Friday, August 07, 2009


I was two years old when the EDSA revolution took place. But unfortunately, I was too young to actually take part in it; hell I don't even remember where I was that time. And so I was able to learn about it by the books, just like everybody who were born after that historic event. I resorted to texting some of my friends in Manila and my colleagues who were there if they attended the wake or witnessed the cortege to get a feel of their experience. I would've wanted to be there.

The last time I remembered shedding a tear while something historic was happening on national TV was when the late Pope John Paul II came to the Philippines. I was so young that time but I remembered this figure waving to the multitudes of people who were as equally moved as I am. Though try as I may, I wasn't really able to explain why I cried. I just did.

I cried during the necrological services but mostly due to Kris' speech. That prodigal daughter whose elitist, puerile tendencies I've felt were such shameless loathsome acts for someone whose parents were national icons not only of democracy but of simplicity. But she was true; she was sincere as she could ever be in that farewell speech. For how can you fault a grieving daughter who can't find the words to say goodbye to her mother? It hit me when she said that they're gonna be okay, but then not. For how can anyone say they are truly, completely okay when a part them has been taken away forever.

My mom died 14 years ago of breast cancer when cure and even prevention were not only rare but costly. Her birthday was August 5, the day of Cory's burial. And so I remember the loss, the pain; revived by the beautiful eulogies. Despite being so young at that time, Mama's parting words to me at her deathbed reverberates up to this moment. How can you truly say you will be okay, when you go back to the loss and still feel the same pain, the same emptiness?

Photo from Nat Garcia (AFP/Getty Images) courtesy of foreignpolicy blog.

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?

Renton, Trainspotting