaves, MVittorio Milanes, and the workshop committees for taking part in the 12th MAteneo-Heights Writers Workshop Mr. Rodolfo Alayban and the University Archives Mr. Vic Capistrano, Mr. Michael Coroza, Ms. Carla Delgado, Fr. Rene MJavellana, s.j., Mr. Jose Lacaba, Ms. Corazon Lalu-Santos, Ms. Michelle MAngela Morelos, Ms. Michelle Paterno, Mr. bj Pati単o, and Mr. Alvin MYapan for taking part in the past Formalist and Creative Talks Mr. Rodney Cordova and the Matteo Ricci Staff Jim Imbong and Myka Arnado for assisting the Design staff 66

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Ms. Rhodora Violan and Midtown Printing Co., Inc. Evita Veronica Guinto and The Guidon Joseph Edward Alegado and Matanglawin The Gonzaga Hall maintenance personnel And to all those who continually support Heights projects and to those Mwho submit their works

Dividers Danie San Pedro Katherine Denise Yap

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editorial board

2006 - 2007

Editor-in-Chief Associate Editor Managing Editor English Editor Associate English Editor Filipino Editor Associate Filipino Editor Art Editor Secretary-General Special Projects Manager Business Manager

Moderator

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Audrey Phylicia N. Trinidad Louise Andrea S. Bacoy Anne Kimberley C. Ong Louise Andrea S. Bacoy Fidelis Angela C. Tan Geriandre M. Piquero Kevin Bryan E. Marin John Paul F. Marasigan Cherie Ann T. Lo Joanna Victoria D. Ruaro Yasha Bianca G. Barretto Jose Edru T. Urcia

Edgar Calabia Samar

members

English

John Santy Calalay . Reginald Chua Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon . Meriam Esmenda Antonio Adrian Habana . Arkaye Velasquez Kierulf Marie La Vi単a . Francesca Medina . Madeline Rae Ong Ma. Ni単a Angela Pablo . April Sescon . Martin Villanueva Timothy Paul Villarica

Filipino

Lester Abuel . Victor Anastacio Karen Dominique Brillantes . Anne Calma Twinkle De Los Reyes . Brandz Dollente Mark Benedict Lim . Chuck Patrick Marin Ali Sangalang . Jason Tabinas . Argee Tanchoco Roselle Tugade . Chester Valdellon

Art

Design Special Projects

Pancho Alvarez . Kim Bartolome . Erika Bacani Sam de Guzman . Genevieve Go . Eliana Laurice Javier Migs Mercado . Danie San Pedro . Maurice Wong Katherine Denise Yap Katrina Alvarez . Garet Garcia . Stef Macam Fidel Pamintuan . Earl Perlas Jay Alim . Kristel Dacumos . Francis de Guzman Ma. Alexandra Jhocson . Maria Karaan Ma. Jaclyn Emma Ledonio . Jeremiah Limsico Sabina Lopez . Patricia Magno . Madeline Rae Ong Mikhail Douglas Quijano . Jonathan Christopher Pascual Joseph Emmanuel Salas . Danie San Pedro Antonio Zulueta

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