Broken slippers and bouncing balls.

"So, when are you going to join the football team like your brother?"

I must have been asked this question countless times during my primary school days. After all, my brother was arguably one of the best football players of his generation. By the way, that was the consensus of the our school at the time. Goalkeepers rarely get groupies, but he was kind of the exception to that rule. I must have gained a couple of kilos with all the free snacks I hoarded from their bribes. Many a bag of corn chips passed my way in exchange for an introduction to my brother.

And would I keep my part of the bargain? Sure.

"Yo 'To!, " the younger me waving to my brother.

Pointing thumb in general direction of nameless girl, " This girl wanted to meet you."

I would then exit right, leaving a red faced girl and my brother bemused and chuckling. They must have thought of me as a brat. I think I was channelling my inner Godfather. Even though I hadn't even watched the Coppola classic yet.


(By the way, that's short for Toto. For non-Ilonggos, that's what younger siblings called their elder brothers. Nothing to do with the legendary ensemble band. Nor is it in reference to Dorothy's dog. Now you know.)

The truth was, even if I was interested in football (which I was), there was no way I was going to join the football team. As my brother once made clear, I had no skills. The only time I was going to score a hat-trick was if I had a game controller in hand.

So I would just stare back at anyone who would ask that question and smile back bemused.

My brother was my hero. Every time, he took to the pitch we all roared in unison. Every save he made, we felt we were blocking the shot ourselves. Every goal that went in, we shared in his agony.

I knew I was never going to be good enough, so I wasn't going to even try. But that didn't stop me from cheering him on.


Years later when I hit high school, I managed to play basketball well enough to challenge him. We would often play until dusk battling it out one on one. Dust flying everywhere, rubber slippers falling apart, sweat dripping in buckets... those were the afternoons we would battle it out. It would be in basketball where I would finally find a game that I could actually challenge him with. He had the better low post game, but I had the better range.

And one night I finally beat him. A jap-step forward, he edged backwards and then I rose up, throwing up a high arching shot from the outside.

Swoosh.

I celebrated like crazy that night.

And I haven't beaten him for years since.


He's still my hero.
So for taking the blame for the mess I left in your room...
For scripting some of the best G.I Joe battle sequences with my action figures when we were kids...
For cheering me on when I went to university...
For letting me win that game...
And for always watching out for me...

Happy birthday Toto Bryan.


P.S. I did play one football match in a pick up match at my university dorm.

I was the goalie.

And I was terrible.

Because Bambi still makes me cry.

Disney films were a staple of my childhood. In fact early, our family had a cinema rule in place, which meant we mostly watched if it was a James Bond film (we are all big fans of the franchise) or if it was a Disney film. The latter shouldn't be a real surprise as almost every generation has their favourite Disney movie. But I won’t bore you about present movie favourites as that will be a discussion for another time.

One of my earliest film memories was watching the classic Bambi. There is no other film I know that can potentially scare and scar a child upon first viewing as it taps into one of the most fundamental fears any child can have. If you have watched it, you know the scene. Its winter and Bambi and his mother are walking in the snow covered forest. The mother stops, senses the danger and commands Bambi to run. We see the hero scampering away. We hear the mother’s desperate cries to flee. The images become ever frantic, the music matching the pace. And then…

BANG!

A gun shot.

Bambi finally stops, looks back and calls for his mother. She is never found. Instead he meets the great stag who hauntingly tells him that his mother cannot be with him anymore.

All fades to black.

And then it’s spring and over-excitable birds are singing. The story continues

As a child, I often forgot the movie kept going. At that point I was bawling my eyes out and crying uncontrollably. That was just devastating to me as a child. There have always been sad moments in movies that upset me event then, but that just scared me like nothing else.

I recently revisited this feeling when I was babysitting my nephew. He woke up from his sleep and clambered out of bed. I carried him back to bed, trying my best to console him, but even as his crying eased into soft whimpering, he still called for his mommy. I stayed with him, waiting in the dark as he calmed down and slowly fell into a restful sleep.

Even then, it came to mind that so many years ago, that was me. I was the crying child looking for my mother.

And sometimes, even when I was no longer the infant, I still needed my mother when I found myself surrounded by the darkness.

This part of the story, my mother knows. I once stood at the brink of making a very poor and selfish choice. But even as I closed my eyes what broke me out of that spell was the voice of my mama calling out to me.

Nothing dramatic.

In fact, I think she was scolding me for letting my mind wander.

No matter how old I get, part of me will always cry out for my mama when I am lost.
Often, I forget to tell her that and for such I apologise.

Thank you Ma for being the voice in the dark that helps me my find peace again.

That and for always reminding me that there will always be a spring to look forward to.

Even if we have to put up with the over-excitable singing birds.

Just as my Father would often joke, good-humouredly, " That's your Mother!"

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Happy Birthday to my very wonderful Mama.

All the love from a very blessed and lucky son.

Long-haul lights and cold dinners

Ma never got to go to my high school graduation. I know she was really bummed over that whole deal as she thought she was missing out. This is correct but also incorrect. She missed the day, the whole toga-wearing, speech-making hat-throwing occasion. I did feel bad about that, but it just couldn't happen at that time.

The fact is, she didn't miss it. Throughout my formative education years, Ma had always been a driving influence. Pa was the drill sergeant, making sure I always kept on point. But he always made sure I remembered the sacrifice that Ma was making being away for great period of time. When I screwed up, I mostly felt bad because I felt I was letting her down. And I screwed up a lot.

Truth is, I could never have made it without her making a lot of sacrifices.

While it has become commonplace in the Philippines to have one or both parents working abroad, during that time it wasn’t the case. People had certain perceptions on what it was like and often, they would get it largely incorrect. No, we didn’t have money coming out of our rear ends. No, we did not live in a mansion. No, it was not a cakewalk.

It was very hard on everyone. It was sad when she missed out of the big occasions. Here is the truth. Every achievement, every victory my Ma helped make that happen. All those years, she spent Christmases alone, ate dinners solo and suffered through terrible long-haul flights. To be honest, even though I knew she went through all that, I never really got how crappy it was until I lived here in London solo. Don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of perks to living alone. But when things go rough and when things go wrong, coming home to a darkened house is not something you look forward to.

She did that for nearly thirty years.

Here’s to you Ma, Happy Mother’s day. Well, at least it’s Mother’s day on this side of the world. Knowing her, she will bug me to greet her again in May when it’s Mother’s day in the other side of the world. But she deserves it.

Happy Mother’s Day Ma.

Potatoes, Wuthering Heights and the Squared Circle.

My memories of my maternal grandmother are intertwined with my earliest memories of the Philippines. I was a fussy eater as a child and changing to a rice-based diet was torture. Ok, there was the tocino, longganisa, pandesal, fresh carabao’s milk … ok, there were a lot of nice things to eat. But being a kid, I would make a huge fuss over it. Now my parents would put their foot down and tell me to finish my food. My grandmother, on the other hand would painstakingly peel potatoes to make chips to entice me to eat. Did I take advantage of this fact? Of course I did. Did it annoy my parents? Absolutely.

It was not to say, that I did not return the favour. I was quite snobbish of watching Filipino films when I was younger. I never even went to the cinema to watch. But one day my grandmother asked me to accompany her to watch the latest romance flick. Now I went along for perfectly good reasons. One being, I could find no reason to refuse her. That and she promised popcorn.

So we headed off to the cinema (I think it was the Regent. I miss the days when the cinemas had fancy names.) It was entitled, “Hihintayin kita sa Langit,” (I will wait for you in Heaven). This film was a pretty big deal back in the day. Given I had no real point of reference, I had no real expectations. I remember the cinema being so packed, I had to stand while Lola sat transfixed by the story unfolding on the silver screen. Soon, I too was caught up in the story. I looked over and saw my grandmother shedding a tear as it reached its climax. I wondered why my vison was cloudy and then realised I too, was crying. It would be years later that I would find out that it was an adaptation of Wuthering Heights. Regardless, I still have a soft spot for this adaptation.

But the most unlikely memory I have is of the Wednesday nights when she would let me stay up past bed time. All for sixty minutes of watching men in spandex, indulge in faux combat in the middle of a squared circle. Yes, my grandmother was a professional wrestling fan.

There is nothing more surreal than seeing an old lady scream at the tv screen, demanding that one participant to inflict maximum pain upon their opponent. It soon wears off, you get with the program and then join in the yelling. She cheered every suplex, booed every villain and roared with every victory. Some families bond over cookies. We bonded over Hulk Hogan. Watcha gonna do?


My grandmother passed away several days ago. She was 89.

I had not seen my grandmother for several years. Nevertheless, I am grateful. Without her, I would not have my mom. I know my Mama is grieving and I wish I could be there with her. I cannot take away her pain, but I can tell her that will always be thankful for Lola because she gave me my mom. All I can do is close my eyes and hug Mama from afar. I’m sorry I cannot be with you right now.

As for all that remains, I will always remember the potatoes, Wuthering Heights and the late nights watching professional wrestling.

Goodnight Lola and sleep well now.

Tea at Wimpy's

On one December day, a man and a woman walked into a Wimpy’s restaurant in London. (I don’t think they had much choice back then. I don’t think McDonald’s was in vogue back then. (Though I might say, the “beef burger with a sliced, grilled sausage on top,” is one of the Wimpy’s signature dishes. If you can find one, do try it,). Knowing the man, if he had a choice, he might have gone for KFC, his personal favourite. But this story has little to do with fast-food dining. In fact, the two quietly had a cup of tea. He would have had two sugars. The lady would have declined. They probably shared a joke or two as the rest of the world around them remained oblivious to the importance of the day. You see, this couple had just gotten married, that very afternoon.

My parents.

This story has become part of the folklore of the family. It is still a bit head scratching to be fair. Two people, both from the Philippines, but different islands, leave to see the world. They strike out separately, seeking their fortune. They go half way across the planet, end up in the UK and then meet.
I don’t think meeting each other was part of their plans. I believe the priest who officiated their weeding even asked them if they were sure about getting married.

Twice. During the ceremony.

Sometimes, I wonder about the story of my parent’s wedding. They always seem to have a chuckle whenever they tell the tale. The Wimpy’s is a fact because no one admits to dining there. (Except for one who shall remain anonymous).
What is also a fact is that they both knew, even then that they hadn’t figured it all out. They still haven’t figured it all out. They didn't have a big wedding, but they have been having an interesting marriage. It’s not been perfect, but they are OK with that.

They are still working on it.

So, to my mother who taught me grace and my father who taught me patience, a very happy anniversary, Mama and Papa.

I love you both.

(Belated, I know. I’ve been having trouble with the writing!)

That must have been a very good cup of tea. I hope I meet someone to share tea at Wimpy’s too.

And that's why dad gets the big piece of chicken.

So one day, I'm crazy enough to agree to babysit my nephew M. I must have been drunk or just not thinking straight at the time. Now I love my nephew, but at the time the prospect of watching him scared the heck out of me.

Have me face a charging mob? Been there.
Get pummelled in a basketball game by guys twice my size? Done that.
Be responsible for the little boy (cutest there is, but still)?

Can I face the charging mob again?

Taking full advantage of the Orange Wednesdays (a weekly two for one movie ticket promo), my brother and sis-in-law asked me to watch my nephew for the evening. I couldn't hold it against them. It had been months since they had seen the inside of cinema an after watching the wee man 24/7, they deserved a break.

Scared out of my pants, i still agreed as I had a trump card.
Pa was in town on holiday!

We get to their house, my nephew all fed, bathed and dressed up. A quick hug and last minute instructions and they were out the door,literally  leaving me holding the baby.

Now my nephew takes one look at me, looks at the closed door and realised that he was stuck with me.
What does he do?

Now I could tell you how I gleefully bounced him in my arms, pulled a dozen funny faces and sang completely off key to entertain him, with great success. Except the last part would be a lie. He just kept on bawling loudly, tears streaming down his cheeks.

At this point, I am desperate and pretty much freaking out, when a voice from the couch rang out.

"M, look over there." 

I half-turn to the couch and see Pa, pointing  casually into space. As one, both M and I follow his pointing finger. I raise my eyebrows as I can't see anything in particular. So I keep looking back and forth, all this time M is staring intently in the same direction.

And then it dawned on me. I spent several minutes trying to calm my nephew down, pulling out every trick I had and failed.

Pa used one sentence and one wise index finger.

We spent the rest of the evening watching Disney movies until we all fell asleep on the couch.

So the lesson learned?

There is so much that I yet to know. Especially about being a dad.

So  this is my salute to the fathers.

To the professional dad, Pa who will always end up teaching me something new. Thanks Pa!

To the novice dad, my brother whom I one day bug endlessly if and when its my turn. I apologise in advance!

To the new dad, my best friend Paul. Congratulations on becoming a dad! ( you are a brave man than I!)

And to all the dads, raise a glass, pat yourselves on the back and look please with yourselves.

Happy Father's Day!

Perhaps one day, I, too will join ranks.

(But not yet!)

Ink on Pages (or "how I love the smell of books in the morning... and other times as well") Part 1.

Remember Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV series? It made a star of Sarah Michelle Geller, propelled Joss Whedon to fame and pretty much defined a generation of young adult TV entertainment?

This has nothing to do with that.

Season One, Episode 8, “I Robot, You Jane, ” Giles, (Buffy’s watcher. Again, not important at this junction, just stay with me on this. ) gets grilled over his attachment to books.

He replies:
“Books smell musty and… and rich. The knowledge gained from computers has no texture… it there and then it’s gone. If it’s to last, then the getting of knowledge should be tangible. It should be, uh… smelly .”

For as long as I can remember, I have been surrounded by books. Growing up, the bookshelves of our home lined with a complete set of Encyclopaedia Britannica. My Mother’s handbag would always have room for a battered, dog-eared paged paperback novel, perhaps a Sidney Sheldon or a Judith Michael. A quick glance in the glove compartment or car seat pocket and you would find a book stuffed there by my dad. My brother would painstakingly spend hours on end making catalogue cards for our meagre library and sorting them respectively. (Of course I never put them back in order.) As for myself, I never went anywhere without several books on hand. Even if we went around the corner to shop.

As a family, we have always been reading. Growing up in England, my brother and I were only aloowed a limited number of hours watching Tv during the week. Reading on the other hand was allowed all the way till bed time. Of course, we were not beneath sneaking a flashlight to bed to read another chapter.
This trend continued even after we moved to the Philippines. Whether it was the cramped apartment in the city, the creaky bamboo and concrete bungalow in farm or the current homestead of the family, the Apura library has followed and continued to grow.

Even in our darkest days and lowest points, we have had our books and kept on reading. When the flooding waters would enter our homes, we would scramble to take them to higher ground. When the typhoons would ravage the landscape, shatter our windows and rip off our rooftops, we would grab our blankets and cover our collections the best we could. We mourned at the loss of any book as the loss of an old friend.

I have read the books on our shelves several times over. I’ve read by candlelight when the power has gone out. I personally bought enough books to fill several crates. (On that note, they did fill several crates. Thanks Pa.)

And yes, I have moved on to e-readers, mostly out of necessity. But I still prefer the weighty feel and smell of a good book. It takes me back to when I began reading. Today, my Shakespeare is next to my Pratcett, my Cromwell snuggled next to my Gaiman (I never put them back properly.) And did I mention my comic book collection?

I guess that is a story for another time.

P.S.
This is for my brother who would read to me as a kid,

Ma, who would haul several books for me on her trips home,

And lastly for Pa, on his Birthday, who would carry me to be countless times to bed long after I had fallen asleep reading.

And at times, even when I faked being asleep.