Greatest Hero on Earth

One of the greatest heroes in history that showed exemplary valor never fought on a typical battlefield.

His greatness was embodied by the legacy he so willingly passed onto his children --- the struggle for truth, godliness and education; in spite of a society that substantiates the notion that poverty robs you off the luxury of these three.

Our hero, as typical heroes are, was not born with a silver spoon. He grew up tending animals in a land that was not their own. As a child, his playtime was incorporated at work, and he faced society’s threat that a farmer’s son barely had the chance to get a good education.

His battleground was society’s discriminating environment. He armed himself with humility, shielded the purity of his intent with constancy. His determination was his spear, his hard work, his sword. He remained patient in the midst of toil. He eluded gunshots with his uncompromising principle, and remained steadfast in the battlefield through his faith in God.

I’ve seen his face distraught many times. Even heroes can fall, and they fall hard. These are the times that strengthened his armor, times that sharpened his spear. Though imperfect, his unwavering audacity allowed him to get up on his knees and fight once more.

He gets out of the battlefield tattered. His ashen face fails to conceal his eyes that glimmer with glory. He appears wounded, yet his entire state speaks of healing and of hope instead of failure.

He may not be such a perfect hero, but his valiance is just too remarkable to remain unseen. I hope I can live up to the kind of hero he is, if not for the people around me, at least for my children. Just the way he was, and still is, for us.

Happy Hero’s Day, Dad.

A short note to end my "day"

Got an email from him today which, I believe, completed my day.

It read, "I've always thanked God for this day, the day you were born, and secondly, for the day that we've met."

Of all the blessings I've received from Him, he's the one that melts my heart the most.

Thanks, Tatch. I hate you sometimes, but I always end up loving you back. I hate you!

My Kindergarten Thumb

The entire time today, I constantly looked at my right thumb. I examined how big it has grown, and how the whitish part of the nail emerged to be like a sun setting behind a hill. This isn’t one of my narcissistic fetishes, but this is an act I admit to constantly do each and every time I celebrate my birthday.

I was a stubborn kindergartener who was much too thrilled with the joys and perks of my childhood life. I marveled at the fact that I had playmates, almost five hours a day. I barely had the chance playing with other kids before I went to school, as we (I and my brother) weren’t allowed to go outside the house. It’s for this “accident-prevention” campaign my mom thought of, and so we suffered the consequent boredom, and dreamt of how exciting it felt to have a set of playmates. Spending five hours in school was something I really look forward to.

School bus honks its horn and I get the adrenaline rush at such a young age. School time meant playtime. I’d find my way near the front row. Kids always stayed in the front row, and I always wondered why, while the big ones reserved the backseats for themselves. Despite my obstinate self, I stayed prim and proper inside the bus and reserved my unruliness for recess and dismissal time. I was quietly observing my bus mates instead.

I remember this seventh grader girl neither by the name nor by face. The sole recollection I had of her was her, well, her thumb. She walks past me, way back into the “adult” seats and she always, yes always, holds on to the cushioned seat right in front of me. And that’s how I get a glimpse of her. A fraction of a second, five days a week, enables me to look at that grown thumb, and I start to form sheepish thoughts which I then considered my daily geniuses.

I have sworn never to allow my thumb to grow as big as hers. I detested the fact that having big thumbs with obvious “whites” meant that your childhood ended, and that you'd have to take the backseat of the bus. I hardly imagined myself not playing patintero to give way to an eternity of number problems. I never liked the thought of that.

I kept watch of my thumb each day as she walks past me, and I gloriously grin at my sweet success. The moment her hand strikes the seat as she finds her way into the bus, I was quick enough to stare at it. My eyes shift to my own thumb after so, and I’m glad that hers has always been bigger than mine. I was the surest child in the world that I will never grow old.

Today, I celebrate twenty seven years on earth . And half of which was with disdain that my peter pan dreams were never realistic enough to come true. I’ve spent glorious and not-so-glorious moments, experienced blessed and not-so-blessed times, kept happy and not-so-happy memories. Looking back, I can say that most of my happiest times were during my childhood, but most of my fulfilled times happened when I found my way to the bus’ backseat.

I’ve grown such a big thumb, even bigger than that of a seventh grader, and yet, somewhere deep inside my heart, I know it remains to be that old kindergarten thumb.

Read three chapters from Sullivan; rewrite last week’s lecture; finish off Siegelmann’s first chapter; fix my cluttered cabinet; decorate at least two pages of my dusty scrapbook; organize my review notes; and so the list goes on. There are a hundred and one chores set for me each day, and I accomplish, none. I get quite a couple of them started, but the day ends with none of them getting finished. It’s not that I lack time. I’ve got much of it, honestly, even more than what I need.

I end the day hating myself for becoming the world’s greatest procrastinator. Given the time that I have, I know that anybody would trade places with me. It’s not that I don’t value time. I frankly don’t know why I habitually put off these important things I need to do. I squirm and curse at the fact that I get older each year, but I can’t seem to come up with any intellectual premise why I ALWAYS procrastinate. I brood over the fact that I feel like a failure at my age, and yet, I nonchalantly bathe in this luxurious tub of procrastination.

I honestly need help. And professional help it must be. I guess I’ll go get myself a shrink tomorrow. Or, perhaps, this weekend.

Anytime within this month. :)

You're most welcome

It just hit me... most of us, Filipinos, barely respond correctly when thanked for. Not much of a big issue, but it's something i find totally amusing. Everytime I get these boredom-generating moments, I muse at the fact that I can free myself from these tedious whiles by eavesdropping on most conversations of the people around me.

Often, I hear someone thanking another for something.

And I hear that another person who got thanked for something, thanking back that person who thanked him. Teeeheee.

****

A young man stands up and gives up his prized MRT seat for an old lady. Old lady thanks him. This young man says, "thank you", as well.

****

This girl's wallet drops on the floor and a passer-by picks it up and hands it to her. "Thank you," she tells him. He quickly says, "Sure, no problem.

***

I take my tray of food along with my change from this cashier. I smiled and thanked her. She smiles back and nods at me.

***

I'm not making a big deal out of it. All I can tell these people is that, saying "you're welcome" isn't something illegal. I find it most appropriate. And not saying so is something I find very entertaining.