COLUMNISTS

YOUNG BLOOD

Fried green tomatoes

By: John Dexter Canda - @inquirerdotnet
05:03 AM October 16, 2018

Have you ever wondered how fried green tomatoes taste like?

It was one sunny afternoon, about three years ago.

We were dismissed from our class early. Good thing, I
thought. I needed to go to the market to buy something for dinner.

Hurriedly, I jumped into a nearly packed jeepney, and with the sweltering, humid
heat cooking everyone along with the suffocating pollution, no doubt we were in a
life-size oven. With traffic looming, I figured I would reach the market at dusk.

I was right. The sun was setting when I saw the vendors tidying up their stalls.

I ran as fast as I could, to no avail. All I managed to find was an old lady and her
broken wooden cart filled with green tomatoes. At the back of my mind was, what
will I do with these green tomatoes?

But I had no choice. It was getting late. I had to finish my lengthy homework as
early as possible that evening, do laundry and finish some chores. Resorting to a
different plan meant more expense. Living alone was tough. It was either green
tomatoes for dinner, or none at all.

The old lady was looking at me. I could see the kindness of her soul through her
weary eyes, but she was tired and wistful.

I asked her politely in Chavacano: “Nay, tu ya lang pone para comigo. Mga quatro
bilog lang, akel mga grande-grande ha. Gracias (Nay, can you please choose for me.
About four pieces, the big ones. Thank you).”

She grabbed my hand after I paid her, and told me, “Tiene tu cuidao (Take care).”
Tiene tu cuidao.

These words lingered with me while I walked home, still thinking about what to
do with my green tomatoes.

The old lady was telling me something more other than those simple words of
goodbye — tiene tu cuidao.

Cuidao means “to care.”

I realized I was losing myself in the noisy confusion of life. I was losing the battle of
keeping peace with my soul; I was falling apart; I was distressing myself with dark
imaginings; I was forgetting how to take care of the only thing that truly mattered
— myself.

When I arrived home, I sighed out of exasperation. I was exhausted, and my mind
was boggled with the demands of what was left for me for the evening. The
grueling homework, the laundry, the tedious chores, the clinking of spare change
in my wallet and the thought that it was about to become empty soon, and what I
was about to have for dinner — green tomatoes.

Green tomatoes, having failed to ripen, are seen as inferior. I sliced my green
tomatoes in circles, mixed them with the frying batter I had available, and fried
them. Lo and behold, a dish you wouldn’t expect in a Filipino plate — my fried
green tomatoes.

Surprisingly, I have never regretted cooking fried green tomatoes ever since.

On tranquil nights, while lying down on the cold slab of foam that is my bed, my
thoughts wander endlessly. It was in one of those wanderings that I realized that
our imperfections are like green tomatoes. Inadequate as they may seem, there is
always something amazing to be made of these unripe, seemingly worthless
tomatoes.

Take after me: Cut them up, fry them, eat them, and discover, like I did, a whole
new world of sweet, sour and salty flavors in the palate of life.
***

John Dexter Canda, 20, is a first year student at the Ateneo de Zamboanga University
School of Medicine.

Read more: https://opinion.inquirer.net/116772/fried-green-

tomatoes#ixzz5U2wWRwsl

YOUNG BLOOD

Innocent
By: Alfred Mark Castillo - @inquirerdotnet
Philippine Daily Inquirer / 05:14 AM October 11, 2018

Time flies swiftly. Yet for him, it crawls very slowly. He’s still in that doomed place,
patiently waiting for that shower of justice to bless him and his mates who happen
to be victims of lies and deception.

It has been a month, but I know that for him it is absolutely far more than that.

He’s been restricted inside the four walls of that cellar, locked up behind the cold
iron bars that separate freedom and confinement. He is in there because of a
fabricated accusation.

Yes, my brother is in prison. But he is a victim, like many other innocent people
who have a loving father, a caring brother, a good son and a friend to many —
that’s what he is. He had just obtained regular status as a merchandiser of a
famous soda brand in two big grocery stores near us. He was enjoying this job,
since now he could help in the expenses and feed his own family — a wife and two
children.

Everything was getting better, until that shocking Sunday morning.

After bringing our mother to church, he had his breakfast and fed his daughter.
After getting ready, he left for work. He kissed his children goodbye and hugged
them tightly, a normal thing for him.

Little did we know what was to happen next. We had no idea of the nightmare that
was about to unfold.

Our mother was waiting for him, since he always ate lunch at home. It was unusual
that he did not text or call, until my mother received an unexpected message
mentioning that my brother was in jail.

She asked why and was told that he was swept up in a drug buy-bust operation.
The police supposedly caught him selling marijuana.

My mother almost fainted. Our world stopped. We just couldn’t believe it. We
knew that my brother did not, could not, and would never do such a thing.

We immediately rushed to the police precinct. We asked about him, but the cops
couldn’t give us a straight answer. They just told us he was undergoing a drug test;
we left after we were advised to return by 5 p.m.

Upon seeing him, my mother broke into tears. It was so heartbreaking to see those
iron bars separating and hindering my brother and my mother from hugging each
other. He told us his side of the story.

On his way to work, two men stopped him. They pointed a gun at him, so he
moved his motorcycle to the shoulder lane. No one else was there. Other motorists
just passed by. It was the part of the highway that had no residential areas nearby,
and apparently no CCTVs, just them.

The men confirmed his name and handcuffed him. They tried to put something in
his right front pocket but, as a merchandiser, my brother wasn’t allowed to wear
front pockets in his pants. They failed, so they tried his back pocket.

My brother resisted, writhed and squirmed. They punched him in the stomach, he
lost his balance and felt weak. The men called for respondents, which included
uniformed policemen and barangay officials. He was brought to jail right after the
documentation was conducted by the police.

As we expected, the result of the drug test was negative.

Still, my brother remains in jail. We visit him as often as possible. Our mother cries
every night. His daughter has stopped going to school because she fears getting
bullied. His son stays with his wife’s family. The children have developed a trauma
of the police and the wailing sound of police sirens.

What is worse is knowing that many drug-related crimes, specifically possession

and selling, have the same story as my brother’s.

The infamous “tanim-bala” has now become “tanim-droga.” Some policemen are
pressured by superiors to produce so-called results, such that they apprehend
anyone they deem suspicious in their barangays to meet their quota.

The hapless individuals are then framed up. They get jailed and threatened. They
are advised to plead guilty so they could post bail. Policemen overuse the plea
bargaining agreement, ruining the lives of those who are innocent and who are
afraid to fight for justice.

My brother is not the sole victim of this. Many other people have ended up
convicted because of such lies and criminal deception.

Some policemen are willing to fabricate stories to make innocent people suffer, so
they could obey the command of their superiors and get a promotion or
commendation.

I plead to those who have the power to act upon this. Let us pursue justice. May it
be served on those who rightfully deserve it.

* * * Alfred Mark Castillo, 23, is a teacher in Baguio City.

Read more: https://opinion.inquirer.net/116669/innocent#ixzz5U2yDn6I2

COLUMNISTS

YOUNG BLOOD

Blurting out ‘ano’ to a Brit colleague

By: Anna Ven Sobreviñas - @inquirerdotnet
Philippine Daily Inquirer / 05:00 AM October 14, 2018

Don’t be sorry for being ‘Philippine’,” a colleague once told me. I apologize for my
nationality at least once a day here in Bangkok, because I may look like one of
them, but I’ll never be one of them.

Four months into being a fake Thai, and I’ve never doubted my English-speaking
skills the way I do now. Every day whisks me back to 2008, when I was fresh meat
at the meat shop that was the United States of America.

I was 18 then, forever known as a talkative and articulate girl. But I lived my first
year as a faux Filipino-American composing sentences in my head before speaking.

In the expat-filled metropolitan paradise that is Bangkok, however, I’ve had my

worst fear realized. I work as a teacher at a private school and I’m part of the
foreign staff. I’m the only Filipino in the faculty room; the rest are mostly from
Canada and the United States.

One time, I told a colleague: “The situation is getting badder.”

I tried to redeem myself in a heartbeat by following up with an “Of course, that’s

not a proper word,” but her stunned look meant damage done. That’s just bad(der)
for an English teacher!

As I write this down, I’m in the process of testing all the students from Grades 2 to
4 on their reading levels. The irony is in my face — this teacher needs her level
tested, too, thank you very much.

The most interesting realization I’ve had from my recent twist of the tongue
dawned on me while waiting for my Grab bike ride home from a night out.
I was talking to the same colleague who said I should feel no shame about my
roots. A blue-eyed, blonde native of New York, she was telling me how she had to
extra-simplify her English so that her students could understand her. Now she
finds herself at times still speaking like that outside of the classroom.

I agreed, followed by a hard slap of reality. Let’s face it, even though we Filipinos
are born and raised for the most part in Tagalog or another dialect and in English,
our native Filipino tongue is dominant, and English is still our second language.

We were laughing as we realized the truth in my condition — I’m a “fake” native

English speaker as well.

It took me years to accept how I sounded — to appreciate how my tongue rolled a

different way; how I said words differently. Until now, though, there would be
days when I’d be my own worst critic. Why is it that we look down on ourselves
for our accent, for instance?

When the gorgeous Colombiana Sofia Vergara speaks, we swoon; when Michael
Palin and the rest of the Pythons spit out their jokes, we love them all the more
because of their English charm. But when a Filipino opens his/her mouth and we
hear the all-familiar barok sound, we laugh?

Accents are just that — regional indicators, so to speak. Should accents determine
the better race? Or intelligence, rank, social status?

As a precursor and defense to my worsening state, pretty much the whole staff at
work knows my “accent” story. I would find a way to tell them, especially upon
meeting, how the moment I arrived in Thailand, I went back to straight up
sounding like an FOB (fresh off the boat); that whatever improvement I’ve had all
those years in the United States abandoned ship the moment I docked in Siam
waters.

Maybe the cracks are due to a faulty foundation. Did I just breeze through the
complicated world of English speech and grammar and leaned on the deadly “If it
sounds right, it’s probably right” rule?
Did I not read enough English-language books? Were my high grades in English
my whole academic life a mighty pretense? I can only imagine my teachers from
Miriam College and JASMS-QC shaking their heads and going “tsk tsk.”

Today I blurted out “ano” to a British colleague, because I was at a loss for words
during a casual conversation. It’s all in the head, but my psyche, combined with
insecurities of all sorts, has done a great job compromising whatever career and
confidence I may have had these past four months.

Nonetheless, some of my desperate measures include Netflix—binging on mostly

American movies and shows, Facetiming friends back in the United States, and
constantly boning up on grammar through books (“Grammar Girl” is a lifesaver)
and online.

I’ve also been feeding my deep curiosity for British humor through politically
incorrect comedies from the ’70s. I credit Monty Python and the Flying Circus as a
two-way solution to understanding the complexity of the English language from
Mother England, combined with knee-slapping laughter.

Surprisingly, I always find myself back to my “normal” American-ish accent when

conversing with tourists — as if I needed more proof that it’s all in my head.

Can something as simple as the lack of pride in your accent symbolize a lack of
patriotism? A demented adherence, perhaps, to this perceived perfection and
supremacy of the West?

***

Anna Ven Sobreviñas, 28, lived in Quezon City until she was 18 before immigrating
with her family to San Diego, California. She is now based in Thailand.

Read more: https://opinion.inquirer.net/116728/blurting-ano-brit-

colleague#ixzz5U2zEDtkb
COLUMNISTS

YOUNG BLOOD

Branded red
By: Ragene Andrea L. Palma - @inquirerdotnet
05:03 AM October 09, 2018

I clearly remember the drums.

It was my first day as a freshman in the University of the Philippines Diliman;

upperclassmen welcomed our batch, the last before UP’s centennial arrived.
Congratulations, they said, you passed the UPCAT.

But that was not enough to be called an “iskolar ng bayan.” You have to prove
yourself worthy, they stressed — to your studies, to the organizations you would
later join, and, most importantly, to your country.

Before we ended, the drumbeats resounded, and they taught us the school cheer.
Every UP student knows it by heart: “Matatapang, matatalino, walang takot kahit
kanino… Unibersidad ng Pilipinas.” It was catchy, and it raised our

One wouldn’t know where to begin with our classes over four years. But there
were definite standouts — Winnie Monsod throwing chalk at the crowd of unruly
students in her macroeconomics lecture, for instance.

Or having to kneel so I could enroll for the overbooked sociology class, wiping
sweat before answering mathematical logic on the board while praying the “Hail
Mary” out loud, and writing in baybayin for a whole semester for papers in
Philippine culture and studies.

No professor ever implied utang na loob. Our teachers — to quote my sister — just
“traumatized” us to sharpen our minds. Many of them sacrificed bigger salaries
and opportunities to be able to teach in the state university. Ask questions, dare,
criticize, build your argument, prove your point. That was what they taught us.
That was how we learned.
We read books, from the humanities to political science. We studied the types of
governments, the psyches of strongmen. We read stories, especially those about
martial law. We watched the documentaries.

They were gruesome, bone-chilling and painful. But they were also history, no
matter who the professor was.

We joined organizations to create impact, and we had the freedom to found new
ones. We listened to the university’s political parties, and compared platforms
across debates.

And these were not just about promised panaceas, like the ones we usually hear
during government elections. These included creating collective actions to fight
budget cuts or controversial decisions, investigating institutional lapses,
championing farmers’ rights, supporting minorities, and so on.

Yes, these all came from the minds of students below the age of 20.

We researched, we fact-checked, we looked at the impacts of state decisions. If we

found something wrong, we joined rallies.

We shouted our lungs out, we pounded the streets, we wore black, we raised our
fists. We gathered more voices, and it
never really mattered where they came from, or who they were — provincial,
LGBT, Catholic, or science geek.

We lived in the very democracy that we studied. We wrote our thoughts, and the
best got published on scarlet headlines—the Kule had its way of drawing blood
and making it drip from the front page.

In classes, or on the streets, we demanded answers. We demanded justice over the

smallest inequalities. We agreed, and we opposed. We respected that there could
be differences in opinion and preferences.

But if there was one thing that was common to any UP experience, it was that we
always had to take a stand. And we had to defend it, despite a million criticisms,
despite threats. We had to argue with logic, not fallacies — without making up
stories or
excuses, and certainly without having to resort to fistfights.

We always had to stand up because we were always involved. A Filipino is a

Filipino, no matter where we go, no matter where we identify ourselves in the
political spectrum, no matter how perfectly logical or dim-wittedly arrogant (or
embarrassingly paid) we are. And we have one country to prove ourselves to, one
country to serve. That, at least, had been made clear to us from the start.

But all of these, and what every state scholar goes through during our years of
education, have just been branded red by authorities. Tagged, threatened, because
of critical minds.

Are they in fear, perhaps, of the youth’s voices that take the cheer of “walang
takot” to heart?

UP was never just about taxpayer money, or the tears of finally wearing and
shifting the “sablay” (graduation sash) to another shoulder. Being part of the
cream of the crop and the hope of our land was about defending this country in a
way that differed from military or police discipline. In fact, it was far from obeying
orders and holding guns.

To me, and to every Isko and Iska, defending this country is about defending truth,
the principles of democracy, and the right to freedom.

UP taught us through the years that defending these values, especially from
dictators and historical revisionists, could be the greatest honor for any scholar.

Today, we strive to put excellence in doing that service.

No utang na loob needed. * * *

Raceme Andrea L. Palma, 27, is from Batch 2011 of UP Diliman.

Note to self
By: Frances Grace Damazo - @inquirerdotnet
Philippine Daily Inquirer / 05:02 AM October 07, 2018

There are mornings when you wake up and do nothing but stare at your reflection
for a few minutes. Not because you’re vain. It’s to make sure that you are still here.
That you still recognize the girl in the mirror.

You are 12 years old, and feel like you don’t actually belong. Boys tease you
because you’re this lanky kid who always gets called whenever there’s recitation
in class.

The teachers tell you that you are smart and full of potential, but somehow you
feel like these things are more of a liability than an asset. And so you stifle your
voice and try your best not to do too well in class. You equate being smart to being
bullied.

You are 15, and everybody’s talking about makeup and dating. Boys start to rate
your attractiveness on a scale of 1 to 10, and you know you’ll never be billboard-
pretty. You are not part of the cool crowd

You do not date the hottest guy in school. You do not date anyone. Not because no
one has actually asked you out, you just feel you’re not ready to become
vulnerable. Also, you don’t really understand what they see in you.

You are 19, and you learn to embrace being smart. However, you still feel that you
can do better. There are lots of things you want to try, but you feel insecure and
lacking — and so you never do.

Somehow, falling for a guy who eventually ghosts on you doesn’t do anything to
erase your insecurities. You are nearing graduation and you feel uneasy.
Undecided. Incompetent. You don’t know if you’re ready to face reality outside the
four walls of the classroom.
You are 23, and you experience heartbreak like you never did before. You feel ugly.
You hit rock bottom in love and in career. You feel displaced. You retreat and start
doubting every life choice you’ve made. You don’t think you will ever find love
again.

For all of these, I want to apologize.

I’m sorry for letting them make you feel that you’re not good enough, that there’s
something wrong with you. For propagating the idea that the skin you’re in is not
the most attractive. For believing that intelligence is not sexy. For being
hypercritical. For doubting your abilities.

I promise to never let these negative thoughts seep into your consciousness again.
And if they do, I promise that, this time, you will have a stronger sense of self —
that these things will not bother you as much as they used to.

Because you are made of hopes and dreams, fears and strengths, dark and light,
passion and compassion. You are a force to be reckoned with. You are love.

Dear self, I want to apologize for all the times I have not loved you enough. We’re
stuck together forever, and I want you to know that I like you. I really do. Your
flawed, silly self is perfect. And lovable. I am sorry you thought otherwise.

Dear self, know that I accept you and I’ve forgiven you for feeling these things and
believing them. You are real. You are beautiful. Never forget that.

I love you.

***

Frances Grace Damazo, 25, is learning to be comfortable in her own skin. She is a
development worker and youth advocate, working under the 2030 Youth Force in
the Philippines Inc., a youth network working collectively toward a high-quality
life for all by 2030.
Read more: https://opinion.inquirer.net/116583/note-to-self#ixzz5U31ClxE6