I headed to UP today – well almost. I went down at quarter to five to check the heat and was surprised. This absurd summer wouldn’t scuttle my trip today – as it has many times in the past weeks. It was the rain’s turn to mess it up. A sudden downpour met me downstairs, quickly turning mellowing sunlight into dull gray.

The Diliman campus is my oasis. This time last year, fatigued from work, I headed to UP, using my upcoming compre exams as a pretext to go on leave. The campus is one of the few places left in Metro Manila where you can still see everything. I mean this in the most literal sense. If you stand, let’s say, in front of Malcolm Hall, you can see the Sunken Garden and past that onto the horizon with very little in the way to obstruct your view. That’s important. I spend most of my week in a mid-sized office. With the extreme heat and (I suspect) photophobic colleagues on hand, the entry of sunlight is strictly regulated by drawn blinds.

I need something larger. To remind me that the outside world that I only ever get to hear about anymore still exists. It’s ironic that, having ventured into the so-called “real-world” of work and more work that I turn to campuses for a glimpse of what is out there.

Campuses are silos insulated from society many would argue. But they can hardly make that case for UP. If anything, the merging, clashing, discoursing ideas (and their proponents) on campus represent society as a whole far more than our individual offices can hope to do. The “microcosm” cliché exists for a reason. You can scarcely expect to find all contending forces in any space in the Metro.

I say this as an Ateneo undergrad. As loathed as I am to admit, the Diliman campus is superior in every way to the Loyola Schools. Only ADMU’s beautiful red brick walls give it an edge over its Katip neighbor. Of course, this is all subjective. And after many years spent in both campuses as a student and wandering bum (in UP’s case at least), I recognize that the Diliman campus is far more suited to myself. There is an energy in UP that you’d be hard-pressed to find in Ateneo.

In my freshman year in ADMU, for example, I joined The Guidon news staff for a chance to immerse myself in campus happenings. Months went by without anything noteworthy to write about. There was, of course, the rally against the construction of SM Blue (built over a fault line and so close to the Ateneo grade school building). But beyond that, my articles zeroed in on the student council budget that I was happy (and profoundly bored) to report was well-audited, aggressively ordinary, and pretty much routinely compliant just like in the previous years.

I’m not certain I could’ve said the same if I had joined Kulé or whichever of the many publications UP churns out. Student politics is far more heated and meaningful in Diliman for example. Ateneo was afflicted with a serious and chronic case of apathy when it came to campus elections. I can still hear the desperate pleas of student reps for us to vote just to meet the quorum and avoid another failure of elections.

Years later, right when I was about to graduate and directly afterwards, a spade of issues and scandals rocked Ateneo. From the very personal sexual harassment cases filed against professors to the macro-level protests against FM Sr.’s burial in the LNMB, the Ateneo studentry rose up in the spirit of activism and morality. These were issues that I wish had never come to be in the first place. But I think it did shake students free from the cobwebs of indifference.

Beyond the issues of the day prompting a sense of militancy among university students, however, I always felt that, in the long run, the UP-Ateneo contrast is a matter of cultural difference. Ateneo had its activist heyday in the ‘60s and ‘70s and a resurgence during the Duterte period leading up to the admin now. But UP has always stayed consistent in its socio-political awareness and action. It’s not a matter of curriculum or leadership that spells the difference here. As UP focuses on socio-economic forces shaping the country, so does Ateneo but with a theological, philosophical, and personal angle to it. UP has its spectrum of progressive ideologies; Ateneo has Liberation Theology and its preferential option for the poor.

The difference lies in the student demographic I feel. Ateneo, as progressive as its teachings and teachers and students are, is still largely composed of privileged students. Most of whom come from prominent families. This is not to dilute their devotion to any cause but let’s face it. The stakes are not as high when your own life is not directly involved.

UP students, the ones I got to know at least, mostly come from the provinces. Products of public schools who could ill-afford any other university other than UP. The relation between their lives and their advocacies is not a straight path. I’ve seen LGBT members rally for workers’ rights and financial scholars rally for press freedom but the sense of marginalization, of being part of the minority, fuels this mutual empathy among the studentry.

I wish I had been immersed in this world back in my younger days. When I had this deep-seated, inexplicable anger. I had no particular cause and I suppose I ran the danger of coming off as a shameless poser, but I think I needed to direct that rage towards something worthwhile. And I feel like I would’ve found many a cause in UP.

No one was angry in Ateneo. Not that I know of at least. We were kids being kids and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. But part of growing up is that restlessness. That rage. And much of that was powered by my own sense of marginalization. I was a scholar back then but my image and my manic happy personality hid my family’s very real financial struggles. I came from a prestigious and pricey all boys’ school (where I was also a scholar), lived in Makati (this was happenstance as my family grew up there), and spoke the kind of pseudo-urbane English you heard from my burgis friends.

But I never belonged in their world. I also never made it a point to seek out other scholars because it felt like a contrived way of fitting in. So, I stuck with the status quo. Stayed with the kind of people I grew up friends with. The immensely kind, grounded, but admittedly privileged types. And the wrath I felt, brought on by a medley of things and amplified by general teen angst, was never shared by my friends.

There was much joy — parties partied, girls met, beers chugged. But not anger. And in the range of emotions to be checked and cleared as an adolescent, rage was at par with joy. The fight was as necessary as the fun. And that sense of fight was sapped through the years as I felt that there was just something maladjusted about myself.

In our small circle in the early morning English class, I met this guy named Ram and Ram was just about the most stable guy I’ve ever encountered. Level-headed, mature, and simply plain agreeable. And close as we got, I never fit in in Ram’s group the same way all the other friends orbiting our world belonged there. I chalked it up to my insecurity, moodiness, and that bit of edge that was inappropriately intense for many people. I now see that that was that unexpressed rage eating me up.

I saw anger, back then, as something I had to keep in check, to tamp down. And for the most part, I was right. But it would’ve been far healthier for me to have channeled that intensity into writing or student politics. And UP was plenty angry.

The immensity of UP’s campus is fitting. Only such sprawling space can accommodate the many worlds built upon by students whose dreams and fights are colossal in their own right. I think there, in the many perspectives it offered, I would’ve learned that anger was not a bad thing. That it was part and parcel of life. If anything, it is a condition of living and wanting to live better. I wish I had known that much earlier.

Of course, as envious as I am of the alternate universe where I had gone to this campus over that. There is one aspect of UP campus life that should be underscored. The entire place is open to the public. In my own way of idealizing things, I felt like that was the school’s way of granting each and every one entry to its world of ideas. And its unbridled sense of openness does give that sliver of hope. That if you can visit and revisit and run across its campus, starry-eyed and full to bursting with energy, there is always that renewed sense of chance at being angry for the first time over and over again.

They almost revoked my millennial membership card for that makeshift telegram budget table I sent. Marvey said he’ll slap on our expenses on an excel sheet to compute faster. Anton belatedly suggested Splitwise, some newfangled app, for easier accounting. Post-trip math sucks and I was figuring this all out in the office COB with the bird’s eye view of Ayala Ave. For the first time in days, I didn’t run to get a glimpse of the sunset. That told me that I was back home — a reality I once again must contend with.

Baguio locals, I learned, refer to tourists of all shapes and size as “taga-baba.” I imagine that is uttered with a tinge of condescension. And really, who can blame them? I’ve rounded out my north to south trip of the country many times over but the Manila imperialist in me gives the edge to the capital (at least everything south of the EDSOR junction). Except for one place, of course (spoiler alert). It’s the city’s coziness. And the quiet contemplation that comes with the cold that makes it a cut above the rest.

I was reintroduced to that musing climate after a good six years. I awoke from my nap with the sound of Marvey gushing over the sunrise — Anton’s tantric harmonies blasting on the stereo. That was it for me. We rolled down the windows and the Baguio wind surged in. The jackets, merely decorative even in Manila’s February air, became imperative in the mountain breeze.

I can’t tell you where the profound sense of nostalgia arose from. My first ever trip to Baguio (the one I remember at least) was in the year 2000. It was a leisurely drive sometime in the afternoon. The dawn light had hardly pierced through this time around. And Anton the accelerator, still manic from having Tokyo Drift on loop earlier. We weren’t even on the same road. They closed down Kennon Road so we took an alternate route. Still, a wistfulness washed over me.

We chased the sunrise, scouting for a place that would give us an optimal view. We settled for a shoulder on the road right across a Bulalohan and bolted out of the car. The cold had me doubling over by this point. Two layers of clothing clearly didn’t cut it for a lowlander like myself. But what a sight to a see. My first sunrise of the year. They’ve become too few and far between since college ended and I vowed never to get up before 6:00. Of course, I made the exception for some Baguio magic.

We whipped out our phones. The majesty of the moment too intimate for the three fratmen. Some hijinks were in order. We took a welcome-to-Baguio video and sent it to the block group chat before realizing we didn’t invite most of our blockmates.

Our first stop, Chocolate de Batirol. Our poor planning skills started to catch up with us as we relied on Anton’s recommendations for every next step (his dad’s a PMA-er and he’s made the trip here enough times to lead the way). So 15 minutes later, we celebrated beating out three other cars in the cramped parking lot in some corner of Camp John Hay.

The smell of garlic rice wafted in the air, a sign of how intense the flavor must’ve been given that it was all al fresco. We passed on the tapsilog, though, pledging to ration our meals for our planned food crawl. Bibingka and hot chocolate it was. And the start of a running gag throughout the trip where we three posed as Baguio locals (Marvey and I ironically ordered strawberry infused hot chocolate with Anton sticking to the original cacao).

The fruitiness of the strawberry gave a nice twist to the otherwise standard hot choco. The bibingka was the main event. My one gripe about bibingka growing up was how dry it was. Chocolate de Batirol quickly changed my mind with its rich, buttery core. And the shredded cheese topping balanced out the bibingka’s sweetness without overpowering it.

Next stop, Burnham park. Or somewhere else. The four hours of sleep was taking its toll on me and I drifted in and out sleep, catching glimpses of Baguio’s scenic spots. I do remember kids playing catch in the park. The field stretched far and wide enough that pitched baseballs to each other with zero restraint. A vestige of American rule maybe? Manila fields featured frisbee and football, but rarely the colonizer’s favorite pasttime.

(c) Marvey

We secured our much needed sleep after this, snoozing right through sunset and into the early evening. Refueled, we dashed back into the open road in search of our first big meal. I crowdsourced for good Baguio restos (noting that Japanese cuisine is preferred, a detail I didn’t disclose to the two others). Hamada, one friend said, in Baguio Country Club. It was a winding crawl up the hilltop izakaya (Baguio traffic at its finest) and in the end we were turned away. “May letter of endorsement po ba kayo?” Wow. A new level of exclusivity I’ve never encountered. We scrambled for the next nearest place, starved after restricting our intake hours ago

We would up in Lemons & Olives, a Mediterranean place popular for their gyros. We didn’t hold back: a plate each of the lamb gyro; hummus; their roasted pork, beef, lamb platter; grilled octopus; cheesecake baclava; and san mig light (a patriotic aberration in the otherwise authentic Greek spread). Damn good. Which is to say the lamb wasn’t too gamey, the octopus fresh, and the cheesecake rich and was the right amount of sweet.

We headed off to the iconic Session Road. It was steeper than I expected (the lower body strength of locals should be examined for their track & field prowess I propose). Session lived up to the legend of quaint beauty. The adjacent night market disappointed, though. I anticipated variety, especially in the food. The inihaw is a staple (and my favorite dried pusit came through) but other than kebabs, I saw just the usual school-fair/night-market fare. I envisioned live bands, ilocos empanadas, and rare dishes. Oh and the kebabs? I guess Baguio is no different when it comes to Filipinos’ preference for sweet meats. Smothered with that saccharine mayonnaise they deceptively brand as aioli and it was wholly inedible.

I did like their bead selection. I’m starting to collect beads to mark every memorable trip of mine. I found this plain white bracelet that would make for a clean, neutral contrast to my turquoise Manaoag rosary beads, and my crimson evil eye beads from Binondo. I regretted this purchase later on when I saw tribal beads in UP Baguio, and I’m sure the Baguio Cathedral would have rosary beads if we had been able to pass by.

Cholo’s gastro park to cap the night. Looked like Pob on a good night except they had their last call at 1:30. They were set to boot us out until the waiter noticed my PSC jacket and asked me if I worked there. The chitchat revealed that he was part of the Muay Thai national team and I gingerly asked if we funded their team well. Thank God we did. Marvey smooth-talked him and boom, he handed us our Heinekens. A maudlin moment here as a belated Friendsgiving celebration: I raised a toast to good friends, or better yet, as fratmen from different frats, to a brotherhood beyond Greek letters.

A full eight hours of sleep makes a world of difference on a relentless trip like this. We rushed out of the air b&b having slept through the checkout time and beelined to Chaya where a decade’s-old mystery was finally solved. In 2013, my then girlfriend’s family took me with them to Baguio and we ate in this Japanese place inside a rustic, wooden house. I never got the name of the place but Jesus their food made that erstwhile relationship almost worthwhile. It took me a while after taking in Chaya’s ambiance to recognize the place.

A decade on and their food only got better. That sashimi set burst with freshness and the fish hotpot had the perfect mix of fish fat and crunchy vegetables. This was our priciest meal in Baguio and they dumped us over in the couch since all other tables were either reserved or occupied but Jesus not gonna wait another 10 years to come back here.

(c) Marvey

Checking that makeshift itinerary we made at the start, UP Baguio was still there. Greeted with a “ano po sadya niyo” we couldn’t come up with anything but an honest “titingin lang po” and an extra “ay taga-UP rin po kami, gusto lang makita yung ibang campus” for good measure. It was true. We were from UP. For me, the feeling of being a UP student never really sunk in. I didn’t attend my MA grad and I spent my undergrad years elsewhere compared to the two UP college grads.

Marvey pointed out that I’ve been expose longer to UP students and culture now than Ateneans and Ateneo and he was right. Been fully immersed in UP for the past five years versus my barely four years in ADMU. And I felt it really. Mostly in how grounded and direct UP students are that reminds me of that Midnight’s Children quote: “When you have things, you have time to dream; when you don’t, you fight.” Or Doc’s far more resonant and personalized version for me: “tama na pagiging sadboi.” Boy this Baguio trip was proving to be life-altering.

We spent some time viewing UPB’s Oble. Black and smaller than the gray and fading Diliman version on univ ave. Across campus a parked bus with “Philippine Military Academy” stamped on the side had a perfect vantage point from which an potbellied soldier dressed in fatigues looked on. Apparently it’s a common practice of military personnel to stake out UP campuses during events. For what reason, I could only guess. But it was interesting to see the entire political spectrum in one panoramic view.

Students walking around! They had a fair on campus and this came closer to the fair/market I was expecting in the Night Market. Clean with a variety of items. Some artist sold pornographic sketches and witty bookmarks while a few booths down scented candles, wooden kitchenware, and pastry versions of common Baguio treats (peanut brittle doughnuts!). A mic stood on stage beside the centralized cashier booth and I asked if they had an open mic night. The student playfully replied that they did but I had to start it. A few beers in me and I would’ve belted out a piece or two but for now sunset was fast approaching and we hurried to the second floor for a good view.

After soaking in the last of the sunlight, we stumbled upon the registrar’s office and the two dared me to ask about graduate programs after I shared with them how enamored I was with the campus. Registrar dude informed me of the number of programs available. I was seriously considering it at that point, even asking about the deadlines for application, but he shattered all hope by saying female students have exclusive access to dorms and male students have to find accomms elsewhere. Oh well. It was a fun, short-lived dream dating back to April when, driven insane by work stress, I seriously thought of taking the first bus to Baguio and teaching literature in UP. Of course, I remembered I don’t have a lit degree and trudged back to my miserable 8-5 job.

Right across UP, we zoomed past the PMA bus and straight into the Baguio Convention Center. Two giant murals flanked the lobby but the real cultural treat for me was the mint green ‘60s Beetle parked outside the center. The stone gray façade, the cloudy weather, and mint color all made for a good a picture.

Another cultural gem lurked just behind the thicket of bushes surrounding the center. We could hear the drumbeats and, strangely, bells playing from a distance. As we walked up to the clanging epicenter, a booming voice yelled out instructions “step, step…” Rehearsals. Student’s dancing to Christmas songs. “For the lantern parade? SLU ba kayo?” We got our answer in seconds as a group of three students approached us with those questions. Saint Louis University, another prestigious university prepping for their lantern parade. Oh lord, with the cool weather and abundance of universities in the city center, I’m sure lantern parades here are a big hit.

One last stop before we head down means we had to sift through our list of recommended restaurants. It came down to Farmer’s Daughter versus Good Taste. Good taste won since it was a culinary icon according to Anton Of course, we got lost on the way there, circling Baguio Cathedral (another site we missed that I’m visiting when I inevitably go back) twice until figuring out the way.

We warily drove down an avenue I can only describe as a better-lit Aurora Boulevard. That is not a compliment. We joked that we were true locals now as we plunged into a part of Baguio that was not as ~estetik~ as the others; in short, we’ve left the tourist zone. Good Taste was packed and I could easily see why. They had early 2010 prices when inflation didn’t hit that hard yet. And the selection, Chinoy favorites definitely. The waiter said it’ll take 40 minutes to 1 hour waiting time. We didn’t mind as this was better than the parking attendant’s 2 hour exaggeration. We decided to take a stroll towards the vegetable market while waiting.

Strawberries, peanut brittle, ube and strawberry jam, walis tambo, Mikasan, Good Shepherd, and all the other Baguio staples jammed into one place. P450 for a kilo of strawberries, plus P10 for the packaging. Strawberry jam at P150 per jar, P180 if you want the whole strawberries inside. And I’m not sure if I heard correctly but P800 for the same jar if it’s from Good Shepherd. Sorry brothers in Christ but at those prices, I’ll take the adequate shepherd, the scrappy, low-waged shepherd even.

And then there were the kids. Guarding us, zone defense, with their eco bags thrusted upon us. We said we didn’t need any. Anton thought they had just picked them up from the ground. The truth is a lot darker apparently. Doc, who spent a good amount of time in Baguio, told us that that was a modus. Kids would distract you with the giant bags while their partners snatched your valuables. Baguio’s not exempted from crime, no shit. But with the number of cops, police cars, and ambulances stationed and patrolling the streets, it does feel safer (or totalitarian, let’s let the true locals decide).

(c) Marvey

We ended our Baguio trip, giddy with our Good Taste loot bags, looking for one last site with a bird’s eye view of the city where we can eat our Chinese takeout. We decided on Camp John Hay. By the Manor. We squatted in a parking spot atop the hill with the faint lights of the hotel suffusing  in whole place with Christmas vibes. The yang chao lacked flavor, and the buttered chicken too sweet, but the Shanghai rolls were perfect. We joked that in our next visit, we’d be ballin enough to stay in the Manor. I like that idea. Maybe not the Manor just yet, but the idea of returning to Baguio. If only for the good times and the cold.  

It was the Taco Bell that really got me. Tucked in the left corner coming from Madrigal Ave., hardly minded by the Southerners flocking to anywhere else on the closing hours of Sunday. TexMex at its chepeast (which means out of budget for third-worlders like me). It was her staple treat in Cubao, I remember. Of course, strolling around Alabang, should’ve already prompted my memory card. She lived there back then after all. But the South goes beyond her.

I spent a good two years there. Sure, it was ages two to four where my sole memory consists of overly-minty Colgate running through my teeth as my dad hurriedly prepared me for a trip to the neighbor’s. But I grew up hearing how laidback the South was. That’s why my parents chose to raise a family there. Simple times, something like that. That’s the main come-on of nostalgia, right? Simplicity, innocence. And the South represents that.

For now, at least. I’m convinced SLEX-country still has its charm ‘cause I seldom pop up there. Two months ago, an officious Ateneo guard waylaid me at Xavier hall for the crime of taking a photo of the ADMU seal. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. Processing my brother’s papers, I explained. But by then the experience was spoiled. In any case, somehow the college magic wore off there and then. I can scarcely blame the sekyu for that. Walking around Bel field, seeing the old smocket where I regularly indulged in my favorite vice of second-hand smoking, I felt nothing.

They kept the campus green and maintained Gesu’s resplendent façade. But it had a ghostly feel to it. I didn’t know anyone there anymore. Not for a long time, and it no longer felt like home.

That cured me of my chronic nostalgia. Lately, I’ve plunged into that remedy. After my Alabang Sunday, the Grab drove me home, manically overtaking everyone on the highway. I leaned into the raging snare beats blasting on my earphones and was disrupted by a playful thought. I switched to my “Derf’s Days” playlist, letting the senti wash over me. Again, nothing. Bastille and Phoenix rocked springy jams thankfully because any slower and it would’ve turned into a cloying, mushy event. Still though, fuck these old songs.

You think I’d be beaming about this. Nostalgia’s ailed me for so long, I mean it. That’s the tendency when you’re an orphan with a receding hairline. You yearn for the days when your hair was full and your parents weren’t, oh you know, dead. But here’s the catch —  take away the past, what’s left? You’re gonna wanna like what’s in front of you. And that’s an even harder task.

Nostalgia’s an escape. A sad one, but a good ride out of the nonstop grind, nevertheless. But long ago and far away ain’t no longer it, chief; it’s no longer better. It’s still simple and clearer, and that used to mean more pleasant but somehow it just became tired.

Lemme call her. That should do it, I think. A well-timed drunk call eight and a half years too late should fix this. I am feeling chaotic after all. I still have that old knack for self-destruction. “She won’t pick up! And you’ll feel bad afterwards,” friendo warned me.

How ‘bout this? Let’s test how sharp my memory is. I’mma dial what I remember to be her number. She picked up. Damn it, she did. And her voice still pleasant as ever.

“People change” is the title of this correspondence piece as she repeated this incessantly over the phone. She no longer watched plays, much less star in them. Damn. The artist is gone. That was a bummer to hear. Way more than “I can’t remember anything good about our relationship.” That was a given. But the art. Then I remembered how much of a dilettante I was compared to her who turned pro.

I get why she got tired of it all. I dove deep into nostalgia the same way she did with theatre. Now, we’re both healed. And I’ve never felt worst. I realized how vividly I remember the past, grand milestones, intimate moments, old phone numbers. I remember I didn’t love her; that much is clear, I think. Anyway, now I know that most of those golden age memories sucked. That should put an optimistic twist to the here and now. How bad can it be, really? They have better songs now and I’m still doing art.

I miss La Salle cheers. I never give a straight answer when pressed for my school allegiance, but if you ask me about the drumbeats, the emphatic hurrahs, I will always choose green. It’s an easy choice when you grow up indoctrinated by the music.

My favorite was always Zama-Zipa-Zam. The in-sync clapping is impressive. And it was the closest to drumming I ever came in those years. Of course, there was the comical “C-S-B!” chant. The punchline was the missing letter. The cheer came from “D-L-S-U…Animo La Salle!” But since we were an NCAA school, partnered with Benilde rather than the main Taft campus, we were left hanging in the last syllable of that iconic chant – filling it in with a caveman grunt of “ughhh!” before invoking St. Benilde’s name.

The best cheer, of course, is something only GH boys back in the day were privy to. Only because it applied to us exclusively. As the sole all-boys La Salle school left at that point, we proudly yawped our protest of “co-ed! co-ed!” as early as Grade 4. We carried on with those chants long after we conceded that it would never happen.  The teachers met every whisper of opening up the campus to girls with the ritual response of “hindi papayag ang alumni”. To this day, I don’t know how much power or influence alums really hold in those policy matters. All we knew, back then, was they were the enemy.

Hormonally-charged pre-teens couldn’t understand why a bunch of grown-ass men deprived them of the company of girls. Girls smelled good, dressed well, looked gorgeous in every single way that boys did not. Majority of the batch agreed on that at least – budding proto-fuccbois, who actually interacted with girls, excluded.

And now, grown-ass men have become us. And a decade on after exiting GH’s gates, I saw a post on the GH girls official uniform and I stared aghast at the rallying schoolboys and their battle cry. They’ve won (or we’ve won?) The co-ed movement is sailing full steam ahead and I’m confused as to which side I’m on.

The answer should be clear. Studies show that there’s a Safeguard 99.9% advantage in establishing co-ed schools versus locking your kids up in faux-monasteries. Fine, I lied. I didn’t do any research, but truth be told, it’s not hard to see why many of us ended up insecure and awkward and all but crippled when facing women. And these intra/interpersonal issues endure.

To this day, the alluring, deceitful idea that women are the “prize” remains convincing. That they are trophies for your intellectual feats, or your athletic prowess, or for just being damn good looking. The college years and beyond have done much to correct this perception but on days when the insidious self-doubt creeps in, I’m reminded of the endless soirees held in those years (some of which I organized myself) where some tall, mestizo varsity kid gets all the girls.

Never mind that soirees were a roughly four-hour affair, the first half of which had the “cooler” boys smoking in some distant corner, brooding, and confident in their edge-lord tactics while the girls discern whether this was attractive or not. We didn’t work on getting to know girls and if we shared common interests. Impressing them was the key, the end goal. It took years to accept the one-sentence advice my friend once gave me: “hey, if you guys like the same things and you’re not an asshole, maybe she’ll like you.”

It’s clear the damage done by sticking kids in unnatural testosterone-fueled environments. But there is that stubborn 0.01% that we hold on to. It’s simplistic and unhelpful to dismiss it as “tradition.” That’s the lionized terminology for outdated machismo. Truth is, it’s nostalgia. It’s the root cause of tradition. And therein lies the power.

For all the talks of GH as a Wild West oasis, whatever uproar remains towards the co-ed fait accompli, comes from deep emotional ties. The boys have grown up and we realize we have feelings – overwhelming ones. A wistfulness towards the days when WWE’s Ruthless Aggression era inspired every playground roughhousing, or when we smuggled in FHM magazines (actual OG tangible copies!) or stole classroom trinkets on the last day (my seatmate stole the damn wall clock).

And we associate these antics with the sense of brotherhood and freedom and identity we felt all throughout those years. It’s the drums after all, not the melancholy guitar, beating loud in those basketball games we watched with our classmates that ushers in the nostalgia. And we’re convinced that none of this could’ve happened with girls on campus. Maybe, maybe not.

One of my favorite high school memories is this: Friday afternoon, on the way to whatever event we had planned that night, my track buddies and I wanted to change out of our uniforms and into casual clothes. Walking on the oval (feeling like it was our territory and take note I was just team B) we just stripped to our underwear, grabbed our fresh clothes, and put them on one by one while walking. It’s a stupid memory really. Nothing significant about that but I remember that sense of freedom, that inexplicable cockiness, and the high it gave me.

And that’s what we hold on to in the end. The nostalgia for all-boys school doesn’t make much sense but it’s not really about reason; it’s about childhood. This is precisely the reason why it’s high time GH turned co-ed. We have for so long, kept true to a sentiment based on the stubborn, incorrigible child in us. But it’s also precisely the reason why, despite knowing it’s for the best, we can’t help but be saddened by it. That amidst the incessant overhaul of everything we once held so dear, we prayed our old school would hold out and stay the same.

A parting memory. Second year, right after art class, my close friend asked me to accompany him to visit this girl he was courting. “Sa St. Paul lang,” he promised me. It was Wednesday afternoon, and I hadn’t yet commuted without my dad at that point. Reluctant as I was, I carried on, wanting to prove to my friend I wasn’t scared. It was just nearby anyway. We rush past the canteen, towards the covered walkway, and seeing the nervous look on my face, he smiled, ever so smugly:

Nakasakay ka na ba ng MRT before?

MRT? Baket? Diba sa Pasig lang naman?

De, pre. St. Paul Parañaque tayo.

My heart stopped but my feet kept walking. The next thing I know I’m at Taft station, at the end of the line, looking for a taxi to Parañaque ‘cause we’ve exhausted our commuting knowhow. The taxi driver takes us to the campus, not before giving us a lecture on Mao Tse Tung and Rosseau. I suspect manong had revolutionary sympathies and an interesting story but I was focused on getting to our destination in one piece. We did. And we headed to SM Sucat after, and I snapped a photo of that faraway mall that stayed as my phone wallpaper for the next two years.

Had we had girls on campus, I wouldn’t have had that iconic wallpaper, or met that Mao-fanboy driver, or had that exhilarating adventure. I tell myself this, with profound cognitive dissonance, realizing if there were girls around, I would’ve had other stories to tell at nakalandi rin ako ng hindi lumalayo.

Farewell, GH. Still glad I spent some of my best years in your halls. Welcome to the brave new world, I guess.

June has no weddings. The randomness of that statement can be clarified by this context: I attended two weddings in May, three weeks apart from each other. It’s strange to have a whole month go by without having suited up, stuffed myself with delectable dishes, or fumbled the minor tasks my groom-friends assigned to me on their most important day.

May, I’m convinced, is love month. Feb is too contrived and pressure-packed to be romantic; December loneliness is offset enough by Christmas parties, bonuses, and festive decorations. But May is the last of summer. The last time the sun will shine that brightly for both of you before the typhoons swoop in and the pre-calendar shift classes interrupt your whirlwind fling.

That is to say that, once upon a time, May was the last chance at young love. And its prickly heat, which has only intensified over the years, reminds us of both of memories and missed shots. And those embers stay, waiting to be stoked by the right wind at the right time.

All my relationships started in May. Of course, none of them survived long enough to transform into the plus-ones the grooms graciously gave me. Never mind that. My doctor recently told me I had 20-20 vision and I found myself, eagle-eyed, scanning churches and reception grounds for eligible bridesmaids.

It was easy enough on a perch. In the one wedding, the groom asked me to be a reader for the mass. Either divine intervention or a culminating salvo– from a friend who has waged a protracted “Ligma” troll war on me – is to blame here but all other readers vanished that day. The coordinators instantly promoted me to full-blown commentator and sent me off into the battlefield. As a seasoned non-practicing Catholic, this was D-Day without so much as a bayonet in hand.

“Just read the parts marked for you.” Sure. Ez. Until the “N” word. There in the clear-book wrapped guidelines the letter “N” raged red, crying out to me. “Sir, that means ‘name.’ Just say the names of the bride and groom.” Oh alright. “Their full names.” Shit.

Of course, I know them. But in the heady moment when you realize you could really fuck your friend’s wedding up, I blanked out. I mumbled the groom’s juvenile IG handle instead of his first name and the wedding coordinator was aghast. Okay, practice run. Ball wasn’t in play yet, wedding hasn’t started. I still got time.

By the end of it, of course, it was Catholic church – 10, Jio – nil. I got the timing wrong on most responses and at one point almost found myself in a classic medieval power struggle with the clergy when I told everyone to rise post-communion and father ordered them to sit their ass down as he wasn’t done wiping down his eucharistic articles – I’m embellishing language here relax, but with father’s bombastic side eye boring a hole in me, sass from him wasn’t far off.

Luckily, none of this mattered to the newlyweds. I asked them afterwards if they noticed any of my blasphemous gaffes, and of course they didn’t. They only had eyes for each other. Jesus, why wouldn’t they? They were a beautiful couple. Both clad in white, glowing from sheer giddiness.  

It was four days from May’s end after all. It was their last chance. The rain, in fact, managed to interject mid-ceremony but the sun broke through triumphantly at the end.

Three weeks earlier, another couple was even giddier – or faster at least. The ceremony capped off a brief three-month engagement. Of course, it’s due to Chinese tradition that says a couple must marry within 200 days of the lola’s death or wait two years to tie the knot. No waiting for the couple here. It’s not often that ancient custom helps out delirious romance. When it did, they took the plunge. Not surprising from a couple who, on the surface, seems reserved until politics, K-Drama, or any similarly incendiary topic is broached then it’s a virtual free-for-all. Not surprising for a couple truly and securely in love.

Young love. I took off my coat and danced with the crew who egged on their only single friend there to find a match. And there she was.

Blue dress, glasses, swaying to the beat with enough restraint to signal to me that my energy can match hers. “Hey, who’s that?” I asked the bride. Famous last words. She dragged me across the room, displaying freakish strength I did not expect from her tiny frame. “Hey, you’re single! He’s single too.” Oh lord. Blue-dress girl’s now in a daze. Bride hauled us both onto the stage: “Dance!” We didn’t. But the rest of the night was lovely.

May ended again without love or the start of it. And romantic prospects would seem bleak if May were taken literally. But like the scripture I read and botched in wedding no. 2, none of this is to be construed with rigidity. Love may be the one thing that doesn’t have rules. May marks the end of one season. The takeaway there is timing. There is a time for everything even love; that holds true to this day whether you source it from Ecclesiastes or HIMYM.  

As we press on to our 30s there is this absurd pressure to settle down. I won’t speak to the challenges of having a biological clock as I have no experience there. But as summer ends, I think twice. What is this all about?

In June, we celebrated a pride parade in QC of such magnitude I haven’t seen before. The Right-to-Care card is about to be disseminated. This is a win not only for the LGBTQ community but for progressive love. Soon, I hope, we recognize non-traditional families. That the idea of marriage isn’t centered on procreation. Then maybe we can be freed from rushed love and set our sights on right love.  

June had a wedding many, many years ago. Dad held mom’s hand as they marched outside Paco Park showered with petals and well wishes. They were both past the average marrying age at that time. And yet there they were, happy, hopeful, beautiful, not a care in the world that summer had just ended.  

Para sa alaala ng natitirang alab ng Burnout ni Ebe Dancel

Rinegaluhan kitang plaka. Kahit mabago-bago ang mga kanta, umaasang mabahiran ng pagkaluma ng vinyl. Mabigyan ng dignidad ng taon. Nang pagka-seryoso ng mga naunang himig, mga naunang salita. Mga nasambit ni lolo kay lola.

Unang salita: Tala

• Nakalatag sa langit. ‘Yon sa bandang dulo, pangatlo sa kaliwa halos dumaplis na sa bundok. ‘Yon ang samen. Pinamana ni lolo kay erpats, at ako ang nakawala. Pinangako sa iba’t-ibang babae, naiwan lang sa isa. Sa mga labi mong nagsambit ng “I don’t see you as someone I’ll end up with long term.” Nalawayan, napundi, nalamon ng dilim ng pagtikom ng bibig, ng pagsarado ng ngiti. Sa pagkasunod-sunod na pagbitaw ng “hindi.”
• Kaya pala “tala” ang tawag. Short for “tangina lang.”  

Panaglawa: Paraluman

• Isa kang paraluman. Short for para lumandi. Pagnakikita ka ‘yon lang ang gusto ko gawin. Magdasal, lumandi, mabigo, lumandi, masabihan ng mga makata na bawal nang magspoken word kase mga tula ko’y masyado malandi, lumandi.
• Landi, napakabagong salita. Di ko maisip ituring paglalandi ang pagsuyo ni lolo kay lola. Pero ano pa nga ba? Konserbatibong landi? Pormal na landi? Lumang landi “O binibini, limang segundo lamang. Walang malisya.”
• Pero walang luma. Ang pag-ibig ay laging bago. Laging pula. Hindi ang pula ng rosas na nalalanta. Pula ng tigyawat. Nagbibinita, unang sabak sa panliligaw, tumutubo, lumalaki’t pumipintig, nagbabantang sumabog.
• Parang liwayway sa naiwang templo, araw-araw pinipinturahan
• Hindi kita sinasamba, di mo maisasayaw ang mga rebulto, naalala lang kita sa ilaw na bumabasag sa langit, sa kagandahang nagpapaganda

Pangatlo: Himig

• Nabulol ang teacher namen dati habang pinapagalitan ang klaseng sabik sa paparating na Prom. “Manahimig kayo,” sigaw niya.
•  Manahimig, umaawit na katahimikan, metikulusong nagsusulat ng lyrics sa mga awit na di kailanman makakanta. Parang ang ingat ng stylus na gumuguhit sa plaka, dumadaplis parang trumpong gustong maglaro pero ayaw lumaya, parang kutsilyong nangingiliti, parang ang mga kuko mong humahaplos sa kanyang pisngi
• Manahimig, pag katahimikan nalang ang pwede mong awitin. Pinutol ko na ang gitara, tiniklop ang piano, pinatahan ang mga huling berso.
• Pang-museo ang pag-ibig ko: nakapako sa pader, malayo sa mga tala, hindi maiuuwi. Sa katunayan, walang plaka, walang himig, walang pagsuyo, isang tulang sikreto lang.
• Ako ang diktador ng salita. Ako ang diktador at ang iisang tauhan. Mula ngayon iisang salita lang ang pinagbabawal ko, sa luma at bagong wika, sa lahat ng awit at pagtapat ng damdamin:

O kay tagal din kitang….
O kay tagal din kitang…
O kay tagal din kitang…

Dear dad,

It’s been four years. That’s always been my definition of an era, of a long time. High School and college were four years each after all. You’ve been gone for the entirety of that dull, protracted moment in between World Cups and leap years. Sadly, unlike them you won’t be coming back.

Update: people are still falling in love! I’m getting ready for a wedding now. And there’ll be another one in two weeks . That’s something to fill your poetic heart. Me? Well, my friends promised that they’ll seat me with all their single lady friends (they didn’t actually promise that but I will find my way to that table). I’ll dance for you because you may not have had rhythm but by god you had verve.

Somehow, though, there is still a lot of fear. A lot. You passed on your condition to me and I saw you deteriorate in a way that still leaves me traumatized every time they find something wrong with me.

I suppose there’s something in between that spectrum of love and fear then. It’s not exactly choice because we often don’t have that. I think it’s the pulse of existence. The necessary trust that all will be okay because that delusion will keep us going. It’s that suspension of disbelief I gave you when you pulled off that optical illusion with the detachable thumb.

I was 11, dad, I wasn’t dumb. But mom was sick and we were hard up. We all needed magic at that time so I laughed and pretended to believe you.

I believed you all my life. A few weeks ago, I was at my boss’s room listening to the wonders of the new procurement guidelines when my eye was caught by the beaming blue sky behind her.

Then I remembered you. The view from that room was the Enterprise Center, my favorite building in all of Makati. It was there at the corner of Ayala Ave and Paseo de Roxas where we greeted the new millennium. I was frightened of the fireworks, thinking they would actually hit me. You pointed to that building, newly-built at that time, and told me it would shield me from the blasts. Then you lifted me on your shoulders and told me to raise my Little Mermaid glow-in-the-dark Triton sword and bat the fireworks away.

I wish I could’ve offered you that same steady assurance in your last days. I wish I held your hand and told you all will be okay. That the gods were still around, that we still celebrate new year’s every year, that the Enterprise Center was still standing. I’m sorry I didn’t. It was hard to believe in magic that time, dad.

A few days ago, I found a piece in your old bookcase: “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud: And Other Poems You Half-Remember from School” by Ana Sampson. I opened it where you left your bookmark. It was in the middle of a poem — When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d by Walt Whitman. I’d like to think that was the last poem you ever read.

Whitman wrote that for Abraham Lincoln’s funeral. He would often pass Lincoln on the street and they would doff their hats to each other in mutual recognition of greatness.

It’s a very long poem, but the book only featured the extract. And you marked the extract of the extract. You were always good at finding the best lines in every poem. Here, Whitman sees all the pomp that was expected of a great statemen’s funeral. The grandeur of it was overwhelming. But at the end the author offers only a humble flower: a sprig of lilac. Maybe it was all he could afford. Maybe the smallness of the gesture was an ode to their intimate and personal ties. Or maybe the meek offering was the truest and saddest of them all, a tribute from a man so devastated he could only offer the flimsiest of flowers that still, somehow, managed to be beautiful.

I know this is how you felt when mom passed. You didn’t have much and there was nothing to offer her but yourself and your everything, humble, meek, and true.

As my boss droned on about the work plan, I stared again at that old building. In the corner of my eye, a flock of birds broke their formation at such immense speed that it looked like an explosion gracefully done. Like the fast blooming of flowers, rushing to be beautiful. I wanted to quit right there and then. I’m nearing 30 and my life is nowhere near beautiful.

But I remembered I could write. You made me promise that I would keep writing after all. The march toward time is getting harder, dad, but as long as I’m writing about you, all seems beautiful. I offer you my heartfelt letters and a sprig of lilac worthy of a good man.

Kenny Rogers had just opened in Rockwell. It was 2008 and a good month or so after mom had passed. Dad tried carrying on with the Sunday mass tradition. Nope. We had just come from St. Andrew’s and I knew that was gonna be our last weekly worship.

Now, I find myself back at mass. The faint rustling of the palaspas drawing me to the chapel. Outside the great Christmas mass accord – a compromise the family had agreed on in conforming to mom’s wishes, and really a good excuse to see more of those festive lights – I had not attended mass since the last of those mandatory first Friday masses in high school. A full 12 years ago.

I suppose it’s the novelty of it. A dozen years away from the Catholic world makes you feel like a tourist upon your return. I saw the rituals as exotic as the rites of the temples I visited with dad in the wanderlust years succeeding college.  

Most likely, it was the overwhelming tedium enveloping Holy Week for those of us who didn’t join the NLEX-SLEX cortege to the beaches. It’s that old school pagninilay that dad often spoke of, looking back on his childhood days when Lent meant a complete standstill in the metro.

It’s long overdue anyway. I’ve barreled through the highway of my 20s, fast approaching that menacing junction of the next decade. I can’t remember much of the years that passed. I just know that the twin forces of grief and change have warped that rowdy spirit the fresh grad in me once had.   

Didn’t Jesus start his ministry at 30? Nothing was written about his 20s really. For all we know, Jesus went to a Jesuit university, fell in love with philo, and lit, and theo, and some over-the-top theatre princess, and spent the following years in PR and government and law school and masters. Anachronism and thinly veiled projection aside, maybe his followers never wrote about his earlier days cause Jesus was, like the rest of us, figuring things out. What he went through would’ve been too ugly or unflattering to recount.

And maybe, all this existential contemplation is just an excuse for me to fulfill that sentimental dream of completing that seven-stage tour of my favorite childhood churches.

Rockwell Chapel

Confession time, Palm Sunday is my chance at redemption. Four years ago, I buried my face in those trash pits carved into the Megamall food court tables, exorcising the devil’s spirit from my churning stomach. It was the aftermath of my first and last battle with gin bulag.

I was proud. I took it like a man. I lifted my head in triumph, coolly wiped the barf remnants from my mouth, and dared to stare down the first person to shoot me any look of judgment. And there they were: two frail lolas in their Sunday best, holding on to their decorated palaspas, aghast at what they had just witnessed in front of them.

“Welcome to Jerusalem! Jesus has just arrived; we’re celebrating.”

It’s now 2023, and I’ve dialed down the drinking to AA levels. I climb up to the new Rockwell chapel and found that 15 minutes early is still too late to beat the flock and get a seat. My first lesson upon my return to religion: logistics. I wonder if Jesus did an ocular on which mount he was to give his sermon. Did he reserve the chambers for the last supper? Did all 13 of them fit or did Judas have to scooch, holding on to his pockets to ensure the silver coins didn’t rattle and give him away?

I tried at the very back. There was this cocky looking kid in the Gen Z regalia of baggy shirt and cuffed Korean chinos. He had an empty seat beside him. But of course, it was reserved for someone. What did I expect really? Mass is a family event. I was the freak who went here alone after all. Ironic, isn’t it? Those who need the embrace of community the most are often the ones who don’t bother with these rituals. It’s because it’s alienating.

The Church is welcoming, of course. But the culture dictates that family is at the center of Christianity. Even if Jesus was a bachelor who hung out with 12 of his main dudes and once swore he’d turn father against son.

In any case, I finally got a seat when this old couple called my attention to the space beside them. Maybe it was one of those frail lolas from 2019 recognizing me and giving me a shot at salvation.

I was hyped for mass. It was prodigal son time! And I imagined the gathering was for me. I was ready for the old songs – there will be no Tanging Yaman trap remix here. Gimme the OG melodious version.

Nope. Apparently in the last 12 years, some parishes decided to discard the Bukas Palad arrangements and come up with their own. Lord why. The Jesuits are like the Catholic Beatles, my man. You don’t mess with the classics.

Now, I had nothing to listen to but the homily – okay I had to remind myself that I was there voluntarily for the first time in my life so I couldn’t complain. Father was talking about Jesus carrying the cross and the cast of characters who played their parts in that particular scene. Who were we? Father asked. Wow. These homilies actually made a lot of sense. It was like those motivational vids on TikTok. Except, you know, better articulated and without the angry alphas or thicc chicks.

I think I’m Simon of Cyrene. The odd fellow who carried the cross for Jesus (and we’re still not sure why). I’m not really part of that crowd you see. Any crowd. Not the main-bro apostles or the Roman centurions or even the Jesus haters condemning him to the cross. I feel like I stumbled into this world to do some one-and-done ambiguous act construed as both charitable and stupid and definitely strange. And carry on with the one-man party thereafter.   

At least they started playing Anima Christi right before communion. Damn that was nostalgic right from the first belting of ~soul of christ~~.

I didn’t take communion. When I said this was a return, I meant a liturgical wading in the pool, not a nosedive into the theological ocean. Also, the one constant staple in my religious upbringing other than regular Sunday mass was dad’s unfailing record of not taking communion. For various reasons of faith, believe it or not. Dad respected the Eucharist too much to treat as a simple exercise. And so, in inheriting both that defiance and reverence, it felt like being in solidarity with him in not taking communion. Especially since I wasn’t sure of any of this just yet.

St. Andrew’s

No sunsets sadly. St. Andrew’s is beautiful under the sun. Or maybe it’s just so rare for me to see it that way. Of the hundreds of Sundays we heard mass there, I only saw it once or twice in the afternoon amber glow. Mom had a two-hour beauty regimen before going out (plus an equally religious devotion to her Sunday episodes of Sharon or The Buzz) so that meant the 8PM mass for us. 8PM was the very last schedule for Sunday mass. The very last chance at salvation and we raced to the church every time…and still we’d get there somewhere in between the homily and communion.

As both an attention-challenged brat and a budding anti-clerical pre-teen, I didn’t mind this tardiness at all. But years later, I actually hoped to catch the whole mass if only for the reason that I bothered going out, so I wanted to see the whole bonanza.

St. Andrew’s has one impressive sculpture of the crucifixion. The most realistic one I’ve seen if not for unequal proportions of Jesus torso to legs. It was Holy Monday and like any other Monday, even this felt like the most mundane of the sacred days. Particularly because there was no music or choir to speak of. It was a straight up lecture-type mass.

The homily centered on Mary of Bethany and my favorite scene in Jesus Christ Superstar (1973). Carl Anderson as a black Judas castigating Jesus and Mary (though I think they portrayed Bethany to be Mary Magdalene here) for wasting the perfume poured on the messiah’s foot. ~~Why has it been wasted? We could’ve raised maybe 300 silver pieces or more!~~”

That was Judas’ heroic moment, wasn’t it? The socially-conscious firebrand standing up to the savior himself for his material excesses. Why was he the bad guy there? I never got the answer to that question. The priest focused on Mary and the care and gentleness she showed Jesus. “Lucky are those who have someone to love them the way Mary loved Jesus.” Damn, father. I came for the gospel not an unwarranted reminder of my non-existent love life.

But it is interesting that for once, the gospel’s focus was not on social justice but on personal relationships. And it presented Jesus in a very human way in a loving (though not romantic, at least not canonically) relationship.

And that’s the reality of things, isn’t it? Social justice is noble but never as moving as personal ties. I think the goal is to create personal relationships in pursuit of social justice – Jesus and the rippling effect of his teachings to the apostles who evangelized the world.

I remember Ms. Alma, our high school vice-principal, who gave her commencement speech on concentric circles and the impact of our personal friendships to the outside world. This Christian thing is driving home the community message hard, huh? Really, it’s starting to ostracize us loners.

Don Bosco

Four years ago, this is where we laid dad to rest. The wake was held in chapels named “Peace” and “Love” and I had to laugh at its inadvertent reference to dad’s hippie days. “Peace and love, brotherman!” My first thought went to those flower power, ripped jeans, Jefferson Airplane days in that Sunday morning where I roamed the Don Bosco church in search for the right words for dad’s eulogy that afternoon.

Nothing came. I realize now that the whole of Christianity is based on the works of skilled raconteurs. Chalk up their talent to divine intervention, sure, but there’s no denying God favors good writing. Imagine the pressure on me that time.

I ultimately botched my eulogy. I’ve been trying to make up for it since really. And four years later, here was another chance. This time all I had to do was tell my story. Upon entering the church, I was greeted with screens flashing “Silence in preparation confession.”

I stayed in the middle pew this time just to get a closer glimpse of the altar. I called it the Starmie centerpiece. It was this illuminated starburst design framing the crucifix that uncannily resembled the shape of my favorite water-type Pokémon. Starmie’s lights hypnotized me as they seemed to oscillate with the faint sound of Huwag Kang Mangamba rolling to its crescendo.  

”Bless me father for I have sinned. My last confession was…” Jesus, I don’t remember. And sin? What were they again? There were venial ones and mortal ones. And I honestly didn’t know which ones I’ve committed.

Not that I believe myself to have been a good person all these years. Far from it. But the idea of calling my mistakes sins seemed so arcane and alien to me after all this time. I tried going through the ten commandments to see if it would help but nada.

“Father I’ve been an incorrigible asshole in the past few years. What sin is that? Oh and there’s lust, I guess. I love big boobs. I think they’re God’s greatest creation.” This all felt like a giggly fourth-grader exercise. There has to be more adult sins out there.

And then it hit me. Chocolate cake. Father, once upon a time my dad asked for a slice of Becky’s Kitchen Swiss Choco – the one with the crunchy caramel core and the indulgent vanilla icing that went on for miles below the surface. That was my mom’s favorite cake, you see And my dad used to drive all the way to Vito Cruz for it.

Father, a few years ago, dad asked me if I could buy him a slice. I worked along Vito Cruz, and this was the pre-Grab Express/Food Panda era. You had to actually go there to get the damn thing. Dad told me he would pay for it cause his pension was coming in. This broke my heart, father. Dad was worried it was too pricey for me but that wasn’t the case at all. It’s just that it was quite a walk going there – except that’s not true.

I was young and had the stamina of a horse back then. I could’ve walked 10 kilometers easy. The truth is I was lazy. I know that cake meant a lot to him but I chose not to pay attention to that. I had my own life.

And that was it, father. My own life. I suppose that’s against the fourth commandment, right? Honor thy mother and father? But it feels like I broke all the other commandments, and whatever else is out there that Jesus taught us not to do.

Have you ever seen A Goofy Movie? That scene when the stream dragged father and son all the way out and they were arguing right before hitting a waterfall. Max screamed at Goofy that he had his own life. “I’m grown up. I’ve got my own life now!” And Goofy replies “I know that. I just wanted to be a part of it.” That floors me every time, father. And what’s worse is that movie had a happy ending. Goofy and Max reconcile. Goofy smiles as Max gets the girl. And they even get an X-Games sequel!

Dad and I had no happy ending, father. And we get no sequels in this life. It’s the kind of story you can’t show to Disney kids, is it? A chocolate cake, father. That’s my sin. And how do I redeem myself when there’s no one to buy it for anymore?

Of course, I never told the priest this. Mostly because I was crying in the middle of the church at this point. Boy, I was balling this time and Huwag Kang Mangamba was on loop. Starmie was lighting my tears for all the world to see. I had to get out. There was no salvation for me there.

Sts. Peter and Paul

Okay round four, and I’ve calmed down. I’m cleaning house today, baby! I’ve set some worldly things straight, made a few calls, and generally felt that my life was now “neat” – in a spiritual and emotional sense.

I skipped out on mass last Wednesday and Thursday cause apparently there’s no mass on Maundy Thursday anyway? Some friends pointed out that my attempt at a Visita Iglesia was wrong anyway. It’s seven churches in one day, and you don’t go to mass, you just visit them. My response was “does it look like I’m here to strictly follow ritual protocol?”

I know Poblacion has a procession every Good Friday and for once I wanted to see it up close. I grew up in Pob. But our house was situated in the part of town they called a ghost town. Because the fiestas, the holy week festivities, and Christmas events never reached us. Of course, years later we would be at the heart of the bar boom in Pob and they were the ones left out of that flourishing circle.

Though, it’s all the same really. P. Burgos, the street famous for its red-light district stretches all the way to Makati Ave. And right before you hit that avenue, you’ll pass the corner of D.M. Rivera where Sts. Peter and Paul church is, the center of religious life in the town. (now that is a real-world spectrum if there ever was one)

For once, I reached the church before night fell. And instantly you could feel the difference from the other churches. There was a pulse here, beating strongly thanks to the people going in and out of the church. To be fair, there was no mass and every time they did enter the church, they observed silence. But even in that solemnity there was a feeling of familiarity with how they exchanged glances and nods and light taps on the shoulder and the most genial smiles. And outside, the street food galore was in full swing.

In a few minutes, the parade of icons would arrive, traditional and kitsch and lowbrow sure but unpretentious and honest and made with devotion. My dad would take my brother to watch this every Good Friday and I inexplicably never joined in. Maybe it was part of my anti-religion radical chic campaign or maybe I was somewhere else. Who knows why we did what we did when we were young. But I do regret it.

There is something insidious about the word “spirituality” when it’s used to distinguish itself from religion. The word carries intellectual affectations. That one can acknowledge the importance of faith while scoffing at its sense of community – mainly because the community aspect is construed as cultish or sheep-like in its mass obedience. I held those pretensions for the longest time if only to feel superior to those who subscribe to religion.

Towards the end of high school, we were coming from a required watching of an El Fili play when I learned that my good friend had joined a Catholic youth group. My talent for scathing comedic roasting was at its height so I unleashed on him in the one-hour car ride going back to campus. By the end of it, I received a punch to the gut that was so shocking not so much for its power (though it did hurt like a bitch) but because it came from such a kind-hearted guy.

I apologized and we made up shortly after, but our friendship never really recovered. Later, the hypocrite in me, desperate to reconnect with these lost friends, asked if I could join the same group I lambasted. I was casually redirected to another chapter that none of them were part of.

More than a decade later, and those who joined that youth group stayed incredibly close. One time, I ended up in one of those guy’s birthdays and when it was time to take a photo of the closest friends, I volunteered to take their photo. We all knew I wasn’t part of it anyway.

Religion will always be grounded in community. Beyond its tenets, community is where it finds its verve and vitality. That’s why when dad and I felt lonely in our own respective moments, we sought out religion – albeit different kinds.   

Yes, there should always be room for individuality in religion (to what degree, I don’t know. I’m not sure I’ll ever be welcomed to the Catholic community given my adamant support for abortion, contraception, and even euthanasia). But the community is its greatest source of strength.

I never read the bible cover to cover. Christian Living classes tended to zero in on the gospel books and the rest of the New Testament while just scraping the surface of the Old Testament. I was always curious about the older books. The ones with the old God who underscored justice and vengeance. The one before Jesus’ time on earth.

Maybe in my return to the faith, I must go through scripture chronologically. Be subjected to the old school God first. My dad was quite lonely in his last few years, reminiscing about mom as his kids were scarcely at home, too busy living their own lives. I think the loneliness I suffer now is ancient bible justice swinging its sword, demanding I pay the price for exacerbating my dad’s lot by enduring a similar fate.

I end this holy week journal without the Easter commemoration. I heard glimpses of the homily as they held mass adjacent to the nearby restaurant where I was enjoying my burger and fries.

The priest talked about Christ’s resurrection as the whole point of Christianity. That Jesus died and rose for us all. In between bites, he proclaimed “redemption,” “salvation, “hope.” Big words, father. I just don’t really feel them right now.

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Rowan knew this was all his fault. He had vouched for Marty when the lead fumbled with the stirrups and fell leg-first under the weight of the damn horse. He was Malcolm’s only son. A smart kid up until the crash. They never found the trucker. He must’ve been out of the city by the time they rescued the kid, out cold and head barely kept in place by the seatbelt strapped across his bloodied chest– the last moment of peace he would have before waking up to a world where his father was gone.

Marty was a bit fuzzy after that. Rowan remembers how he would often cross himself wrong at mass, right before left that is – “in the name of the father, the son, and the spirit holy.” He stifled a chuckle. He couldn’t help it.

“Father, is the armor really supposed to be this heavy?” Marty called out, crouched down as he fanned himself with a white handkerchief.

“It’s the real thing, son. The director wants it that way. It’s just like those metal plates you wore in the Passion play in your sophomore production.”

“Yeah, but this one seems heavier.”

“It’s not. I made both of them. The Roman helmet you had to wear too back then. I designed that. At least this time around you won’t have to deal with the plumes.”

“I suppose. You still teaching second year, father?”

“No. I left a few years ago, Marty. And you know not to call me father anymore. I left that life too,” Rowan grimaced. He joined the wrong order, that’s all. A colossal mistake of youth. He was led to believe they were not as conservative as their reputation. But the bastards almost threw his painting out along with him.  

“What do I call you then?”  

“You can call me Rowan, Marty. It’s my name.”

“Seems a bit rude. How about ‘sir Rowan’?”

“You can call me anything you like. Let’s just get through this scene, alright? Now, you heard the director. Just hop on the horse and charge across the drawbridge and past the portcullis. Then we cut.”

“And then I get the painting, right?”

“No, Marty. We’re only getting you for the horse scene cause you used to ride horses, yeah?”

“Yup. My friend Sonny has this mansion and he used to let us ride his horses in their big field.”

“Alright. The painting is the next scene. Someone else will act in that.”

“Okay. It’s a nice painting. Though why was Jesus trying to climb down the cross, punching those Romans?” wondered Marty. “Wish I could ask the painter, but they never found him.”

“No, they didn’t. Okay, Marty. We need to focus now. We’ll start shooting in five minutes. You know what to do?”

“Yes, father. But I’m not sure I can do it, you know.”

“Of course, you can.” sighed Rowan, seeing the crew fixing the cameras.

“It’s just I’m a bit sad, that’s all. A bit tired.”

Rowan saw the kid resting his chin on the iron visor. The sun bearing down on his pale face. The light beaming on the few white strands on his head. Fixed exactly where Malcolm’s white strays were.

“Is it your dad?”

“Yup. The horse kind of reminds me of him.”

Rowan stifled another chuckle.

“How does this horse remind you of your old man, son?”

“Well, he’s really nice. So was dad, especially to me.”

Marty put on his visor. The old priest was almost proud of his design as the shadows of the helm hid the kid’s eyes, making him look almost brave.  

“The other guys said dad was drunk that day. I don’t believe them.”

“Don’t, Marty. Your father was a good man. But you’re the man of the house now. Just get through this scene and you’ll get your pay. And you can buy back some of your mom’s jewelry.”

“Yeah, she was hoping to keep some of them before.”

“Is that one of them?” Rowan asked, pointing to the stringed collection of tacky white fangs wrapped around Marty’s wrist.

“Oh no, this is my shark tooth band. Sonny said it’s a lucky charm.”

“What happened to your dad’s blue prayer beads? Those were nice.”

“Oh, those were his. I could never wear them. Plus, I like sharks! They’re nicer than people think, you know.”

“Have you ever seen a shark in real life?”

“No. But I’ve never seen a knight either. And the script says I’m the supposed to be the hero.”

Rowan smiled at the kid’s surprising wit, another one of his father’s enduring legacies.

“Well, I don’t think they had shark tooth bands in the dark ages, so you mind if I hold on to those first until after this scene?”

“I don’t know, father. I kind of need it for luck.”

“I’ll watch over you, son.”

The old priest helped lift Marty onto the horse.

“Beeline into the castle, Marty.”

“Yes, father.”

“Marty, I never got to ask. You’re the only one I know who’s never asked why I left the church.”

“I think I get it, father.”

Rowan nodded and signaled the director that the kid was good to go. He knew he would have to pay for what Marty was about to do. But he didn’t think to stop him.

Marty galloped straight ahead, reining the horse away from the castle and into the mountain wilderness, chased by the crew and Rowan laughed, wishing him well.