Ribbons and Paper

Whew! It feels good to sit by my lonesome in the stillness of the night. Ever since I arrived home last week, everything has sped past me in a blur thanks to all the preparations for the office Christmas party which is tomorrow. As a matter of fact, that's how Christmas has always been for me - everything seems to be on high speed and I find myself running around helping my mom, decorating the house, wrapping gifts, doing last-minute groceries and before I know it, Christmas is over.

I promised myself this year that I'd write 25 stories/reflections about Christmas 25 days before December 25. So did I manage to fulfill that objective? Not at all. So before Christmas Day dawns upon me like the morning sun, I will write a little something about why this season is the most-loved and the most anticipated by almost everybody.

Ha! Thanks to the faulty Internet last night, Christmas morning did dawn on me without getting to write anything.

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Gifts are particularly common come Christmas. Two days ago, I dropped by the local supermarket to pick up some basil leaves. On my way out, I passed by two girls who were trying to decide which trinkets to get for their office Kris Kringle. Today, I went to the mall to buy some blank CDs and as I made my way to the parking garage, I espied a little girl in a pink dress crossing the street on board her brand new pink bicycle, training wheels and all. I could tell it was brand new because a red Robinson's Place label was still stuck to one of the wheels. Her father carefully held the handbars and the bicycle seat as the girl pedaled, her face shining with unmistakeable joy. Inside the mall, I walked past a family of three - a father, a mother and their young son - having merienda in a fast food chain. The boy was bringing brand new toys from a plastic bag: a set of action figures and a wind-up train which sped in its own circular set of rails. His parents watched as the boy arranged the toys on the table, next to his unfinished packet of French fries, and laughed as the train went whirring round and round until it had to be wound again.

There is something about gifts which can give a bad day a quick jolt and a shove to make it do a complete 180. I think anyone who abhors receiving gifts has got a dozen loose screws and needs a lobotomy. Through the years, I've received a lot of gifts come Christmas and I do have some favorites which stand out from the pack like a gayly wrapped present. For instance, when I was a child, my family and I would celebrate Christmas in my grandparents' house in Mangatarem, Pangasinan. Come Christmas Eve, Mamang, my late grandmother, would give me one of Papang's old socks and tell me to hang them on the window for Santa to fill with goodies. In the morning, I'd wake up to find the sock stuffed to the seams and I'd run to Mamang to show her all the chocolates and candies I got and she'd excitedly watch me count my stash even if she knew very well what was inside.

This year, my mom gave me Mara Jade, my new laptop (trust the geek to give the laptop a geek name), just so I could now retire Lei (my 8-year old notebook) which was, in some instances, trusty and in other instances would just turn itself off for no apparent reason. I was so happy that when I got home, I showed her Mara Jade and gave her a quick run-down of all its features, muttering about how "awesome" it was and how thankful I was for getting it for Christmas.

My favorite Christmas gift by far, however, was the one my sister and I also got from "Santa," 19 years ago. I had been pining for a dog and I had written "Santa" about it for the past two years but he kept giving me other things. On that particular Christmas Eve 19 years ago, my mom ran into the room my sister and I used to share and told us Santa was in the front yard with our presents. My sister and I raced to the front yard and found no Santa there. My mom then said Santa was in the kitchen and, because we were young, stupid and gullible, we ran out and found nobody except my mom jumping and pointing to the sky, telling us to wave goodbye because Santa was in a hurry and that if we looked closer, we would get to see his sleigh flying across the night sky. Disappointed that we didn't get to see Santa (and I was wondering how someone that fat could move so fast), my sister and I ambled back to the living room and were surprised to find two baskets sitting under the Christmas tree. I remember hiding behind a chair as my sister, who was always the more adventurous one, slowly walked toward the basket with the green ribbon, struggled with the wicker lid, pulled it out and then found herself greeted by a tiny, furry black head which popped out of the basket. I opened my basket (the one with a red ribbon) and found an all-white puppy cowering inside, a Spitz-Pomeranian I later named Sandy.

It would take me years later to realize that the red glow I was pointing to in the sky as Santa's sleigh was a signal light in a communications antenna and that, yes, my mom indeed had a future as an actress. What made my parents spill the truth beans about Santa, you may ask. Well, when I was 10, I got the toy catalogue for Strawberry Shortcake and I wrote Santa one letter after another, asking him if I could have the Betty Crocker baking oven or the electric-operated ice cream maker. Apparently the toys were a little too pricey and my parents had to disappoint me lest I burned a hole in their bank accounts.

As much as I love receiving gifts, I particularly enjoy giving them as well. Actually, I look forward to Christmas not because of the gifts I'm bound to get but because of the gifts I'll be giving to family and friends. I love to watch the recipients open their wrapped presents and wait for their reactions once the ribbons are off and the boxes are opened. I love to watch their faces light up like a light bulb - like the grin my dad gives when I get him a shirt meant for yuppies, the expression on my mom's face when I give her something she has always wanted to get herself or the amused look my grandfather gives me when I give him something funny. After all, I spend the entire year keeping my ears wide open, hoping to catch a drift of what they need or want. I love watching kids rip candy wrappers apart with huge grins in their faces. I enjoy watching eyes, fingers and smiles in endless combinations whether or not the "thank you's" come afterwards.

I guess it has to do with the fact that I've been in the receiving end a little bit too much so I need not just to pay back but also, as the movie goes, pay it forward. The gifts come from deep within a very, very, very thankful person.

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Gold, frankincense and and myrrh were the gifts the three wise men brought for the child Jesus. These were gifts fit for a king. Or so they thought.

Come to think of it, I don't think there is a gift on this planet which would be worthy to lay down on the feet of the King. I was sitting alone in my room, in the quietness of the night, thinking about this. What gift would be fit for my King? Actually, there is none because everything falls short of His glory and majesty. He created all things, all things were made by Him and for Him. Yet God chooses to accept whatever we offer at His feet as long as it is given with a pure heart. Abel's sheep was the equivalent of the magi's gifts. The poor widow's few pennies were as valuable to him as a rich man's gold coins. The shepherds who were the infant Jesus' first visitors did not carry with them any gifts of material value but the worship and adoration they brought with them were more than enough.

Aside from the fact that they were bearing gifts which were of no compare to the King's majesty, I am not sure exactly how long it took for the magi to realize that they were actually not the gift givers. They, along with the rest of mankind, were the recipients of the ultimate gift of sacrifice - a babe born out of God's immense love.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Sentimental Blue Highlighter Writes '30'

(Note: I wrote this immediately after my final exam in my toughest subject last semester and promised myself I wouldn't post it if the story does not end well or has no semblance of a happy ending.)

10 p.m., October 16, 2009

I am sitting on my bed with the covers pulled off as I am typing this. It actually feels rather good to have my legs graze my sheets again and to have absolutely nothing beside me except my extra pillow. The alarm clock is not set to go off at a particular time tomorrow because I am going to sleep for as long as I want, for as long as I think I need. For the past two weeks, I would find myself awake at 4 a.m. and realize that I have slept on my schoolwork again - and quite literally at that. I wake up with papers rustling in my back, my pens and my blue highlighter strewn all over the bed like a Jackson Pollock work and my books wide open beside me in various states of disarray.

Tonight has finally come. If you asked me yesterday how I think I'd be doing tonight, I would have probably answered "brain dead." This week has become probably the most stressful of my entire existence. It was difficult not to see myself as an endangered specie, one whose very existence and sanity was dangling by a hairline from the edge of a precipice. As each day passed and stress levels hit the ceiling, bore a hole in the roof and shot like fireworks through the exosphere, the day for the finals loomed before me and my classmates like a burly grizzly bear. All week, we swam through the text of the Rules of Court as they floated in our heads like a million random corks in the middle of the ocean. The day had finally come to tie them down to paper. The exercise of answering the examination itself was, to put it simply, difficult. It felt like I was grasping at a hundred helium balloons which were floating in the air in different areas, a situation so tricky when you don't quite know which string to pull out of the mess.

My genius-friend Bryan SJ once told me that he loved written exams better than class recitations. I wouldn't choose either of the two of I had any liberty but he did explain his choice to me with his trademark humor. "At least iyong papel hindi nagsasalita, hindi ka sinisigawan," he told me with a laugh, his fingers opening and closing like a bird's beak. That was the one of the first things I thought of as I scratched my answers on my exam booklet with my pen. I did manage a smile as I imagined my paper rise before me and transform into a mouth like those Harry Potter howlers before screaming into my face like a banshee.

Four hours later, when I turned my booklet in and walked out of the examination room, I felt very, very tired. That was expected. I felt a curious mix of relief and dread. That too was expected since a huge chunk of load had been lifted off my shoulders but I honestly did not know how I did in that exam. My head was spinning and my stomach was grumbling. That was another development I had anticipated since the only meal I had which had some semblance of decency was a heavy breakfast.

But there was another feeling lurking somewhere in the corner, something I had neither expected nor anticipated. It was the quiet, nagging feeling that said, with all certainty, that this fragment of my life would be missed - in a sorely sadistic way that I never thought would be possible. No matter how I much wished I would never go this way again, I certainly could not deny that a part of me would certainly miss all the ups and the downs that came with my ordeal of the last four months.

There were the little things, like the undeniable, uncomfortable silence before every class when my classmates and I would wait for the earlier section to end. The minute that first class adjourned, we would rush to meet the deluge of students (usually Kiyo, Jat and Jonas) and the air would then be thickly populated with all sorts of permutations of only one significant question: "Hanggang saan kayo umabot?"

Then there was that feeling of dread which came with the sound of the professor's heels echoing down the hallway. After all, those footsteps were so distinct they were almost equivalent to DNA evidence in terms of weight and sufficiency. My classmates and I would listen for them and when the familiar "clak clak clak" would reverberate across the walls, you could almost taste the panic in the air and feel the calories drain through your ears. The minute she would walk into the room and effortlessly swing the heavy wooden door open, you could almost hear the symphony of hearts hammering and pulses racing. Everybody stops breathing for a minute, whether consciously or unconsciously. The entire experience was insanity-inducing but, on hindsight, at the end of every class session, it was also as deliciously thrilling as wakeboarding in the Pacific Ocean in the middle of a squall.

The scarier moments would come when the questions would hit the student out of nowhere like shots from a sniper. Sometimes, the student dodges the recitation bullet but in other instances when the sniper finds its mark, makes a mortal wound and leads to the dreaded "Sit down" booming through the classroom like a bazooka, there is nothing left to see but necks bared, heads bowed and hands furtively leafing through pages of whatever pieces of paper are on the desks. The silence is, to make a direct quote, "sepulchral." Prayers rise through the air like steam as the area is scanned for the next target and if such steam clouds were visible, they would all have read the same way: "Not me, please."

The tough moments make their entrance when the recitation shotgun is whipped out and an entire row of people rejoin their seats a little soon after being called to stand, one after another in rapid succession. Sometimes, there are days when you've practically read the entire assignment and committed everything to every possible fold of your synapses, thinking you cannot be as ready as ever. Then with one question, your day comes to an end. Those are the days when the heart weighs heaviest, when you realize that the old adage of "failure means you didn't try" does not apply at all. Those are the lowest moments, when you think you could sink far lower than the Marianas Trench, even when you already feel buried neck-deep in quicksand.

But then, there were also the lighter moments, like the jokes before class about how karma goes around and comes around. Teasing another classmate "You will get called" is practically like opening yourself up to heaven's wrath. This tirade is usually exchanged while waiting in line for orders of instant pancit canton or fishballs, the kind of food so unhealthy that they will surely kill you if the over-the-scale stress levels don't do the job. Wailing is a standard and can come in a variety of forms. The usual goes something like "Hindi ako nakaaral" with matching (fake) sobbing. Sometimes, it can be as blunt as a frustrated "Ayoko na!" or as overused as a desperate "Hindi ko natapos!" The most commonly overheard is "Hanggang saan inaral mo?" which just makes everyone more nervous, especially when the case assignments are as thick as pocketbooks and you feel you've only scratched the surface.

Then there were the brief after-class laughs, the coffee shop study sessions and the rides in my "magic school bus" where none of my passengers paid me anything even if I made the appopriate legal demand. Coffee Bean Balara is probably the best joint to study as a group because hardly anyone ever shows up in the daytime and Cha and I still have a good supply of those "buy-one-take-one" coupons for cheesecake and ice blends good enough for all of our tummies. But the overall winner for the best source of a snicker would be Mims who could still manage to crack a joke about why Herce vs. Cabuyao was included in the subtopic about hearsay when everyone else thinks the world is coming to an end. Get it? Herce and hearsay?

After everything else, there are the class members, the ones you'll remember for their quips, their mannerisms, for the days they have saved the class sessions with their recitation answers, despite the extra strain on their legs from all the standing which could last up to three hours. The ones who will applaud and whoop at the end of every class session, at the precise moment the wooden doors swing shut. The ones who do not mince with encouragement and are generous with the handshakes, the high-fives and the pats on the back. The ones who celebrate the smallest of victories and ignore the bad days. There's Mr. Mendoza, otherwise known as Mr. Evidence, who could recite all 37 disputable presumptions word-for-word without the slighest hint of hestitation. Then there's Miss Rios, the resident Miss Evidence, who picked up a nuance in Africa vs. Caltex which no one in the entire history of the course had ever noticed. Of course, there is Mr. Dumlao, the class saviour who stood till the very last day and could tell you where the periods and the commas are in the text of the law. There's Miss Cabrera who always leaves at 7:30 for her Succession class and Miss Canete who does not buckle under pressure. There's Mr. Muniz, Mr. Quilala and Mr. Revillas who are always called at about the same time, one after another. Then there's Miss Boncaron who is always persistent; Mr. Asilo who is always confident and Miss Salazar who is always brilliant. There's Dr. Simangan, the resident physician; Miss Buenavantura, the class beadle and Miss Martin, the cool cat. There's Mr. Salinas, the perfectionist; Miss Sabitsana, the firecracker; Miss Rial, the one with the quiet confidence. They were labelled as our "first line of defense" because they sat on the row immediately in front of ours and once they were called to recite, it would automatically mean we, the ones who sat in the back, were coming up next. Of course, there's Miss Pineda who is great (and loud) at broadcasting her answers to those who are fielded for recitation and Mr. Ridon who was so unlike himself during class hours. There are my seatmates, Mr. Arcilla with his "small eyes" and Miss Mendoza with her pink laptop who types simple reminders like "Relax" on her computer screen, all visible for the ones who are standing, stretching their calf muscles and have to deal with more than just trembling patellas.

And then there's me, the one who started this walk with a curious mix of pessimism and optimism and will sign off at the kiss of sunset - and the adventure - with a grateful heart, a quiet laugh and a fervent hope that this fight will indeed end well.