The UP I remember......

I am feeling sentimental. I miss UP; the school that molded me into what I am today. And so, this space goes to Nelson Navarro´s article.

The UP he describes here, is of course not the UP that I know.

During my time ( I sound and feel OLD! hahahahaha), we had the Marcos appointees for president (Angara, etc). While it is true that there were so many affluent students then who were more concerned about frat rumbles & parking spaces than going to class, I beg to disagree about Vinzon´s Hall being a pigsty. It might not have been what it was during Navarro´s time, but it was nevertheless the citadel of students´activitism.

Also, if I may add, the so-called decline in status as pre-eminent academic institution in Asia came after the downfall of the dictator because UP was no longer the favored `son`. Besides, then President Aquino allocated less fund for education. That´s why professors started to do some moonlighting; some left the country; and there was the infamous socialized tuition fee scheme.

The goal was not only to accommodate students coming from lower bracket incomes (and the far-flung provinces), but also to generate income for the University. Look at Philcoa!

If students dressed like slobs, it was because we felt the need then to be unique indivuals, and not become the Elvis Presley- Beatles- & Jane Fonda look-a-likes that was fashionable in the sixties.

Indeed, the mid 80s saw a distinct national awakening among UPians. Our sense of nationalism was not defined by the American-inspired sense of nationhood, but rather by our Malayo-Polynesian ancestors that was best typified by our choices in clothing and accessories. So what if we dressed like our Badjao, Tboli, Igorot, Agta brothers? It was more of a social statement.

And while it is true that UP had ( has and will still) produced crooks, the same can also be said about Harvard and Oxford graduates.

Yes, such is life. There's good, and there's evil. And we all know that this duality is the governing principle of human behavior.

And so (I have learned in UP that) understanding good and evil, requires a deep awareness of what man is (and not only as a UPian), as this behaviour appears at various levels and in different times in our social matrix and cultural history. (Note that I use the word social and not political!)

Therefore, the intrusion of several political overlays, and the internal & external struggles for power (corruption at all levels in Philippine society ) have shaped the stormy events that represent what we now know as UP.


(halata na UP diehard! hahahahahaha) ;-)






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IT was deemed politically correct and most fashionable in my day to refer to the University ofthe Philippines as "The Republic of Diliman. Unlike the great Manuel L. Quezon's love-hate obsession with UP (he was from UST), Ferdinand Marcos' devotion to his alma mater was legend.

The would-be dictator styled himself as the President ofthe Philippines who truly loved the academe, especially our independent republic of excellence and high moral purpose. Flattery always worked with the Diliman crowd. It was the best of times in the late Sixties.

That old UP conceit, nationalism, was on everybody's lips. The siren song of revolution ala Mao Zedong and Che Guevarra was in the air. Student Power was on the march from Berkeley to Paris, and UP's brand of ilustrado activism was political chic.

We were spoiled brats in the high summer of the Filipino ruling class, before everything turned sour, recalls one critical writer who came of age in those magical years. Marcos and his kind indulged us, anointed us the next generation of the well-educated elite, they who paid lip service to democracy but were feudal lords at heart.

We were curious and we kept asking embarrassing questions. We couldn't fathom why this elite could spawn or tolerate so much poverty and corruption inour country. But how were we to know? We were young, we were having fun, we were playing revolution, and we wantedto have it all.

Having studied and lived in Diliman during the gloriously liberal Carlos Romulo-SP Lopez regimes, I had a grand time and I left with golden memories to last three lifetimes. I entered freshman year crusading against the compulsory teaching of the Spanish language, fought against American intervention in Vietnam, and capped it all by storming the gates of Malacañang and joining the Diliman Commune (The first liberated zone of the Philippines) at the height of the First Quarter Storm in the early 1970s.

Many times I have written about this unforgettable period of my life by shamelessly quoting Wordsworth's paean to the French Revolution: Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive/ And to be young was very heaven.

Diliman was a world unto itself, many dimensions removed from the earthly pleasures and miseries of Manila. It lay in splendid isolation at the end of the Quiapo-Balara bus route, when Manila was one of Asia's proud capitals and Quezon City could be called bucolic and pleasant.

The sordid squatter colonies hadn't yet infested UP's 500-hectare campus, much of it verdant green and evoking some country club blessed with a golf course. Both Romulo and Lopez had built distinguished careers in the foreign service, capped by top posts in the United Nations before retiring to assume the UP presidency, one after the other.

The former was a closet monarchist who endowed Diliman with a heady sense of power and majesty. Backed up by generous Ford and Rockefeller funding, he set off a building spree that gave Diliman a passable First World look.

The lawns were kept eternally green and manicured and the flower bedswere forever abloom. Every morning at 7 a.m., Romulo's black limousine would arrive at Quezon Hall after a breezy drive from his Forbes Park home.

A Philippine Collegian editor in his youth, he kept an open door for wannabes like me who suffered his monologues about New York and Bataan. Seeing him was like being ushered into a ceremonial hall worthy of Mussolini.

What seemed a long distance from the door to the great man's desk may have been calculated to reduce lesser mortals into vassals before the imperial presence. It was during the Romulo era that Prof. EliseoPajaro, composer-conductor of the UP Orchestra, premiered a cantata evoking Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.

The University of the Philippines, thundered the chorus amidst drums and cymbals, is the citadel of truth! The citadel of Truth! Foreign dignitaries kept dropping by and were honored with military parades by the ROTC Rayadillo Model Company, which Romulo patterned after Aguinaldo's elite guard.

Such names as Madame Pandit, Nehru's headstrong sister, Robert Kennedy, President Sukarno, Nobel Laureate Jonas Salk and novelist Han Suyin come to mind. What was it like to bask in the hallowed groves of Old Diliman? Designed as the capstone of the public school system that the US set up right after the conquest, UP couldn't help but be frankly elitist.

Only valedictorians, salutatorians and honor students were accepted. Those without honors had to pass qualifying examinations. The toughest academic regimen awaited them, beginning with English and mathematics, which required strict discipline enforced by the terrible fear of getting kicked out.

There was blind, if masochistic worship of scholarship and honors. Once a year, there would be a special convocation to honor scholars. One I attended culminated with some dean mentioning somebody's name and bellowing, university scholar, 14 consecutive semesters!

That nerd in medical school did nothing but study for 7 years. The audience erupted in wild applause. The common view before the FQS, I think, was that by being in UP, you were already serving the nation. You were bright and you studied very hard, therefore you were entitled to a privileged place under the Philippine sun.

Lip service was paid to dissent and to serving thepeople, but only as a lark and part of growing up. There was the absolute horror of being tagged a subversive, but also the reverse snobbery of radical causes like the Kabataang Makabayan (KM).

Diliman was crawling with bohemian types. Most students were, however, into books and ambition,and were oblivious of the nation's deepening poverty and underdevelopment. Coeds came to class dolled up like Sandra Dee. Guys passed for Bobby Darin in poloshirts and slacks. Hay rides, lantern parades, fraternity and sorority rivalries, and politics aping the big time made them the envy of students across the land.

This dream world ended abruptly in 1972. I was on a student trip to New York when martial law was declared and there I was marooned for the next 17 years. In those pre-internet days, news from home came in trickles.

By the time I resettled in Manila, it was clear that the old Camelot days were gone forever. I made some visits down memory lane and saw how low UP had gone in the world. Vinzons Hall seemed a pigsty. Students dressed like slobs.

They worried about parking and frat rumbles, not the betrayal of Edsa democracy. Diliman had morphed into some grim corner of Calcutta. It was the worst of times. UP had lost its sparkle and especially its status as pre-eminent academic institution in Asia.

From high respectability in the 1960s, it had plummeted to something like No.38 in the rankings. And to think we once had classmates from Thailand, Vietnam and Indonesia who regarded U.P. with reverence and as close to Harvard as they could get.

Add to that the shift of the student base coming from public to private high schools and we have a university that has become even more elitist as its academic standing has sunk into the ground. Because the public schools, from elementary to high school, have fallen apart interms of standards, more and more U.P. students are now drawn from elite schools in Metro-Manila and Luzon. U.P.'s redeeming role as primary vehicle of upward mobility for bright boys and girls from the provinces no longer holds true.

Think of Carlos Romulo, SP Lopez, Ferdinand Marcos,Manuel Roxas, Elpidio Quirino, Jorge Bocobo and many other notables of humble provincial backgrounds seeking to enter U.P. under present conditions and, yes, weep bitter tears.

It's goodbye to equal opportunity and all that. One of the few unblemished names in high office todaytells me of a rather unsettling encounter with a group of women lawyers who wanted some feisty character to grace their reunion. "We now have as many bar topnotchers as the men,"boasted a top practitioner. " The majority of today's law students are women," said another. " There are more and more women judges, evenin the Supreme Court," added another excited lady.

A respected scholar and bar topnotcher when it still mattered, the official felt obliged to jump into the raging orgy of UP pride and self-congratulation . "It's not a matter of beating the men," she said. "It's not just a matter of being excellent. Excellence for what? What about justice, ethics and social responsibility? Dead silence descended upon the room.

"This institution, the guest speaker said of their beloved law school, "is perhaps the single most culpable for the decline of this country and why we have sunk so low in the world. The bright minds who invented the coconut levy came from here. So did the wise guys who wrote those decrees and lent their brains and prestige to Marcos. Where do you think the biggest crooks come from? Why do they always go scot-free? And where is the remorse?"

Looking back, the official wry concedes it was another exercise in futility. The thunderbolts amounted to no more than a little tempest in a teapot, blithely ignored by those who have everything to gain and nothing to lose under the wonderful status quo.

Let's face it, some glory in entitlements and really believe all's well with Philippine democracy. Others beg to disagree andpay the price, some falling in the night. The silent majority are just tired of the charade and pretend they live somewhere else. Such is life.

Afternoon delight.

We were sitting in the garden. The sun was bright but the wind was cold. My mother-in-law poured some hot tea and offered me bonbon chocolates. I said thank you and continued listening to my father-in-law. He looked happy but his face was haggard and he looked fragile. Suddenly it dawned to me, he is growing old.


I first met my father-in-law a few days before our wedding. He was waiting for us at the NAIA and was rather annoyed that we were almost 15 minutes late. The many stories I heard about him from my husband and his towering figure made me nervous. He was after all one of the best surgeons in Europe, and was then the head of the committee on Medical Ethics in the Netherlands. A self-made man driven by passion and ambition. Why wouldn´t I be worried? I know his kind!


I was formal when I gave him a handshake. I apologized for being late. Told him that I did not anticipate that there would be a traffic jam around that time of the day. He looked in my direction and scolded his son in Dutch.


That evening we went to Ilustrado restaurant for dinner. The moment we sat down, he started firing me with questions about Philippine history and culture. Fortunately, I am quite well-versed on the subject. After all, I used to teach Philippine Music history.


After the wedding, they went back home and the next time I saw him again was at Schiphol Airport in October 2001. Later on, I found out that he instructed all the family members to meet me at the airport. Which means that they all got up at 4 AM and arrived at airport before 6 AM! He was on time. I was embarrassed.


Christmas came, and my father-in-law offered to give me a brand new piano of my liking for my present. I didn´t know what to say. His children and wife were all watching me and waiting for my answer. I said that I could not possibly receive such a gift from him. He smiled and changed the subject.


My father-in-law also took me around and showed me the Dutch countryside. He said it was important that I know my new home. He took me to several music stores as well, and asked me to play for him. He likes Bach and Chopin.


A week before my first birthday here, he took me again to a music store. He was almost begging when he told me again that he would like to buy me a piano. He said that people with my talent should never be denied of a musical instrument. And so, a piano was delivered at my doorstep 2 days before my birthday.


He also accompanied me to my first job interview at Leiden International School. He patiently and anxiously waited outside while the school director talked to me. When I came out of the conference room where the interview was held, my father-in-law handed me my coat and told me that I was over-qualified for the job. And he was right.


Also, when my own father passed away, my father-in-law asked me if there was a little space in my heart for him,.... if I could love him too like I loved my father. I was speechless. I didn´t know what to say. I barely know him. When I finally found the courage to say something, I told him that I just lost my father and that I don´t think there was a place in my heart for another father.


He held my hand, kissed me on the forehead, and told me that he perfectly understood.


A year later, two of my father´s sisters came to visit. After seeing the way my father-in-law was talking to me, Mama Bing and Tita Ching were both moved to tears. They said that whereever my father was, that he would be happy to see that there´s another father who treats me like his own child.


While I was busy daydreaming about the past; the love, kindness, and the goodness of my father-in-law, I didn´t realize that a tear had fell on my cheek already. It was a good thing I was wearing sunglasses. Nobody could see I was crying.


I was still staring at my father-in-law. This man loves me, and he is growing old. I´m afraid to lose him. I wish I could come and live with them. Spend time with him. But I´m no longer a child and such behavior is unacceptable here.


On our way home, I told my husband that we are going to visit my inlaws more often. And with that thought, I drifted far away again.... This time, I was off to dreamland where I often see and talk to departed loved ones.

wo-ah.....

Flight stewardess: wo would ye like to drink ma´m?

translation: what would you like to drink ma'm?

me: cola and a glass of water, please.

F.S.: wo tha be'yol?

translation: would that be all?

me: yes, thank you.

F.S.: sorry ma´m bah we don´ have cola. We do have coke howevah.

translation: sorry ma´m, but we don´t have cola. We do have coke however.

me: coke would be fine.

F.S. he's ye coke.... and woah right?

translation: here´s your coke ..... and water, right?

me: nope.... no woah for me. A glass of water would be nice.

F.S.: das wo I said. WOAH.

translation: that's what I said. Water.



Took me a few minutes to figure out what woah was! Of course, WOTAHHH!

Finally, it dawned to me that I was travelling to Bristol, south of England where people seem to have the habit of dropping few letters such as the r's and t's just like the French! Well maybe it's their French connection that makes them do it. hahahahaha!

This reminds me of my first trip to Augsburg, Germany. At that time, I was just starting to learn the Dutch language.

That morning, my husband made me promise not to just stay in the hotel and watch tv all day. He told me that I should try to explore the city, the museums, and malls. In other words, go out and see the world! hahahahaha

That was in December 2002, just before Christmas. I still remember hearing Stille Nacht (silent night) on tv in the background while I put on my thick winter coat. I am going to do my Christmas shopping today, I thought to myself.

When I got on the elevator, a decent looking guy in suit smiled and said to me `hello schat´ . I almost choked! I was uncomfortable with the over-familiarity. You see, the only person who calls me schat (pronounced as skhot) is my husband. In Dutch, schat means sweetheart or darling.

But I did not want that jerk to get the best of me. I am going to do my Christmas shopping today, I reminded myself again. Chin up and continue walking girl!

Germany in December (just like in other parts of Northern Europe) is grey, dull, dark.... why, even somber. People walk in strides and all seem to be rushing. They were polite but they don't smile. I noticed also that even females call me "schat". It was starting to get into my nerves. This schat business! I will not let them get the best of me. I am going shopping just the same. And yes, with a big smile!

You see, there's nothing like the German stores around Christmas time. They have all sorts of handmade stuff. From pudding, pies, sausages, hams, gluhwein, chocolate cookies candies in all shapes and sizes; to all those beautiful candle holders, wreaths, art deco vases, knitted socks & mittens, quilt hand bags, personalized Christmas cards, etc... It is truly an experience because everything is unique in its own. It's even hard to find two identical candies!

My shopping went very well. But on my way home, people kept calling me `schat` and it came to point where I almost slapped a man´s face. So much for the `tis the season to be jolly, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!`

When I reached the hotel, I locked myself inside my room and started to get really upset & angry. I concluded that everybody who said `schat` to me, thought I was their darling prostitute! They all think the same. Asians are all prostitute. That's what I said to myself anyway.

When my husband arrived, I embraced him and told him I can´t stay any longer in that place and I wanted to go back home that evening. He asked me why. I told him about all those people who thought I was a prostitute and called me their `schat`.

My husband started to laugh while I was fuming with anger. He explained to me that in that part of Germany, majority are Catholics and they greet people by saying `grüßgott` (pronounced gru-skhot) meaning, God be with you.


Wo-ah.... Schat ..... these are stories that remind me to always clean my ears before I travel! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

how to be a hundred....

Sometime ago, J. and I were having this discussion. He said, "yes it´s true that it is important that one should have a healthy and clean lifestyle to stay fit and happy. But who wants to live to be a hundred, just so you could discover one day that all your friends had "moved on" and you are practically alone?" My mind went blank, and I was silent. Good point, I thought. I wanted to say that it would be nice to watch your own children and grandchildren become adults. But I don't have children, and so is my brother. To pursue the conversation for the sake of argument, would be futile and yes, cruel for both of us. But anyway, here are some tips to live to be a hundred. Whatever that means! hahahahahaha


On how to live to be a hundred....


Your behavior now makes a difference, says new research. Experts recommend these habits:

1.Get creative at work.

On average, a woman with a creative job has the cardiovascular fitness and other health attributes of someone six years younger, according to a recent study. What does “creative” mean? Acting, writing or painting are obvious picks, but any job can count as long as you find it interesting and it lets you develop new skills, experts say.

2. Make sure you cover the basics.

Eating five servings of fruits and veggies a day, being active, not smoking, and drinking in moderation could add 14 years to your life, according to new British research. Too tall an order? Tackle just the exercise part: A recent study by the National Cancer Institute found that older people who got at least 30 minutes of moderate exercise most days of the week were less likely to die over the next seven years than those who didn't.

3. Do something fun.

Women who are feeling “happy, excited or content” have lower levels of the stress hormone cortisol, as well as C-reactive protein and interleukin-6—two markers of inflammation linked to heart disease, a University College London study found. It may not take a Ph.D. to figure out that being happy is good for you, but this is one of the first studies to pinpoint a biological reason. So the next time you're feeling frazzled, make plans to do anything that'll get you smiling.


—LISA MULCAHY
soucre: http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/health/3-tips-for-how-to-live-to-100-169823/

From Norwich to Hengelo.

My English friend Alice and her 7-year-old red-head daughter Maia came for a visit last week.

I´ve known Alice since 1995. We were both government scholars in Java. She was with the Royal Ballet in London, who trained both in Europe and the Martha Graham dance school in the U.S. An excellent dancer really. And there I was. The Filipina music scholar who wanted to learn everything about gamelan music.

What really brought us together, was not the similarity and/or difference in our character or ethnic background, but our fascination for indigenous music and dances. You know what they say, musicians are frustrated dancers and dancers are frustrated musicians.

I never really understood that phrase until I did my field research in Ifugao in 1990. It was in Ifugao that I discovered that gong players and epic singers are also dancers. That is the beauty of non-western culture. Because in non-western societies, to be a fine and respected musician would mean to be well-versed in movement, singing, drumming, reciting poems and folk tales, and understanding the philosophy behind it.

Apart from her dance performances, I don´t really know Alice very well. I've always thought that offstage, she was arrogant and snub, stubborn and self-absorbed. But at the same time, I was a great admirer of her work. I think I am one of the lucky ones who had the privilege of seeing her perform. Because when she dances, Alice reveals passion, vitality, ectasy, rage, and brilliance.

However the Alice that I met last week was not the worldly-ambitious-fierce-and-graceful-as-a-feline that I know. Last week, I met Maia´s mother. A domesticated Alice. Somehow, Alice managed to set her `self` aside and be mom first. They have a very special relationship; too perfect in fact. Maia behaves both like a child and an adult.

I completely adore her. Everytime she would ask a question, she sounded like a university student. At the same time, she would grow extremely bored & insecure like a lost child everytime Alice and I are engrossed in our discussion.

I also noticed that Alice habitually motivates her daughter with mind-boggling problems. She patiently explained things and concepts that were quite difficult to grasp. And most of all, I was impressed to know that Maia is learning to play chess and piano. Somehow, Alice managed to make her daughter be interested in things that she herself is not and will never be interested. hahahahaha

I am not however surprised that Maia is a very intelligent kid. Her father Tony is a university professor in England. Besides, Alice herself is also an intellectual. She had written many things about almost everything.... from contemporary dance to cultural anthropology, to music and movement and the Japanese taiko drums.

After they left, I had a sad realisation. I realised that neither Alice nor I continued to pursue a career in our respective fields where we´re both extremely good at. I consoled and tried to convince myself that we both are making a difference in this world in our own special way. Alice the great wise mom who volunteers at a local school to teach music and movement; and I ..... the teacher who inspires (according to my students, that is! hahahahahaha).

We still love indigenous cultures. In fact, we plan to travel to Brazil someday and perhaps, study about the newly-discovered tribe close to the Peruvian border.