The Day I Was Popular

Nowadays, I'm not anyone remarkable. Unique, yes, but I don't really stand out in a crowd, unless you're really looking for a skinny guy with glasses. Once, though, people envied me. They'd know who I was, what I did, and how they wanted to fill my shoes.

The year was 1999. At the time, Voltes V and Yu Yu Hakusho were being aired on GMA 7. If you wanted to watch an anime screening, you went to Melchor Hall in U.P. once a month. Filbars didn't stock anime VCDs back then. CATS was known for selling anime videos as well as English-translated manga (Japanese comics). Comic Alley was half known for Collectible Card Games (CCGs) and the other half for anime and manga. Anima Anime peddled anime videos more than anything and didn't have a permanent physical shop. Only Pinoy Otaku had an anime-related web ring, mailing list, and chatroom. Questor was nonexistent. The only convention fans were aware of was the Collectibles Convention.

I also had the ideal job for an anime fan: I was working in Comic Alley.

Third year high school had just ended and I opted to stay in the Philippines during the summer break. I desperately wanted a job since time not spent on playing video games in the arcade was time spent saving money. I was too shy to apply at the summer jobs program at school so I had to resort to my own means to look for a part time job. I didn't want to leech on my parents so I didn't ask them about it. The only possible place I knew was the place I hung out at whenever I was at Virramall: Comic Alley.

Being a CCG fan, I played Magic: The Gathering at the tables in Comic Alley. That's where I got to make a lot of friends, one of them the owner of the shop. His name was Teddy and he was actually the half-brother of one of my batchmates. I played against him once during a tournament and we've been testing our decks against each other from time to time. I also buy the items he sells, from Magic cards to anime soundtracks. Thus one day, I asked him if I could work for him.

I don't know why he accepted me. Perhaps it's because I knew his brother from school. Maybe it's just my charisma (yeah right). The fact that we were both Chinese probably plays a role. He might have pitied me. He also might have seen himself when he was my age. Maybe it's because I asked his lovely wife and store manager, Carol, to take me in. They might have been extremely shorthanded. What's most probable though is that I'm an anime fan so I know the merchandise I'm going to sell more than the salesladies, and I'm quite familiar with the anime soundtracks (which are in Japanese, so no one really knows what the tracks contain, except me, who's bought them).

I started out as part time. From Thursdays to Mondays, I was there at the shop. The weekends were days I was needed most since that's when the customers all came in. I worked half-day, after lunch to six in the evening. I got to know the salesladies at the shops and the codes of the items that were sold. And then I had two days of vacation each week. It wasn't bad, except that I usually spent my free days at the shop, lingering for I didn't have much else to do.

Eventually, I asked to be established as a full time employee for the summer. I was working from eleven to seven, Monday to Saturday, and from one to five on Sundays, since I had to go to church. My face was seen every single day in the shop, and I was sometimes working with Teddy's younger brother, Andrew.

My coworkers were great company. They were friendly and quite helpful. Of course, they also complained that I didn't eat. I told them that I already ate at home, which is true, since I didn't want to spend money on buying lunch at the mall. Teddy and Carol were also kind. They'd drop by the shop when they could and entertained the customers. They'd also treat their employees to dinner from time to time and Teddy would show me the latest stuff he'd acquire, from Transformer toys to the latest videos.

I also got to know a lot of the customers. They came from various places and with different backgrounds. There was no limit as people from age seven to thirty seven dropped by, each buying something different: a poster, a wall scroll, a CD, a comic, a card, a toy, a model kit, a figurine, etc.... Since Xavier was an all-boys school, this was also the only time I got to interact with the opposite gender. I saw stunning girls and not-so-stunning ones, mothers as well as daughters, students and employed ones. Some of them came to me since I knew the manga as well as the soundtracks. I could point out where the TV show left off in the manga and what CD contained the opening theme for that series.

At first, I was shy and seldom smiled when I talked to the customers. Carol told me to try to be friendlier. Since she was my boss, I tried. Sometimes though, my zeal gets the better of me. I'd talk to the customers about the anime they like, the characters they have crushes on, and what they wished they had. If I feel quite confident, I'd talk to them about the mailing list I was in and invite them to join. Thus I contributed to Pinoy Otaku's roster and soon, stories of my "dream job" were spread.

I also got to meet a lot of people in the anime industry. Anima Anime, for one, who were then just starting out and did drop by Comic Alley from time to time. Another was Smarty Toys, the supplier of Bandai toys in the Philippines.

A lot of anime fans I met began to envy me. They said that they wish they had my job. As grateful as I am for my employment, it's not as idyllic as it seems.

For one thing, I don't get to read or open the merchandise. They're sealed and the only time I get to touch them is when I'm selling it to the customer or checking inventory. Yes, I don't get to browse through the manga or listen to the various CDs available. If I want them, I have to buy them, same as everyone else. For another, you have to have a lot of patience when it comes to being a salesperson. On the weekends, customers flood in. On other days though, it involves hours of waiting and you're finally rewarded when a customer comes in. He or she might browse around and they might hang around there for several minutes, not buying a single thing. There's also the fact that you have to put up with different kinds of people. I mean right now in the anime industry, there are a lot of annoying people who stalk and pester anime fans. While working in Comic Alley, I have to talk to them whether I want it or not. The best I could do is to pray that they go away, soon. Lastly, there's the occasional person who asks if Comic Alley sells Playstation games or Mobile phone accessories.

I have a lot to be grateful for, considering I got to work in Comic Alley again the year after that. The salary I earned there isn't as valuable as the people I befriended during the entire time I was working there. I still don't smile, but I now interact better with the opposite gender.

The Science Fiction/Fantasy Dilemma

One of the most difficult genres to collect and get into is Science Fiction or Fantasy (SF&F), especially here in the Philippines. The text in itself can be beautiful, descriptive, and whatever literary praise you can give it. Neither is it too difficult to comprehend; you don't need to be a rocket scientist to understand SF&F. So what then is the problem? Collecting them can be a real problem and it's not as easy as buying one book off the shelf. In order to give you a clearer picture, I will explain (and invent some of my own terms along the way) the classifications a SF&F book can fall under.

Stand-alone: These SF&F books are much like any other book. You read them and you're done. They're set in their own world and is self contained. No sequels, no cliffhanger endings. George Orwell's 1984 is an example, as well as Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Grey, Robert Heinlen's Starship Troopers, and Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett's Good Omens. They're a great read and commitment free. (Un)fortunately, not all SF&F books are like these.

Serial: These are several books written in the same setting but each book can stand alone in itself. You don't need to read the previous book or the book before that. It's something people can get into easily and while reading the previous books lets you appreciate the series more, it's by no means a requirement. Laurell K. Hamilton's Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter series comes to mind, Isaac Asimov's Foundation series, and Terry Pratchett's Discworld series.

Cliffhanger Series: Not only do these books need to be read in a particular order, the story isn't finished until you've read the last book. It's like watching The Empire Strikes Back without seeing Return of the Jedi, or Back to the Future 2 and not Back to the Future 3. For further elaboration, one book I read falling under this category ended with the protagonist meeting the villain. Yes, that was the ending. No fight, no dialogue, just the main character seeing the main villain. How's that for suspense? Nonetheless, reading until the end is well worth it. These epics are worth all the books they're printed on. The reader should just pray that the writer doesn't die on them before the series finishes. Examples are J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time, Roger Zelazny's Chronicles of Amber, and George R. R. Martin's Song of Fire and Ice.

Stand-alone Series: While they do need to be read in a particular order, these books don't leave you suspended during an orgasm. Readers don't have to tear their heart out waiting for the next book to come. It's enjoyable at the reader's pace and still leaves the reader something good to look forward to. Examples are Frank Hebert's Dune, Anne McCaffrey's Pern, Terry Goodkind's Sword of Truth series, and Stephen R. Donaldson's The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever.

Of course there are some books that mix these categories. I mean Wizards of the Coast's (formerly TSR) Forgotten Realms series is a blend of serial and stand-alone series. They have one huge setting and different writers contribute to it, each writing their own trilogies or stand-alone novels. You don't need to read the other's work to appreciate the book you're reading now and each has a distinct style. There are also those who switch styles from time to time. Terry Brooks's Shannara trilogy was a stand-alone series but his later books tend to be cliffhangers.

Potential readers should also be wary of the term "trilogy". While this usually means a series comprising of three books, that is not always the case. Some series are labeled as trilogies even though they extend to four or five books. This is probably due to the fact that publishers are trying to cash-in on the popularity of "trilogies" like Lord of the Rings and Star Wars. There's also the probability that the writer wants to extend his series more, or made a miscalculation somewhere.

Sometimes, sheer numbers daunt you. I mean the Dragonlance series has more than a hundred books in its collection. It's a mixture of serials and series and it becomes complicated enough that a flowchart was made to show the sequence you should read or not read the books. Mercedes Lackey's Valdemar series is divided into several trilogies, and Terry Pratchett's Discworld series really has a lot of books (it's a good thing that each one can stand alone). Sometimes, you just don't know where to start, or if you do, you don't know if you'll manage to find the rest of the books.

There's also the predicament of out of print books. I mean a lot of SF&F books have been released over the years and some of them are several decades old. Well and good if they're as popular as Tolkien, warranting a reprint. But if they're not, tracking down those books can be a big problem. For example, Asimov's Foundation series has been reprinted, except for the last book, Foundation and Earth. What to do about that? Some of Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar series is nearly impossible to find. The biggest issue in SF&F is not finding the newest and latest books but finding the old and "classic" ones. Sure, you might get lucky in a rummage through Book Sale but you can't be lucky every time.

Online shopping has been a boon to SF&F fans... if you have the money. Don't get me wrong, the price deals you get on the Internet is cheap. It's the shipping that becomes the problem since most bookstores like Amazon.com and BarnesandNobles.com are based in the West. Ebay is also another alternative for those out of print books but you're not guaranteed unless you want to enter in a bid war.

And of course, the greatest enemy a SF&F can face is the ravages of time. Covers are ruined, pages get torn, spines loose their adhesiveness, whether it's due to loaning it to a friend, reading the book at 180 degrees, or accidentally dropping it somewhere. Considering some of those books don't get reprinted, it's a major loss to the SF&F fan. Sure, ebooks are suddenly popping up but only time can tell if they'll be popular or as "invulnerable" as most people think. I mean the files of a hard drive can "accidentally" get deleted, although recovering just one copy is enough to cater to millions.

Looking at all these problems, you wonder why people still read SF&F, especially here in the Philippines. It's because it's our passion, our craving, our need. We SF&F fans are not only readers but collectors, restorers, bargainers, and bibliophiles all rolled into one.

Dedicated to Tin Mandigma with her nice little comment. =)

Fantasy: An Epic Quest

I envy a lot of fiction readers. They don't have to put up with the grueling pain and patience we fantasy (and science fiction) readers have to go through. Perhaps if I were living in the U.S., I'd be on equal footing. But this is the Philippines, a country where the education system fails the masses, and the concept of a book is a thin romance novel being sold for less than P20. The fantasy lover is one of the most deprived readers, and I'm one of them.

Perhaps the first and foremost problem of the fantasy genre here is the fact that it's not mainstream. I mean most bookstores allot a shelf or two for the genre but their selection is quite limited and not as varied. More often than not, the bookstores here acquire the same authors over and over again. Finding popular names like J.R.R. Tolkien or Terry Brooks can be quite easy but whatever happened to the OTHER writers out there? The likes of Michael Moorcock, Fritz Leiber, and Katherine Kerr seldom gets seen in local bookstores, if ever. Simply put, there's a lot of fantasy authors out there and the Philippines sees the same authors over and over again throughout the years. Moreover, great fantasy writers like Ursula le Guin and C.S. Lewis are often shelved at the children's section of the bookstore. The fact that the two largest bookstores, namely National Bookstore and Goodwill, have the same selection in all their branches, doesn't help matters.

The second problem we face is that a good story is rarely contained in one book. I mean the greatest stories ever told usually spans a multitude of books. Tokien's Lord of the Rings encompasses three paperback novels. C.S. Lewis's Chronicles of Narnia is divided into seven books. J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter is a planned seven-book series. That's not to say that there aren't good standalone fantasy novels. The likes of Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, George Orwell's Animal Farm, and Lois Lowry's The Giver, comes to mind. Fantasy, more often than not, is something told over a span of several books. Unlike fiction fans who only have to be lucky and persevering in a book rummage once, we fantasy fans have to be as fortunate several times over. I mean I might find a copy of Raymond E. Feist's Silverthorn at Book Sale, but in doing so, I'll have to scrounge for the book preceding it, Magician, and the book after it, A Darkness at Sethanon, to complete the trilogy. The worst scenario here is that I end up with a story I have no idea how it began nor how it ends. If it were any other novel, I'd find the book at Book Sale, read it, and be done with it. For the fantasy fan, the problems have only just begun.

The third dilemma we face is obtaining the books we want. I mean National Bookstore and Goodwill only has a limited selection, not to mention that they only stock the latest books. Since fantasy books span several books, a lot of those novels won't be recently published. Unless you had excellent timing and started collecting when the book just came out, acquiring those not-so-recent books can be quite difficult. The real issue isn't about obtaining the new titles; it's about finding old ones. In today's mentality where the newer is the better (or in publication's case, the more recently printed or reprinted, the better), fantasy lovers lose out a lot. To find these books, we resort to non-mainstream shops. A Different Bookstore and Page One can become a boon as they offer an alternative selection, one which stocks both old and new books. However, since these bookstores aren't as mainstream or popular as Goodwill and National Bookstore, their prices can be quite expensive or not as easily accessible. I mean there are several dozen National Bookstores in Metro Manila, but only one A Different Bookstore, which is located in Glorietta. Page One's prices, on the other hand, are nearly double that of Goodwill. The last alternative for us is to buy from second-hand bookstores. Book Sale offers a delicacy of fantasy but you have to either scrounge among a pile of books or have to wait a long time (years) before the title you're looking for becomes available. Let's not get into the perils of ordering online from Amazon.com where shipping costs you more than the book itself.

A fantasy fan is often stereotyped as the person who is "escapist". Nothing could be further from the truth. A lot of fantasy novels contain realistic truth in their stories. Perhaps magic or some other technology is employed in the setting but people's reactions, their feelings and attitudes, are similar, if not more realistic, to the situations people face in life. This illusion probably stems from the conventional fantasy most people are familiar with: that of fairy tales. In the fantasy genre though, everything isn't solved by the wave of a wand or the wish of a witch. If that were the case, the books needn't span hundreds of pages if everything could be solved so easily. I personally read fantasy because it's intriguing. Other genres share a part in it. One just needs to look at the recent Academy Award Winner Lord of the Rings: It has action, suspense, romance, even comedy. Yet at the heart of it all lies a good story. Which is why despite all these problems, I'm a fantasy fan.

Acquiring fantasy novels can sometimes be as difficult as finding the Holy Grail. Yet once this is accomplished, you realize that it's all worth it. There's the interesting read that'll last you a few days at least, the stories you tell of how you obtained the treasure, and lastly, the satisfaction in discovering such a unique find.

Starbucks

Ever since former president Ramos allowed the franchising of foreign labels, the Philippines has seen numerous businesses popping up. One of the most prolific is Starbucks, the coffee shop which caters to the elite. It's so damn successful that even if the branches are all lined up in one neat line, it would still be filled with people.

My first experience of Starbucks coffee was nine years ago. My parents and I were vacationing in San Francisco. Foreign franchises weren't allowed in the Philippines at that time. If you wanted to taste Starbucks, you had to go abroad. I didn't know what Starbucks was back then. As far as I'm concerned, it was just another coffee shop. My godmother was driving us to Starbucks that afternoon, the last stop before we headed to their house. They ordered coffee and so did I. I never drank coffee before and that day was the first opportunity I got to do so. I was always fascinated with cappuccino. It had an alluring ring to it, a kind of seduction that was similar to chocolate. Of course what it tasted like, I never knew. Guess what I ordered?

Suffice to say, I realized that day that I didn't like coffee. I had tasted mom's Nescafe coffee back at home and I didn't like it. I thought Starbucks would be different. It does taste better than Nescafe but not enough for me to start liking coffee. It was bitter that no matter how much sugar I put in, I could still taste it. Worse, when we were finally in the car, I was dizzy and groggy. I wanted to sleep but couldn't because of the caffeine. I felt sick for the rest of the day.

Years later, I'd see Starbucks a few streets away from our house. It's only then that I realized how pricey their drinks are. There's no way I'd pay P100 for something that you can sip in a matter of minutes. Heck, with P100, that would pay my lunch bill for the entire week (yes, I eat that little for lunch). Not that I'm totally against Starbucks. The ambience is good and I can already smell the coffee when I enter the place. While coffee is something they're known for, people also come there for their frapucinnos, drinks filled with what's usually chocolate and whipped cream. Dozens of people would line up just to get a taste of their fraps, whether it's chocolate, mocha, or whatever else they think of (I once drank a raspberry frapucinno). Unfortunately, it's quite expensive (P95~P115), and I never caught on to it mainly because I'm allergic to chocolate (yes, I know I'm deprived).

It was so popular that my classmates would walk all the way from school to the nearest branch of Starbucks. It was a fifteen-minute walk and some would just take a jeep, if not their cars. When they got there, they'd order their coffee, wait for it, drink it to the last drop, and head back to school. Walking thirty minutes worth of distance just for a drink you'd finish in five minutes just shows you how remarkable Filipinos can be.

A few years later, more branches would pop out. In the Greenhills area alone, there are four branches, each less than a kilometer away. I mean outside my former school, there's a new Starbucks branch set up. One jeep ride away is the next Starbucks branch, which is beside a gas station and behind the bus stop. Across the bus stop is the Greenhills Shopping Center with a Starbucks branch in its new Theater Mall. One street away from the place is another Starbucks branch which is beside Chili's.

Another example would be the case of Makati. In 6750, the parking lot sandwiched between a hotel and the Glorietta mall, there's a Starbucks outlet in its ground floor. Inside Glorietta, there's a Starbucks branch in one of its movie theaters. Across Glorietta is the recently established Greenbelt 2 mall, which has its own Starbucks as well. If I wanted to pass through all these Starbucks branches, it would take me less than ten minutes.

This phenomenon reminds me of the Zagu fad that struck the Philippines. Zagu is a drink that contains blended juices and some sago in it. It was popular that around every corner, there's a branch selling the stuff. Of course unlike Starbucks, it wasn't as expensive (P35 for a drink) but you'd be amazed at how long people would line up just for a taste of the drink. Also unlike Starbucks, Zagu has stopped being a fad and now, it's amazing if you can still manage to find an outlet as most of the branches I know have closed down.

Whenever I'm at school, in the malls, or at the streets. I see plastic cups of Starbucks scattered all over. Gone are the days when you bought coffee at Mister Donut. I rarely even see any people nowadays at Mister Donut, sipping their coffee at the wee hours of the morning.

I'd choose fruit juice over Starbucks any day. I don't need caffeine to keep me awake and I'm already hyper as it is. Besides, think of all the money I'm saving by not purchasing drinks at Starbucks.

Fire Drill

"Riiiiiiiing!!!" The school bell always sounded pleasant, whether it was signaling the end of class or a fire drill. If the former was the case, we'd be counting the minutes left before it was break time. If it was the latter, as long as the time wasn't spent on listening to the teacher and doing class work, it was something we all looked forward to. This was the typical day of a high school student enrolled in Xavier.

While the ringing of the bell for recess and lunch was scheduled, fire drills weren't. There'd be a month or two wherein fire drills would be held. You didn't know when it would happen or what time it would occur. It just did. It was common for students to pray for the fire drill to occur while they were having an exam.

This would go on year after year that fire drills became too commonplace. Sometimes, we'd even have fire engines outside the school to simulate a fire rescue. Seniors would walk down the stairs from the fifth floor down to the ground floor. It was a practice we all thought we'd never use but did it nonetheless since it was an excuse to keep us out of the classroom.

One memorable event was during my second year. We were at the ground floor, inside the Macintosh lab. The room was well ventilated by the air conditioner so we were closed to the outside world: no open doors and no open windows. Everyone was busy with the computers, trying to finish the activity Ms. Conception had assigned to us.

And then we heard the bell. We had just started class so we knew that it didn't signal dismissal. We ignored it, thinking it was just a fluke. We resumed our work on the computers but the bell kept ringing for five minutes. One of us finally said that it was probably a fire drill. A lot of us sighed at that. We didn't want to leave the comforts of the chilly room. Computers were something some of us enjoyed, and for those who didn't, there was always the attractive teacher who kept watch on us. It took us another five minutes before we finally got out of the room.

Since we were on the ground floor, we saw a gathering of students when we came out. They were all with their teachers, asking them to form lines and neatly arranged themselves. Of course none of the students followed the teacher's commands. They were all staring at the top of the building. When we looked up, we saw smoke. Yellow smoke to be precise. The fifth floor was burning and a haze of yellow smoke concealed the right part of the building, where the various laboratories were. There was actually a fire.

Everyone wasn't shocked. Surprised, perhaps, but not shocked. The fire was like a circus attraction which everyone pointed at and kept on looking. Me and my classmates were joking that what we thought was a drill was actually a real fire. The fifth floor was evacuated and soon, fire trucks came. We saw firemen from the trucks enter the fifth floor but how they managed to extinguish the flames, we can only surmise. Classes for the juniors and seniors were suspended during that day as damages were being reported and filed.

When I came back to school the next day, I took a glimpse of the fifth floor. The windows of classrooms were broken. The walls of the lab had small black marks but other than those, everything seemed to be intact. I didn't explore more since exposing myself to seniors were something undesirable. Our freshman days of being intimidated by seniors were still fresh in our minds.

Later that day, it was said that the cause of the fire was an electrical wiring fault. As to why it caused yellow smoke, we never really knew. Some hypothesized that it was caused by the sulfur in the lab. While that theory seemed to be reasonable, I don't see how sulfur could have gotten mixed with the electric wires. It was the talk for the rest of the week and the seniors endured classes with broken windows.

You'd think that after that incident, our reaction to fire drills would turn into something quite serious. That's not the case though. Our view of fire drills was still the same: it was something to get us out of class. When we'd hear the bell, we'd talk and fuss, all the while lining up to exit the room. There was no feeling of panic, no sense of dread since we always reassured ourselves that it was only a drill. If there was a real fire, we'd probably make a stampede running out of the building.

To Read or To Write?

If my journal seems to miss some entries for the past two weeks, it's because I haven't written anything as of late. I might attribute that fact to hours of gaming, long hours of schoolwork, or even claim sickness. The fact of the matter is, I've been busy reading, reading, and doing more reading.

My enthusiasm for writing has always been rooted in reading. If it wasn't for all the books, magazines, and other forms of print media that I've read, I wouldn't even think of becoming a writer. The reason I took up Creative Writing as a course is because I want to improve my writing skills so that someday, I can live my life as a writer, hopefully not the starving type. I'll leave the writer part as vague since right now, I don't really know where I'll specialized in and the fact that a lot of writers I see in the Philippines are not tied down to one style of writing. I mean look at Krip Yuson: he's a poet, a journalist, and a teacher. Or Jessica Zafra who's a columnist and a fiction writer.

I think every writer will agree when I say this: you can't write well unless you've read well. Talent isn't something innate. It needs to be cultivated. In the case of writing, a person needs to read good stuff not only so that he gets the proper form but to get inspired as well. The English language has become second nature to me. I don't need to think if this is the proper conjunction or if the tense is wrong. All I need to do is read it aloud and see if it's a pain in the ear or not. Of course I know it's not perfect, which is why if I'm writing, I edit my work afterwards, but for the most part, this type of reading (and writing) suffices for me to identify correct grammar. I can only attribute this to hours of reading and listening to the television.

While writing with correct grammar is important, it's not as vital as having an imagination. What differentiates a good writer's work from that of an initiate is that the story they tell is compelling no matter how mundane the subject matter is (yes, reading all this must be boring you... I know I'm not a good writer). This is done through various techniques, even if it's unorthodox. That's where imagination comes in. I mean I was reading Dream Hunters, Neil Gaiman's collaboration with fantasy artist Yoshitaka Amano and I can't help but enjoy it. While the words he uses run deep, it's not as striking as the entire picture. Gaiman writers a lines of text in one page and beside that page is a full color illustration by Amano. Sometimes, text isn't even present. Or perhaps a better example is the Griffin and Sabine trilogy, wherein the books pop out at you and there's even a letter with souvenirs inside. It's not what you expect with a book but it tells a detailed and intriguing story. More important than enjoying it, I'm inspired by it. I'm motivated to make a similar masterpiece (i.e. untried, unique, experimental, etc...). It's the drive that makes me want to become a writer.

Of course desire isn't the same as action. I can get inspired all I want but if I don't act on it, it's not writing. Imagining or pondering is a better description but in modern society, there aren't careers for people who just keep on imagining and pondering (well, maybe not pondering? there are philosophers, after all). I can claim to be a writer but if I don't write, I'm not a writer.

This is when pulling me away from books becomes a problem. Undoubtedly, I love to read. I mean I also like to write but my need to read is stronger than my will to write. Usually, the only time I actually get to write is when there aren't any interesting books for me to read.

And that is what has happened for the past few weeks. I've been reading in the morning and reading in the evening. Since I need sleep, there's not enough time for me to read and write at the same time. Breaking away from the book I'm currently reading is next to impossible, unless it's another good book or book shopping.

Like most things in life, excessiveness of one thing is unhealthy. I must find the balance between reading and writing. I can't live life with "phases of writing" and "phases of reading". It would be a lot better for me if I managed to juggle the two. A writer who does not read stops growing. A reader who does not write is not a writer. I could have chosen English Lit. but I chose Creative Writing right? I need to write, not sporadically but consistently.

Into the Darkness

It's dark and cold and you can see nothing but black and lines of white along the wall. Dust is all over the floor and there are piles of boxes, books, and paper everywhere. Insects of all kinds lurk in the corners and it's not surprising if one lands near you. No, I have not described to you my attic or basement. What I have recounted to you is my room.

When I was around five or six, my family relocated to Greenhills from San Juan. I found this strange since when we were still living in San Juan, I'd go to Greenhills for my preschool while when we were already at Greenhills, I'd go to Xavier School, which was near our old house in San Juan.

One of the best reasons for relocating was the fact that we each got to have our own rooms. Back in the "old house" as I'd call it, there were only three rooms reserved for us: one for my baby sister, one for my brother, and one for my parents. Here in the new house, rooms were not a problem. We even had enough space to have a guest room.

My room back then seemed quite enormous to me. The wall paper was white all over. The same could be said for the cabinets and the closets. In the center of the room was a queen-sized bed, a sofa, and a television. I'd usually jump from my bed to the sofa and back again. There was also a long desk with file drawers, all of which were connected to one side of the wall. A shelf would stand in the left portion of the room, showcasing not books but toys which I had acquired so far: robots, dinosaurs, and other cars. What was also a quirk was that my room had two other doors, one which led to my brother's room and the other to my parent's room.

Despite me having a room, I seldom slept in it, especially as I grew older. I'd usually spend my evenings at my parent's room, along with my sister. We'd all fit in the king-size bed, which also happened to be facing the large television set. I do remember sleeping in my room though, and at one time, I had a large mosquito net over the bed so that I couldn't be bitten by the insects.

Of course it would soon all be taken away from me. A few years later after moving in, my grandmother acquired cancer and the doctor said she had three months to live. Since her condition was critical, father wanted to give her the best living conditions. She was brought to our house to live. I was taken out of my room and forced to sleep with my parents every night. Soon, I was sharing rooms with a lot of people: my brother, my grandmother, and my parents. My toys remained in the room while my clothes and toiletries went to my brother's room. Some of my books were put into my parent's room where I'd read them there before I sleep.

My grandmother lived with us for three years before she died. I remember my mother complaining to her friends that she was supposed to be with us for only three months yet it extended to three years. Never underestimate the will of a person to live. I remember during my grandmother's birthday when me and my sister knocked on the door, entered, and gave grandma some sampaguitas. It was hung beside her bed where everyone could see it. Two days later, I came by and saw that it was already rotten. It was soon removed.

When grandmother died, my grandfather and auntie would move in. The two would be switching between our house and my uncle's house, which was located in Alabang. For the first half of the month, grandfather would be living in my room. For the second half, it would be auntie. This would go on for five to six years and soon, it was only my grandfather who was living with us.

And then in May of 2001, grandfather suffered a heart attack. He died, causing grief to the family. When I entered my room then, it was quite different. My shelves were no longer stacked with toys. There were a lot of picture frames in the room. There was even new furniture. The place also smelled different. The bathroom was also filled with boxes, a storehouse rather than a sanitary locale.

The room was refurnished for a few months. My mom wanted to redo the entire place. She asked me what kind of wallpaper I wanted. I told her black. She complained and told me to choose another color or theme. I still told her I wanted black. She found it weird.

"Why bother asking me if you're just not going to agree to my decision? It is going to be my room, after all." I said.

Since they couldn't find a wallpaper that was entirely black, I had to settle for one with a black background and narrow white bars (think of it resembling a jail). My family was stupefied that I chose such a scheme. My brother was laughing at me and even showed his guests at how ridiculous it seemed.

By the time I moved into the room, things had changed again. Not only was the wallpaper different from when I was a child but the bed was gone. Instead, I just had the couch with a different cover. There was a big space in the middle which gave me room to maneuver. I restructured the contents of my shelves and soon had my books lined up.

I had my windows sealed with tape since insects were coming in through them. I was only partially successful as some creatures still manage to get it despite my best efforts. I had the boxes removed from the bathroom and made it livable again. Still, there were cracks in the sink and an army of ants would come out in the night. I had to learn to shut the lid of my toothpaste unless I wanted them to be contaminated by ants.

A month or so later, my parents would complain that my room was disorganized and dirty. I told them not to bother me since it was, after all, my room and that it was their fault it was disorganized in the first place. You see when I still had the room when I was a child, I was already requesting shelves from my parents. At the time, they'd just laugh and not take it seriously. Now, when I told them I needed new shelves, they immediately bought me one. Soon, my room was more organized than usual.

My friends who came into my room had several reactions. One thought that it was cool. Another felt that the room was too hot. Others became dizzy, and some claimed that the walls were moving.

For all the dirtiness in my room, I can be proud of my bookshelf. It's lined with books that many people would envy. Rows and rows of books would fill the space, and these books were not something I inherited from my parents. Instead, they were bought with my own money throughout the years.

I really like the room now. It "feels" like me. My parents complain about it, just like everything else about my life. My friends find it fascinating and eccentric, just like me. As for me, I've never felt more comfortable, or more unique.

Crash and Burn

That's how I describe my relationships with people. At one moment, I'm like a brother to them. At another, I could never be more despised.

As I've mentioned in some of my earlier entries, I'm not a person that has close friends. If I want to go out, I don't have someone I can just call and invite out. I don't even have anyone I can just call and talk to them about what happened during the day. If there's anyone I'm often seen with, it's the invisible man. Whenever I pass by someone in the mall or in school, the typical question is "who are you with?" I end up either shrugging or telling them that I'm with no one. Some of them are just shocked, especially when I run into them in a mall.

That's not to say I don't have any friends. In fact, I have a lot of them. I know most, if not everyone, from my batch in high school at least by face, if not by name. I'm also involved in a lot of mailing lists and online societies and it's fun to run into them in real life. In school, it's no exaggeration if I say I know at least someone from each course in my batch. And I manage to make friends with my classmates, no matter what the subject.

Of course this wasn't always the case. When I was in grade school, I dropped from one of the most popular people in my class to one of the most disgusted. For one thing, I suddenly alienated myself from my existing friends, mainly because I realized they were bullies and quite selfish. One of my friends would hog the Super Famicom console whenever he'd sleepover, causing my other friends to make complaints. There's also the fact that I suddenly started wearing glasses and started getting frequent colds. At that point, a lot of people avoided me and I often had trouble finding a group during group activities.

At several points in my life, I felt very lonely. I'd find myself in the house, alone with nothing but the computer, my books, and the television set. It was all a waste, it seemed to me, if there was no one I could share it with. I had no one to talk to, no one to play with, and most of all, no one to go out with. This caused me to dwell on my solitude and I wanted to change it. I was eager to make friends. Too eager, perhaps.

In high school, I was terribly alone. At least in grade school, I had a set of friends I could turn to. During that time, my former friends were scattered among seven different sections. The one friend who was my classmate found himself a new group and left me out. In part, this was a good thing as I was forced to meet new people and make new friends. Before grade school, I barely knew anyone outside my section. In high school, I managed to acquaint myself with a lot of people from my batch. But alas, still no best friend.

In fourth year, I fell in love. Her name was Erin and I got to know her via her personality from the Internet. When I first saw her, her looks didn't strike me but after getting to know her, I realized personality was something more than mere physical beauty could match. I courted her, unknowingly of course. I started wearing contact lenses. I loaned her my books and CDs. I tried to meet her as much as possible after classes. I gave her gifts for no reason at all. And she disliked me for all that. I suspected as much and eventually, I left her alone and got over her.

During the first few weeks of college, I met Erin's best friend, Steph. She was everything I could ever want: independent, hardworking, smart, and most of all, loved reading books. It reminded me a lot of Erin yet surprisingly different. I fell in love with her too, although gradually since I was doubting my emotions. After all, I was making sure I loved Steph for who she is rather than just a copy of Erin. Unknowingly as well, I was courting Steph. I was with her everyday, accompanying her to the bus station and talking to her. After which, we'd email each other when we got home. There's also the books I loaned her and the CDs I'd lend her. It was déjà vu.

As expected, Steph soon started to avoid me, and eventually, got mad at me. This all happened after three weeks of being together. Of course what didn't cross everyone's mind at the time is that I was considering Steph as a best friend as well as a potential girlfriend. If the latter didn't work out, the former would suit me just fine. But like most things in life, your best intentions can hurt people the worst.

A year later, I met Lea, the elder sister of one of my friends. She was an Eng. Lit. graduate and had a keen interest in anime. While she didn't like the fantasy books I read, she did like some fantasy, as well as science-fiction. No, I did not consider her as a love interest, but wanted her as a friend. Soon, I was talking quite often with her on the phone. She became my confidant and I felt that I had the best friend I never had.

Except she didn't feel that way about my phone calls. She felt it was a burden to her rather than a pleasure. I didn't realize this until she emailed me a month later, after not talking to each other for quite some time. My hopes went down the drain. But it helped me realize what was wrong.

I was too overzealous in my pursuit of a best friend. I once told people that the more people got to know me, the more they'd dislike me. This is true because often, I'm too pushy. The people who became angry at me like my crushes and Lea complain that I expect too much from them, that I don't give them space. And that's true. My relationships with them tend to "crash and burn". I'm quick to befriend them, we get close in a short span of time, and things come tumbling down.

Of course in all scenarios, people didn't tell me what was wrong until it was too late. I did tell them that to tell me as soon as possible that if they felt there was something discomforting about me, they should tell me. But they didn't do that and instead, kept it to themselves until they could hold it no longer. It's easy to blame them. But I know I am responsible as well. I just can't rely on people telling me what I should do or how people feel. I should have been more sensitive.

This also probably happened because the people I were trying to befriending were girls. Not top sound chauvinistic or anything but I find that most girls tend to be evasive, while I as a guy then to be confrontational. I like to face my problems head on. A lot of girls I know tend to either avoid the problem or not talk about it instead of facing it. I guess we all cope in different ways.

Alas, while there is life, there is still hope. I'm picking up the pieces, trying to renew bonds that have been broken. I'm grateful I'm still in speaking terms with Erin and Steph. Perhaps the issue between Lea and me will be solved some day. But now, I'm less aggressive and try to give people time. It's just sad to know that in order to show people that you care, sometimes, you have not to care. Nothing pains me more than to see a friend in need yet you can't help them since it might hurt their pride or they might think worse of you. But I've learned to trust, trust that my friends will cope, and trust that they'll see the itty-bit of goodness in me.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to Katipunan

I never realized I'd have practical use for social skills until I entered college. Unlike my grade school and high school which was a walk away from home, Ateneo is actually quite a distance. Also, because I was too lazy to get a sticker for our car, I had to rely on carpools to get home from school.

The start of my freshman year was simple. I'd hitch along with my childhood friend, Fort, since we belonged to the same block and head identical schedules. This is due to the fact that we enrolled at the same time and even got late at the same time.

For the first few weeks, this arrangement was fine, despite the fact that I'd have to wake up really early to get to his house, and had to come home late since I was getting picked up from his house, which was in Pasig. Fort and I were together often, along with Therese, the girlfriend of John, a mutual friend.

And then, I stopped hitching with Fort. I could blame it on several reasons. For one thing, Therese was paying too much attention to Fort, and I was the person who introduced them. On one hand, I could say that Therese was starting to cheat on John. On another, I could say I was jealous of Fort. Then there's also the fact that I get home quite late because I hitch with Fort. I barely have two hours of free time left on my hands. But perhaps what did it was the fact that I was interested in accompanying Steph, my crush, to the bus stop and that happened an hour after Fort leaves Ateneo.

Everyday for three weeks, I'd be accompanying Steph to the bus stop, after which, I'd start worrying. How do I get home? For someone who's been sheltered most of his life, commuting was a concept known to me. The places where I should get down, however, were alien. I knew that to get home, I should take a jeep from Katipunan to Cubao and from Cubao to Ortigas. Of course I didn't know where Cubao so if I boarded a jeep, it might pass through Cubao several times and I would never know it. I postponed the idea of commuting while there are other alternatives.

The first thing I did when I got back to school was look for familiar faces. Since a lot of my batchmates got accepted into Ateneo and a number of them live near my place, that's where I started looking. This usually involved calling them up and asking for their schedule, but for most of my freshman year, it involved sitting and a lot of waiting at the parking lot.

My one consolation throughout all this is that I got to see a lot of people, met a lot of people, and befriended a lot of people.

Of course I don't always hitch with people to get home. I have dentist appointments on Thursday afternoons so I have my driver pick me up on those days. Of course since he doesn't have a car sticker, he parks at the street opposite Ateneo in one of the fast food outlets.

One day though, he forgot to pick me up. I was furiously mad and told him not to bother picking him up. I'd figure out a way to get home. Of course boasting was easier than actually doing. The time was 3:30 pm. I found a carpool but he was going home at 7:30 pm. I didn't care to wait those extra hours. At 5 pm, I left school and started to walk home.

At this point, some people would say why couldn't I just commute. As I said before, I didn't know where Cubao was. This walking experience proved to be an enlightening one. Some might argue that I should have taken a taxi. Taxis cost a lot of money. They're a last resort and it wasn't exactly raining at the time so I didn't need last resorts.

It should have been an easy walk if it weren't for the fact that I turned at P. Tuazon instead of Boni Serrano. I was walking straight for forty five minutes although it seemed like hours. Halfway through, I got a call from my friend asking me if I still wanted to hitch since he got off early. The time was 5:45 pm. I was halfway to my house. I told him my current location.

I continued walking until I reached EDSA. I should have turned right so that I could board the MRT but instead, I headed left, towards the direction of my house. Ten minutes away from my home, mom starts to call asking where I am. I told her I was near. By 6:20 pm, I got home. I decided that that event would never happen again.

Suffice to say, I learned where Cubao was, along with Ali Mall and SM. Since I did accompany Steph to the bus stops, I knew where I could get a ride. In the event that I couldn't find a carpool early enough for me, I started commuting home. There was also those trips to Cubao and back when I was scavenging for a book for Steph and I suspected that it was available in the Cubao branch of National Bookstore.

The second semester of my first year had a less "spontaneous" feel to my carpooling. Instead of waiting by the parking lot, not knowing who and when my ride will pass by, I started hounding for people's schedules. I was able to arrange carpools ahead of time so I didn't run the risk of having to commute or walk home. One interesting account was Ambrosio. I'd hang out outside his classroom just before he got dismissed. Because of that, I'd meet some of his classmates. Of course by this time, I already knew a lot of people.

My second year proved to be quite difficult in finding a carpool, mainly because I got dismissed later and quite a number of my former schoolmates went abroad. My most reliable carpool, Ambrosio, was one of them. However, it was this year that I acquired a gaming group and my GM (Game Master) happened to drive a car and passed by EDSA. What happened was that most of his players would be hitching with him going home, me included.

At this point, I was too dependent on carpooling and stopped commuting altogether. I found out how out of place I was when last summer, I had to commute home from Ateneo. The destination was supposedly Cubao but I ended up in SM Centerpoint. At that point, I took a taxi.

Right now, I'm back to hitching a ride with Fort going home. And strangely enough, I occasionally get to accompany Steph to the bus stop on Wednesdays. It's really strange at how it all ended up like this. Makes me wonder if God's playing a cruel joke on me.

Here's something I wrote for my nonfiction class about my childhood, which I'll submit today.

Always Prepared

Several days had passed since I attended my first day in grade school. I was adjusting to the new environment. My bag was twice as heavy. We had desks to put our books in. We were no longer given the luxury of a half day. I was at school from morning until afternoon, eating my lunch at the cafeteria's long, green tables. It was a new experience for me.

Being in grade school meant you had to take up a lot of subjects: Reading, Language, Math, Science. While I liked my teachers, the same can't be said for my subjects. I'd spend hours perfecting my letter "a" for Language and memorizing numbers for Math. There was one thing I looked forward to though. That was the clubs. Once a week, we were given the opportunity to participate in a non-academic activity. Unlike my subjects which were spoon-fed, clubs were something you chose, provided your parents gave you consent.

We were given a list of the available clubs in two stapled sheets of paper. While the list was long, only a few were really available to us since the other clubs were restricted to the upper batches. Some of my classmates had their parents decide what club they'd join. As for me, I was never to waste an opportunity to exercise my freedom.

I decided to join the Kab Scouts. It was something that appealed to me. Camping out in the wilderness, learning how to survive on your own, creating fire from a pair of sticks. These were the thoughts that entered my mind when I first saw it.

I didn't think my parents would mind if I enlisted in that club. Sure enough, my parents signed the form without taking a second glance. Now all I had to do was attend the meeting.

Our moderator was a man in his twenties, or at least it seemed to me. He was full of energy and a sense of responsibility emanated from him. Perhaps it was because of the uniform: yellow shirts, green socks, laced shoes, a tied scarf on the neck. He told us with confidence what we could expect from the club.

I've forgotten what his exact statements were but there were two statements that sums up what being a Kab Scout meant.

"A Kab Scout is always prepared," was one.

"A Kab Scout keeps his promises. That's why we have Scout's Honor. The reason you are raising your three fingers is this. The top most represents God. The second represents others. The last one represents you. You should put God above all else, others second, and self last. That is the code by which a Kab Scout lives."

Those two ideologies were drilled into us. Not a meeting passed without us standing in attention and performing the rite of Scout's Honor. But a more subtle reinforcement was used to ingrain in us the concept of always being prepared.

After our first meeting, we were required to purchase and wear our uniform. It composed of a yellow shirt, a yellow scarf, a Tamaraw totem to hold the scarf, a belt, and green socks. My parents were only too happy to give me the check so that I could buy a set.

Every time we met, we were expected to wear the uniform. Not one article should be missing. We were given demerits if that happened. On the morning of our club meeting, I'd set aside my usual white polo in favor of my Kab Scout uniform. I made sure I lacked nothing. My parents even thought to take a picture of me while in uniform.

I attended the meetings regularly. I had perfect attendance, if I'm not mistaken. We were taught a lot of practical stuff. I didn't get the chance to make a fire out of two wooden sticks but I did learn how to tie knots and how to use tools. We were also reminded of the safety precautions needed to be done in every venture, from cooking to travelling. We had games to make remembering easy. For knot-tying, we were divided into groups and the group that could tie and untie the knot quickest won. There was also the message relay game which tested our memory and the accuracy of our messages.

One memorable moment was when the teacher taught me how to tie my shoelaces during my birthday. No matter how much I tried, I never did get the knack for tying shoelaces. Instead, I often wore leather shoes that didn't have shoelaces. That probably explains why I didn't excel in tying knots either.

Before the year ended, we had large group activity to certify us as official Kab Scouts. It was a sleepover camp and that caught our attention. We were to camp for one evening and after which, an awarding ceremony would be held. I really wished that we could have done it outdoors but the best that the moderator could do was the football field of our school. It was far from a scenic view since instead of trees, we saw tall buildings. We'd also hear the cars passing by and honking from time to time.

It began on a Friday afternoon and we set up camp as soon as it hit 5 pm. Each of us was required to sleep with a partner and the same partner would accompany us wherever we went, whether it was to the bathroom or to sleep.

During the evening, a bonfire was made and everyone got out their treats. I took out some marshmallows and barbecue sticks and started roasting them. My partner roasted his too close to the fire and the marshmallows started to burn. It was quickly put out and we marveled at the blackness the marshmallow had on one side. My partner quickly ate it and exclaimed that it was delicious.

When it was getting quite dark, we started gazing at the sky and saw the stars despite all the buildings. Some of us started a ghost hunt while others went to bed. I had the misfortune of accidentally peeing in my tent, which caused my partner to panic and quickly got out of their tent. He decided to sleep with another group and I was left alone in my tent. During this time, I heard all the other boys who weren't ready to sleep yet, playing with their flashlights and pointing it at other people's tents.

Morning finally came and we had a new set of activities. Despite all the activity from the previous night, we were still expected to assemble in complete uniform. After several games, we had lunch and prepared for the awarding ceremony.

A lot of parents dropped by to see their children stand on the stage and bring them home afterward. My parents were no different. It was strange as they were formally dressed while I was in my Kab Scout uniform. Dad had a tie and long sleeves, and mom had all her makeup. I, on the other hand, was a bit muddy but was nonetheless in complete uniform. I didn't want anything other than to get out of my clothes then and take a long bath.

Soon, we were formally acknowledged as Kab Scouts and to signify this, given new totems. I gave mine to mom and then assembled to take a pledge with the Scout's Honor.

I came home that day exhausted. Eventually, I lost the totem that was given to us during that ceremony but I managed to keep the original Tamaraw one. I joined Kab Scouts for one more year but failed to enlist in the year after that. There were two things I never forgot though: Scout's Honor, and that a Scout is always prepared.

When Death Becomes Me

I wanted to write something short and the first thing that came to mind was how I conquered my acrophobia. The answer to that was that I didn't need to. I was suicidal, so I had nothing to fear from my fear.

I've often contemplated the idea of suicide. I did so several times when I was depressed over my crush, but I didn't take it too seriously since I had come to terms with death by then. I knew death would not solve anything, and that life gave me opportunities. However, given the chance, I'd easily surrender my life in exchange for someone else's. If there was a hostage situation, I'd willingly volunteer to be a hostage if only to deprive them of the chance to acquire one of my friends as a hostage.

My true contemplation of death occurred when I was eight. I was smart enough to realize then that my life would often be filled with sadness and solitude. I wanted to end it all, free myself of all responsibility or care. The question was, how do I do it?

I knew holding my breath wouldn't work. I'd only end up unconscious and start breathing again. Besides, suffocating to death wasn't something I cherished. I already had colds that kept me from breathing. Going out that way wasn't pleasant. That ruled out death by drowning and death by strangling.

Jumping to my death seemed natural since I did have acrophobia. However, there were stories of people surviving high jumps. People recommended that if you were to leap to your doom, it should be done on low levels, like three stories. The problem was that I can survive a one story jump without getting severely injured. I'd probably survive a three-story fall. So how high should it be? If I jump from a building too high, I might also survive. Ending up lame for the rest of my life wasn't something I wanted.

In television, people usually slit their veins if they want to die. If you do it the wrong way, it can be very painful. I was no expert in the art of committing suicide? I mean, who is? You only get one chance. Besides, I had a feeling our kitchen knives weren't sharp enough.

Shooting my brains out seemed tempting. Of course there were two problems. One, where do I get a gun? Second, I don't think I had enough physical strength to pull the trigger. I mean there was this amusement park when I was in the US and there was this game when you had to fight the computer in a quick draw. My aim was good but my trigger finger wasn't. I could barely fire it with two hands, and that was a simulation. How much more with an actual gun? I don't think anyone would volunteer to shoot the gun at my head for me.

At this point, only drug overdose seemed to be the only pleasant way to die. Again, I was encountered with a few problems. First off, where do I get the drugs that'll kill me? Second, I just can't overdose on certain drugs. For all I know, I'll just end up with a stomach ache. What I needed was a lethal drug, poisonous to people yet soothing and comforting. No way would an eight-year old be able to acquire something like that.

There was also the "slit my own throat" option but I realized I just didn't have the courage to do so. Maybe if someone else did it but I just couldn't find the strength to do it myself. Besides, I knew my last actions were to grasp for life. I may want to die but my body doesn't. Committing suicide wasn't working out for me.

After a lot of deliberation, I decided that killing myself wasn't worth it. Whatever problems I might have, having life means that there's always a way to solve them or evade them. At the very least, I'm open to opportunities if I live. When I'm dead, I won't feel anything, much less aspire to anything. Death would be a waste.

And so, that was how I staved off death for the next several years. Suicidal thoughts come and go but that experience made me realize how much I really wanted to live, and how I'll always find the strength to somehow cling to life. Besides, if I weren't alive today, I wouldn't have met all the great people I now know

The Not-So-Common Cold

I was going to write something entirely different today, but like most things in my life, my cold seems to interfere with matters.

To begin with, my family's health isn't something one should be proud of. My father has been having breathing problems even before I was born. Even now, he refuses to see a doctor, mainly because he believes that he's going to die anyway. My mother's side of the family suffers from diabetes. Strangely enough, I don't think we were afflicted with the disease.

When I was young, I got sick easily, mainly because of my frail immune system, which is due in part to my parents. When I was a babe, they rarely kept me out of the crib and never exposed me to dust. Now, one sniff of the stuff and I start sneezing. Blame my parents for their over-protectiveness. It comes to haunt me now.

The fact that I'm as skinny as a skeleton doesn't help either. Again, this can be attributed to my parents and their excess of concern. When I was four, I appeared to eat little from my plate. The maids and my parents would tell me to eat more and more. I told them I was already full but they refused to believe it. They made me eat more food, more than I could handle. And then I vomited. Of course this would go on three to four times in a week. Did this stop my parents? No... it only reinforced their sensibilities to try to stuff as much food as they can in me. My picture when I was four and when I was five were drastic. I was still chubby in the former. I was quite skinny in the latter. Because of my lack of fat, I quickly got cold. Heat, on the other hand, was something I barely felt, which is probably why I like going out in the hot, sunny afternoons.

In nursery, I was known for two things: my ability to sneeze often, and my propensity to cough out phlegm. I was always with a hankie, and with good reason. The moment I come to school without one is the moment I finish a roll of tissue paper in one day.

Grade school was no different, except that I was able to use my phlegm as a defense mechanism against bullies. It was a simple concept: you come near me, I spit at you. It was gross but it kept me from receiving a lot of bruises.

Of course my "cold attacks" were prone to happen more at home than at school. Since my parents rarely copulate, me and my sister were sleeping in our parent's room. Atop the king size bed was my sister, my mom, and then me. My dad was sleeping on a cushion below my sis. This should have clued me in on how dysfunctional the relationship my parents have with each other, but that's another story. Below the bed though was the carpet, and carpet tend to contain a lot of stuff I'd rather not say. In addition to that, the air conditioner was to my right. I don't like the cold. To me, hell would be a frozen wasteland. I started having colds every night.

My parents sometimes shut off the air conditioner when my cold becomes severe (i.e. I still can't breathe and it's already 1 am) but that was the exception rather than the norm. On the good side of things, my cold was limited to me and it wasn't contagious. That's why my parents still keep me in their room every night and why I still have classmates.

Mom tried giving me antibiotics but that was only a temporary answer. For one, it took several hours to take effect. For another, the effect lasted around an hour. For the rest of my life, I'd have a tower beside my pillow so that I can sneeze into it, much like I do with a handkerchief. If I didn't, our tissue bills would soar as high as Mount Everest.

Of course the diagnosis of the doctor was strange. For one thing, my nose was crooked. He asked me if I was hit by someone on the nose. I told him I couldn't recall any event, especially not one recently. He then told me that one hole was larger than the other, and it was due to the fact that the middle bone was sliding more to one side. The second strange diagnosis is that I was allergic to antibiotics. He said that it would provide only a temporary relief and would make the next attack more severe. Even as early as four, mom was leading me to self-destruction.

For quite some time, I was treated with the most bizarre medical treatments. One was the device that plunged the medicine directly into my nostrils. I had to put the device into one of my edifices and press it. A strange, foul air would go in and I'd be screaming for fresh air. And then I had to do it again, this time on the other hole. Did it work? After a year or so, I threw away the damn thing.

Since my parents didn't let me sleep in another room, I was stuck with their bedroom. They did install an air purifier which worked for the first few weeks but managed to get clogged up by dirt often. We later bought a newer model but the same thing happened. I guess American filters just can't survive Philippine atmosphere.

Sometimes, it was getting too severe that I'd sleep at 3 am only to wake up at 6 am to be ready for school. And this happened on a regular basis. What I mean by a regular basis is every week. If I was lucky, I'd sleep on the sofa and my parents would stop pestering me. I told them that what I needed was to be away from their room with the carpet and the air conditioner. They didn't listen. Instead, they sent me to another doctor. A Chinese one.

What Western medicine didn't find out, Eastern practice did. I underwent another strange procedure wherein the doctor made several dots on my forearm and placed different chemicals on them. It was then exposed to the light and an hour later, some of those dots became rashes. Thus I found out my allergies.

Naturally, I was allergic to dust. No surprise there. I was also allergic to cockroaches. It surprised me but not as surprising as the next revelation. I was allergic to chocolate!!! Before I sleep, I'd usually take a pack of Swiss Chocolate with Marshmallows and drink it. No wonder most of my attacks happen in the evening.

For a period of two months, I was taking injections every week. My driver and maid would bring me to the emergency room of Cardinal Santos (because that was where you could get injections) every Wednesday, pay the nurse the P30 fee, and take the shot. Two months later, I was taking injections once every two weeks. After that, once every month. And now, this is why I am not afraid of disposable injections. The big needles still scare me, especially once when I had to take a blood test. The only good thing I got from these injections is that sometimes, the pain was too much that I wasn't forced to play the piano. I'd say that I couldn't use my right arm and the lessons would be called off.

After all those injections and refraining from eating chocolate, my situation only got alleviated a bit. I still had colds on a regular basis and I was having trouble breathing often. I knew at this point, if there's anyone who's going to save me, it would be me. Not my parents, not the doctors, but me. I took matters into my own hands.

First, I requested to be relocated to the guest room. For one thing, there's a plant there, so I'm sure I'm getting oxygen. Second, the room doesn't have a carpet. Third, I don't need to turn on the air conditioner for the sake of my parents. Things became better as my colds came less frequent and I'd have "big attacks" once every three weeks. For a guy who got them on a regular basis, once every three weeks was a great relief. And not too soon as well since I was around grade seven at that time. I needed all the sleep I could get.

Second thing I did was get into shape. No, I did not lift weights but concentrated on cardiovascular exercises. In my case, it meant walking. Since my parents were overprotective of me, they didn't allow me to walk to school nor come home from school even though it's only three kilometers away. It's actually quite safer than it seems despite the rampant kidnappings going on. For one thing, I had to walk through several exclusive villages, and not just anyone could enter those places. For another, with the way I looked, I was the last person a kidnapper would think of abducting.

While I didn't get to walk to school, I did manage them to allow me to walk to the mall, which was one kilometer away. Slowly, I started getting fit. And slowly, my colds were decreasing in frequency. By the time I was third year high school, I was able to walk home from school. At this point, the stronger cold attacks happened once every two months. What nine years of medicine couldn't do, a year of exercise cured.

Nowadays, walking or running is the favored mode of transportation. People are surprised at the lengths I'm able to cross. Little do they realize it's more for therapy rather than masochism. And with my thin body, Philippine heat hardly fazes me.

When I get a cold these days, it's really worth noticing. I still carry a handkerchief and keep a towel by my bedside every time since I'll never get rid of the phlegm, but a cold is something that seldom occurs. The best thing of all, I don't rely on medicine for treatment. And I'm able to partake in a little chocolate from time to time.

The Devil's Game

A lot of people tend to overreact, especially when it comes to the games their "children" play. I'm not an evil person yet a lot of the games I've played have been considered "Satanic" or "tools of the devil" by many people who claim positions in authority. Just goes to show how close minded some people are, ready to point fingers without doing appropriate research.

Perhaps the most controversial game I've played is the Role Playing Game (RPG) called Dungeons & Dragons (D&D). Some people say the game is evil and is a means demons use to possess people. That's hardly the case. They also say that the game has fanatics who commit suicide and are anti-social. Perhaps that's true to a point but those are the exceptions rather than the norm. Most hobbies have fans who act weird and act with so much zeal that they base their entire life on that particular hobby. People just tend to magnify the darker side of things when it comes to D&D.

D&D is far from demonic. It's really about role-play, acting in character. The setting of the game is medieval fantasy where you play heroes and heroines who combat evil and slay dragons (hopefully). It actually started the entire RPG genre, which would later be adapted into games for the computer. To those who've played games like Diablo, Final Fantasy, Might and Magic, and Ultima, the combat system of these games were most likely derived from D&D. D&D itself has its roots in war gaming, and war gaming has its roots in chess. While the game is guilty of violence (and what game isn't to a certain extent?), it is far from being "Satanic". In fact, you play characters that slay demons and other creatures from Tolkien-lore.

Of course some people might claim the game uses magic and it says in the Bible that magic is the work of evil. Then again, there are also people that brand Harry Potter as works of the devil. Most fantasy settings use a magic system but it is never really taken seriously. You don't see us gamers chanting words of incantation and drawing pentagrams out in the football field. We don't look for ridiculous spell components like guano and sulfur and suddenly shout "fireball!" at people we come across. We are in touch with reality (or at least most of us are). We went to school when we were kids and we keep a day job. D&D is just a game and we are fully aware of it.

If anything, D&D, and other pen and paper RPGs, enable people to bond to together. It's an opportunity for a group of friends to engage in an activity together. Some play basketball; we play D&D. My friends and I usually schedule a particular day to play the game. We bring all our stuff like pencils and die (the plural of dice) and go to a friend's house or a public place if that's not possible. More often than not, the place is well lighted and well ventilated. If the Dungeon Master (DM), the one who organizes the game, wants to have a particular mood, the place might be dim and there might even be candles in the place. No, it's not an evil rite but the background of our game, so that us players can have a better feel for it and prep our imagination. If the DM is ambitious, background music is present.

Unlike some hobbies, playing D&D is an exercise in imagination. First off, the one who is acting DM must plan out every session. He must think of plots and character hooks, monsters and dungeons players might encounter, and appropriate descriptions. This isn't something you come up in the next few minutes. It takes long hours of careful planning. Second, the players must take their time to visualize what their DM is telling them during a game. It's not something clearly presented to you like television or theater. It's much like listening to radio wherein a familiar voice tries to depict a scene the best way he can using only words and the sound of his voice. Third, even the characters players play have a distinct personality. You just can't act like this and that. You have to stick to the role and attitude you created for your character. For example, I might be playing a half-orc barbarian who loves to slay evil monsters. I'm also impulsive and not exactly known for my charisma or intelligence. I can't suddenly come up with a detailed plan during the game and explain it to each and every group member. Instead, I'm most likely to charge into battle without heeding what others have yet to say. Also, the history for my character needs a lot of thought unless I want to fall into stereotypes. Playing any RPG involves a lot of thinking and a stretch of the imagination.

I'll now move on to the next "Satanic" game I've played, Magic: The Gathering (M:TG or Magic). Magic is the father of Collectible Card Games (CCGs) and has been recently branded by a local TV station as "evil". They claim people who play it get possessed and start acting weird. I for the most part have been acting weird before I played RPGs or CCGs. As for possession, playing M:TG requires all your mental faculties so being possessed is something we players don't want to happen.

Even before that incident though, M:TG was already being called evil. Much like the complaints against D&D, just because the game uses magic and there are cards which have the words "demon" on them, it automatically gets branded as a nefarious hobby.

M:TG is a strategy game at heart. You play a powerful magic-user who combats other similar magic-users. This is done by casting spells or by summoning creatures and enchantments. The game also has a balancing aspect as there are five types of magic, each corresponding to the elements. One type of magic called Black represents death and usually has the forces of evil at its command. Of course when that's the case, you can't have cards with titles like "fluffy white rabbit". Instead, you get dreaded names like "Lord of the Pit" and "Demonic Tutor" to fit the theme. However, some people tend to react when they see those cards. Perhaps they should see the other colors like White, which have cards like "Serra Angel" and "Pariah", or Green with cards like "Birds of Paradise" and "Wall of Wood".

That's not to say the game doesn't have its own set of problems. For one thing, participating regularly in tournaments cost a lot of money since it's not called a CCG for nothing. To keep up with the new cards coming out, you need a large budget. Second, since it's a game that involves a lot of strategy, it would naturally attract a lot of mature gamers. Along with those "mature" gamers are their vices like smoking. Third, a lot of cards carry a hefty price tag so greed is another matter. Thefts and tricky occur as sometimes, you'd be trading cards with complete strangers. My Jesuit, Catholic, Chinese high school banned M:TG because of the occurrences of theft, not the demonology associated with the game.

Despite that all, M:TG is a nice game to get into. All sorts of strategies develop which isn't possible in conventional card games or chess. Here, you have an infinite card pool which also equates to infinite strategies. As one of the ads say, "you'll never play the same game twice". You also get to meet a lot of people and if you're a really good player, earn yourself some cash and travel around the world. Heck, there's even ESPN coverage of it in the US. Better yet, it's portable and you don't need electricity to play it. And that's really something considering the tendency for power fluctuations here.

Am I demonic because of the games I play? Certainly not and while some people have told me I'm a jerk, I was never told I was Satanic. I really think the problem these days is the lack of trust people put into each other. Since they don't spend as much time as they should with their children, they suddenly suspect everything they get into and ready to point fingers instead of looking at themselves for fault. And then there are also the people who take Bible doctrine too literally. They probably even think they were descended from Adam and Eve instead of apes. As for me, judge me for my actions and decide with logic instead of mere fanatical devotion. I'm sure God doesn't want stupid, mindless followers.

Clockwork

While I'm a person that comes on time, I don't carry a watch. Call it a quirk but I don't like having a watch. When there was a fad of wearing Swatches, my wrists were devoid of anything mechanical. Even when my parents were offering to buy me a Rolex, I'd refuse on sole principle. It's nice to see people wearing watches. As long as I'm not one of them.

Ever since I was a kid, I didn't like wearing watches. I don't know why. The only watch I remember having was the one that could say the time when you pressed a button. I wore it for about a year before it broke. After that, watches were a no-no.

At first, my dad tried to get me a leather watch. Of course my wrists became itchy after wearing them for an hour. Also, I really didn't like telling time through Roman numerals. I prefer the digital ones but to me, saving up money for a watch was stupid. Digital was nice but I didn't want to spend money for it. After all, the most it did was tell you the time. Did I really want to spend thousands of pesos on just a watch?

I remember one of my classmates having one of those electronic watches that could act as a calculator and store people's phone number. I think it's the predecessor to the mobile phone's short message service as you had to type using numbers as well. I actually thought it was cool. When I asked how much it cost, I quickly forgot about it.

My brother also offered me one of his metal watches. Strangely, my wrists have the same reaction to metal as they do to leather. People rarely saw me with any jewelry on my wrists, or on any part of my body for that matter.

So now you might be wondering, how does a person who doesn't carry a watch tell the time? For one, I developed the skill of looking over people's watches without being noticed. And since most of the people involved were my classmates, I managed to tell the time differences between their watch and the school's. I could predict under a minute when the school bell would ring.

I also developed an internal clock. I could usually predict without looking at a watch how long I've spend doing a particular chore or how long a trip took. I'd even calculate how long it'll take me to get from one place to another so I was never late for meetings and appointments. Most of the time.

When I'm at home though, it's a different matter. Several watches abound here. In every room I enter, there's at least one watch which I could infer. Of course they all tell the time differently so I had to learn the time differences between them. I also depend on the alarm clock to wake me up each morning.

Of course now that I own a cellular phone, I don't need a watch. I just look at my phone to see what time it is. I even use it to wake me up in the mornings or to time myself. Some people call me an idiot for carrying such a large device just to tell the time. I merely shrug. It's better than wearing an expensive watch that makes you a target for all the snatchers roaming the streets.

Incidentally, I've never been robbed. Perhaps it's because of my modesty. Or maybe because I don't carry jewelry, much less a watch.

Power Failures

More than ten years ago, starting with the Cory administration, the Philippines started experiencing regular citywide power failures. It was so rampant that the term "brownout" was given to these erratic and sometimes scheduled blackouts. For a while, it gave rise to the generator industry as people started buying generators for their homes and businesses. Several years later, the power crisis was solved and Filipinos started looking forward to a continuous energy supply. Of course that wasn't the case. Down the line, power failures has become a hallmark of Filipino culture. We've experienced them during Ramos's term, during Erap's term, and even now during Gloria's term. Sometimes, the reasons they come up with can be ridiculous (jellyfishes) but that doesn't change the fact. We've been experiencing blackouts during the Philippine's history. And being a citizen of the Philippines, I can't help but be affected by it.

When I was in grade school, I was a video game fanatic. I'd play Street Fighter all day long and buy the newest games for my Superfamicom console. And then the regular power failures occurred. It's annoying when you finally reach the last stage only to have your game prematurely ended because of a power interruption, to say the least. Or worse, when you'd save a game, that's when the blackout would occur, corrupting the file and making your hours worth of game time unplayable. Video games were also meant to alleviate boredom. When there's no electricity, you can't play them. Thus, you end up being bored and looking for something else to do.

Which is probably why I changed my hobby by the time I reached grade seven. There was a new game out and it didn't require electricity. Everyone was playing it and it quite portable. The game was Magic: The Gathering, the first of what would be the Collectible Card Game (CCG) phenomenon. All you needed was a deck of cards (which were expensively bought) and you could play the game with someone who had a similar deck. Of course you might say it's just like those Vegas card games. Actually, it's not since a lot of strategy is involved: the cards you'd include in your deck, the ratio of cards, the strategy you'd employ. And since there was a continual influx of new cards, new strategies developed. It became so popular that regular tournaments were held. And the best thing about it is that even if there was a power failure, the tournament would go on.

A few years later, power failures soon became nonexistent. People got back to video games and I got back to television. Anime was slowly becoming popular worldwide and with the proliferation of the Internet, I would soon be part of that fandom circle. To me, what made anime different from the rest of the shows is its storyline and diversity. Anime, unlike regular cartoons, can have a continuous storyline. When I think about it, most of the "cartoons" I watched when I was a kid that had "to be continued" endings were mostly anime. Moreover, they weren't limited to shows just for kids. A lot of teenagers and adults were watching anime and it's not because of its wackiness or simple storylines.

By the time I graduated from high school, I had to choose between two hobbies: Magic or anime. On one hand, Magic was something I had gotten into for the past five years. On the other, anime was exciting and had fans from both genders. I chose the latter and it was a good choice since the number of Magic players were declining and it caused the end of a company.

Another hobby that also started to emerge during this time were the multiplayers games for PCs. Before, if you want the best games, you went for consoles like Playstation. Now, PCs were garnering fans of its own, especially in network games. Aside from Doom, Real Time Strategy (RTS) games were being played all over. Warcraft changed the gaming industry and its followers gave rise to a new industry: that of network gaming. A variant of Internet cafes, network gaming involved a bunch of computers linked together so that people could play games against each other. Unlike console games where you usually fought just one other person, network gaming enabled as much as a dozen people to participate. Soon, Red Alert, Rainbow Six, and Diablo were games people were playing at the malls. It was also a good way to bond with others and it wasn't unusual for barkadas to go out one afternoon and play the entire day.

Despite the fact that I didn't have a real barkada or group of friends, I was invited to participate in such events. Mainly because "the more the merrier" was the mentality, and the fact that sometimes, I was needed to fill in that uneven slot (5 vs 6? Come and join us). Still, it was a hobby I enjoyed.

Of course since everyone was playing network games, this made blackouts more noticeable. Everyone would curse and scream in Virramall when the power would go out. The hour's worth of combat was wasted since there was no resolution. Which is probably why Counterstrike became so popular. Unlike the RTS games or the other first-person shoot-em-ups that had long loading times, Counterstrike was quick. You could have a complete game in less than a minute. Thus, if there was a power failure, you'd only miss one game among many. If you were playing a RTS game, a power failure meant that you'd miss your one and only game.

Right now, mobile phones are the trend. Of course the problem with them is the fact that you need to charge their battery time and again, and charging took a few hours. A sudden power failure while charging your phone can significantly decrease your battery's life span. Then again, with all the piracy and smuggling with cellular phones, some people don't care and just buy a new battery altogether. I'm not one of them, so when a power failure occurs, I start cursing the power company, Meralco.

Let's also not forget the current issue wherein Meralco is overcharging people for electricity they don't consume. That's a headline in itself. Many people were protesting and refusing to pay their bills. There's also the instance that when a blackout happens, people start speculating what the cause was. Conspiracy theories about the government suddenly emerge and rumors of coups or covert attacks are spread. Just goes to show how these power fluctuations play a significant part in Filipino culture.

It all makes me wonder if twenty years from now, Filipinos would still experience power failures. It's strange how such a mundane thing as that can affect a nation, and myself.

A Rose by Any Other Name...

I don't proclaim to call myself a rose. I'm probably more of a sampaguita: fragrant today, gone tomorrow. Besides, it's the only other flower I know. That aside, I'm a person known to lots of people under different names. It's not something I planned, nor wanted, but happened anyway.

It all started with my parents. They're both Chinese and I think my father is an immigrant from China. When they gave birth to my brother, they gave him my mother's surname: Tan. I can only presume that the reason they did that is because my father has confusing paperwork with being a Filipino citizen. Ever since then, my parents' children had surnames belonging to my mother.

Legally, my name is Charles Agan Yu Piah Tan. That's what it says on my baptismal certificate. And perhaps even then, my troubles already began. You see my family's faith is protestant. But my parents being "practical-minded" wanted to enroll me in the best Chinese school they knew: Xavier. Of course, it so happened that Xavier was a Catholic school and they thought that "being Catholic" would increase my chances of getting accepted. And so they baptized me in a Catholic church: Mary the Queen parish. After which, I was raised in a protestant church. Of course me being a child, I had no idea all of this occurred and I lived my life thinking there was only one religion.

My grandparents are so Chinese that they don't have English names. My father, however, does have one. It's also Charles and his middle name is Agan. And so, I was referred to as a junior. By the time I was three, all my relatives and family friends started calling me JR. Charles didn't exist, only JR. When you wanted to talk to Charles, that meant my father. If you wanted to refer to me, you asked for JR.

It was a pretty simple life until nursery started. We all had name tags and my parents had to use my legal name. Thus, I was introduced to my teachers and classmates as Charles. Soon, my identity was no longer JR but Charles. My relatives still called me JR and so did the maids at home but out there in the world (which mostly consisted of school, school, and more school), I was Charles.

Since it was school and we were all kids, people gave us all sorts of nicknames. There wasn't any nickname that stuck to me over the years, or ones that I care to mention, but suffice to say, by the time I was in grade school, I was Charles Tan. Since Xavier was a Chinese school, I also had a Chinese name but no one calls each other by their Chinese name except in Chinese class. It was a pain to memorize how to write it in Chinese but I got used to it. Of course the funny thing about Chinese names is that it usually comprises only three characters and the first character is the clan name or surname, taken from the father's side. This should have clued me in since the first character of my name wasn't Tan but Yu (since there are many Chinese dialects, Tan isn't really pronounced as tan in mandarin: it's chen, while yu is pronounced as yang, so it's not as obvious as it seems), the surname of my father.

It was during an appointment with the doctor that I realized this difference. My mother gave my name as "Charles Yu" instead of Charles Tan. It was also embarrassing since the secretary would ask my mother what my name on the file was. She's usually answer "Charles Yu or Charles Tan". This proved to be a hassle to the secretary as she'd have to look up two names instead of just one. I'd ask my mother why my name was Charles Yu and she'd answer that my father's last name was Yu so it was only natural I'd be called Charles Yu.

I can only surmise why my parents started calling me Charles Yu at this point in time. This was the best I could garner. During one late evening, my father came home drunk and called me and my sister. He lectured us about being proud of our names and how I should be proud to be called Agan since that was what his classmates called him. He also happened to mention that in the past, he was a nobody and so relied on mother's father to support the family, which is probably one of his reasons why we all had Tan surnames. Now, he's a somebody and was doing quite well with business, which is why we should be proud of having Yu as a surname.

Of course there's also this other fact I learned from a friend a year ago. She said that Chinese families used the mother's side as a surname if the father wasn't a legal citizen. This way, the children would be counted as Filipino citizens. And considering the fact that my father had a Chinese Visa, this was probably the more logical reason.

It wasn't only I who was having identity problems. When I'd ask father to sign letters and forms, he'd be known as three people: either as Charles Tan, Charles Yu, or Yu Piah Tan. This proved to be a problem on my part as sometimes, I don't know what to put on forms asking for my father's name. I'd usually write Charles Tan and put my name as Charles Tan Jr. to differentiate me from my father. Thus I unwittingly created a new identity for myself.

More problems turned up when I'd invite people to come over at my house. Since we live in a village, the guards are strict and asked people coming in who they came to visit. I told them to say Charles Tan when in fact that's not what they should have said. You see my parents are registered as Charles and Mary Yu here in the village. To the villagers, I was a Yu, not a Tan. Thus, my friends sometimes had problems getting in.

In high school, my classmates started calling me Agan. This was to insult me more than anything else. "What, your middle name is Agan? What kind of a name is that? A gun?" they'd say. I found it offensive because of the tone and manner they said it but soon, that name stuck. By the time I was in fourth year, everyone in school was calling me Agan. Of course some of them don't know why I was being called Agan. They had no idea it was my middle name or anything. They just used it because everyone else was using it.

If that was the situation at school, this was the situation with family friends and relatives. I was introduced as JR, existed as JR, and known only as JR. Few people would recognize the name Charles Tan and identify it as me. To them, I was either JR Tan or JR Yu.

In church and in the village, I'd introduce myself as Charles Tan. When they ask about my parents though, I mention Charles and Mary Yu since that's the name people recognize them for. And I'd usually get a stupefied look as to why there's a difference in last names. Or perhaps I'd just introduce myself as Charles, the son of Charlie and Mary, and they'd immediately start calling me Charles Yu. It's not something I adore since my legal name is Charles Tan and recognize myself as such.

There was also this issue with a dentist appointment I had. I came from school and had my nametag on. Charles Tan was written on it but mother had registered me as Charles Yu so when they were looking for the dental records, they couldn't find it. I had to correct them and saw a small smirk from their faces. As a policy, I introduce myself to everyone as Charles Tan. It's only when my parents make my appointments that suddenly become Charles Yu.

It was also around this time that we acquired Internet Access. With the proliferation of chat and email, I had two aliases: Kamen and Naga. Kamen is the Japanese word for mask and I found that it suited me as a pseudonym. In the chat rooms I'd go to and in the mailing lists I participated, that was more or less the handle people knew me by. Of course if they did ask what my real name was, I'd gladly introduce myself as Charles. Naga, on the other hand, was my name on ICQ. Naga is a mythical creature that is half serpent and half female. Interestingly, it's also the name of a character from my favorite anime, Slayers, and the name of a clan from a popular CCG (Collectible Card Game). It also happens to be Agan spelled backwards so I thought the name really suited me.

I also gave myself the nickname "stalker" because I loved to creep up on people and surprise them. Some would call it ninja while others would just mutter that I'd give them a heart attack one of these days. Still, it was a nickname I gave myself and had to explain thoroughly to a lot of people since the name had negative connotations.

By the time I entered college, not only did I meet new people but also encountered old acquaintances. The people that came from Xavier or who knew me by an introduction from them called me Agan. The few family friends that were there referred to me as JR. To everyone else, I was Charles. It suited me somehow since in the event that I do forget who you are, the way you called me would clue me in as to how I know you.

Of course not everything is as clean cut as I'd want it to be. During my summer job at Pulp Magazine/MTV Ink/Philippines Yearbook, the publisher, Grace Glory Go, called me JR since she was a family friend and knew me by my mother. When I told her that I wanted my name on the credits as Charles Tan, she was astonished. "So you're Charles now, huh?" she said. Of course when my name finally got printed, it wasn't Charles Tan that I saw but Charles Yu.

And there's also the instances of my character lookalikes. The main character of one anime, Evangelion, looked like me, except that I had glasses. So at one point in time, all my friends who liked anime called me after his name. During college, Harry Potter was all hyped up and I also happened to look like him so some of my friends teased me and called me Harry Potter. And of course, there are those who called me by my self proclaimed nickname, Stalker.

No matter what people will call me, I will always be who I am. And like Clark Kent who refers to himself as Superman, or Bruce Wayne who calls himself Batman, I call myself Charles when addressing myself.

Adversity

If there's one thing I face every single day, it's problems. It might take on the form of assignments, projects, family quarrels, or even the weather, but it's always present each day. And it's molded me into who I am today. I think adversity is what makes man who he is now: not religion, not science, not even his *cough* *cough* "superior intellect", but adversity that has made man the upright person he is now.

One thing that bothers me often is boredom. Of course sometimes, you're too busy to think about it. Why? Because I'm often preoccupied doing homework, coping with the trials and tribulations people are giving me, and sometimes, just living out life. Which brings me to my first point. When you're facing all sorts of problems, you're not bored. It's nice to know having problems have their uses.

Another use for adversity is the fact that you learn and grow from it. I mean I've failed numerous subjects, got beaten up by my siblings and classmates, got rejected by friends and crushes, but despite that all, I've managed to survive and become better because of it. I'm now better at socializing with other people, good at evading danger, and manage to pass my courses. Even if I only narrowly escape them.

Let's face it, aside from variety, adversity is the spice of life. Without it, life would be dull and meaningless. Why would philosophers contemplate on the meaning of life? Why would anyone invent the light bulb when a plain campfire would do? Why would anyone improve themselves? If it weren't for problems, we'd probably still be in the stone age right now, huddled together in our dark damp cave without opposable thumbs.

Some people commit suicide just because they're good at everything and find no challenges anymore. That's how important adversity is. I honestly don't want life to be easy. If it was, some things aren't worth striving for. For example, it's one thing to know you acquired an A for a paper you toiled for hours than an A for a paper you just copied off the Internet. The former is a lot more satisfying and fulfilling. The latter is just a desperate attempt to garner the approval of your peers.

When you look at history, the events most remembered are the ones which have the greatest trials. They're well remembered because we rose from the challenge and learned from it. The Middle Ages ended when we advanced our technology and stopped living in the old tradition. America and the Philippines were found by the Westerners in an attempt to find spices. If it weren't for all these problems, we wouldn't be where we are.

The moment we stop encountering challenges is the moment we stop living. Life is unfair. If it wasn't, life would be easy and everyone wouldn't be pushed to their limits. It's only when we go against the odds and conquer our foes that we evolve, mature, and grow.