Something I Would Say

Charice Pempengco wasn’t on my mind when I welcomed Andrea Bocelli and his partner Veronica Berti into the hotel. When the Italian Tenor was getting off from the water taxi, his fiancèe said he didn’t need help and stepped out holding onto Miss Berti’s hand.

Our Hotel trained us to converse with our arrivals. But that day all I could say was ” Buongiorno Signor Bocelli. I should have mentioned my “pizana”, who sang with him sometime ago.

My colleauge and I brought up the suit cases into their room and Veronica Berti thanked us and got no tip.

That was the first and last time I saw Mr. Bocelli. He stayed inside the suite, room 308, most of the time till the next day for his concert at Piazza San Marco.

During lunch time, the day the singer came, I bragged to my workmates, like it was a big deal, that I brought in the famous tenor. Our female met came in and saw Fabbio, a waiter for breakfast,  had filled his plates with so much food. The Met irked by what she saw  began bashing Fabbio and his food with words.

“You do not fill your plate with that much food” she lamented, adding that he should also think of the others who will be coming in late to eat. “What if they won’t find any thing more for lunch?” the met ended.

Deeply embarrassed, Fabbio mumbled, “Si va bene.” Lowered his head and ate slowly.

Like the rest of employees in the mess hall, I was shocked by what had happened.

“Fabbio” I blurted out, “Eat all you can eat. The whole world is in economic crisis, children die in poor countries and we throw food like garbage in this hotel. The ones who will be coming in late won’t die of hunger, they can eat at the next turn or the third”.

The met left. The room fell in silence and I was the only one who heard what I said.

Then I heard a voice saying the word “COWARD!” and I heard it loud and clear.

At half past three in the afternoon, I helped a taxi driver unload six heavy luggage off the boat. Then helped our three guests get off too greeting them warmly even though it was burning hot that day and made small talk.

A married couple, maybe past their fifties, and their adult son were from Canada. I figured that out from the maple leaf design on the tags of their bags. The taxi boat was pre paid and the wife handed out a 50 euro bill to the driver as a tip.

“Holy cow, mother mary, what the hell. . . . . a 50 euro tip for a taxi driver! Boy they make more money than the doctors here, have second homes near a beach or in the mountains, have two i-phones on their dash boards and a big tip!”  I kept on muttering these words while I was pushing and pulling the heavy bags inside the hotel.

I took care of the bags professionally, brought them in the room and placed them perfectly on the racks. The husband said that his wife was in another other room where their son was and she would give me the tip.

I rushed quickly to the other room on the next floor and met them on the way as they were heading back. After placing  the son’s bags in his room, I returned once again to the other room and found the door closed.

Thirty minutes later, putting on my thickest face (like the Ilokano saying: “puskulam ti rupam”), I rang the room once. But no one answered, they must be out on the terrace. I got back to work on the same floor carrying out the laundry and tried to forget all about the tip.

The wife gave me a fright when she came in the stock room and asked for more pillows. I got two normal ones and a pair of feathered pillows. The chamber maid came as I was slipping in the pillow covers and said, “that’s my job”. I told her I was just helping and she thanked me.

I brought them in and laid the head cushions on the sofa and just as I was about to leave I asked, “I’m very sorry Ma’m, I brought up your bags earlier and your husband said you were to give me a tip?”

“Oh, I’m sorry” she said and countinued, ”Ooh, I can’t find my purse.”

She was out of sight for a moment and said something to me. Then she handed out 40 euros. I took them with a wide smile on my face. I said thank you very much and she closed the door.

As I walked through the corridor, I wondered what she meant when she said to me, “That is something you would say.”

The Blue Year

I wish I could remember some of the memorable happenings when I was a sophomore. My memory fails me now as I try to recall.

As we climbed up a level, our classroom was better lit this time. Now we had real windows and could see the sky.

When christmas party came, our adviser Mrs. Jacaban, got in trouble with the faculty and head of school.

We made a fruit punch and thanks to our teacher, she let us spike up the drink with gin. We held our alcohol well and no one vomited (I think). But Mrs. Jacaban had made her mistake.

If there was one teacher who loved to drink, it was Sir Bagnus Cudiamat. A seasoned journalist whose collum at the city papers untitled, “Apros ken Kudkod” is still missed and of course he taught us journalism. Mr. Cudiamat would come into class, recess time was still an hour away, with a scent of a saint; San Miguel, in his breath. He would begin the class and talk to the blackboard.

At this year I had my second fight, this time it was serious. We were all at the Athletic Bowl practicing our cheering routine when the fight was set up by the promoters.

Outside the bowl my adversary quickly brought me down, sat on my belly and rained his fists down on face. He only stopped when I poked a finger in his eye where he got off me and we both stood up. I was ready to get back at him when all of a sudden his promoter stopped the fight.

I was black and blue, red with a nose bleed and a cut on the lip.

When we got back at the bowl, my backer told me I could still win the fight. He pointed at my enemy who sat at the rim of the oval with his back against us. I ran, then jumped and kicked him hard on the head. The blow got his face burried in the ground. Then I ran again.  Away from my opponent this time.

He chased me with a big rock on his hand and I found Sir Bagnus under a tree and sat with him. When I told him what had happened, my teacher stood up and shielded me from a possible flying rock.

Later, when my father got news about the fight, he told me that my opponent is his “ina-anak” in baptism.

I should have listened more to the lectures of Mr Cudiamat, I owe him that. I could have been a better writer now. But that is beside the point. He was there for me when I was in danger but I wasn’t there for him when he always tried to teach me at class.

I dedicate this to our teacher Sir Bagnus Cudiamat who is now in heaven teaching journalism to angels.

The Green Year

Mr. Lopez could bring the house down without even trying. He was funny enough to be one of the most popular teachers at UB prep. Small, dark, chubby and well groomed; he was our class adviser at first year.

One time he asked the class what do our parents tell us before we go out the house. Without even raising my hand I blurted out, “drink moderately”. My classmates’s laughter stoped when Mr. Lopez’s face went into a serious mode and asked the same question again.

There was nothing fresh about being a freshman at UB prep. We were held way down the high school building near the Dangwa terminal. It was like a dungeon and our classroom was poorly lit. The smile of Carmela Batil, one of my classmates, was way brighter than the dim flouricent lights. Carmela was small but her looks took her to compete for the school pageant. One teacher advised her to eat plenty of potatoes, to make her tall. I thought milk was better because to a Benguet beauty like Carmela, potatoes would only make her legs bigger.

The ones sitted near the wooden wall that divided us from the next room, had dificulty in concentrating on what whatever that was being taught, because they could hear the other teacher in the next room lecturing another subject.

Geofrey Dagarag nominated me as class vice president and he became my friend. I won by a mudslide. All those who voted for me didn’t know that I was as dumb as a rock. In the suceeding years to come no one dared to nominate me again for any position.

We also elected for our muse. And I remember one nominee who wore a yellow skirt. She kept covering her mouth with her hand when they were presented infront for class viewing. This nominee became my first.

The dark and deep stairs that led to Dangwa had some graffiti on the walls. The names of some students; Jodrix, Madrix, Orlix, Hodrix and so on were visible in silver glittering spray paint.

The names of my classmates that sounded nice and cool were Shedrac Ciriaco, Van Clayton Pagaduan, Yvette and Monday Wagis.

I had my first fight with an afternoon kid name Mavin Diocares. It all started when we both knew we had the same liking for a girl. The referee, Ronald Quirimit, another classmate of mine, took all the punches and kicks and spit that we threw at each other. It was declared a draw after and Ronald survived the beating. 

The brians of the class were mostly males. Geofrey was one, then there’s Jonathan Montemayor, Micheal Ochoco and Julius Paduyao. The only girl I knew who topped back then was Minerva, but she was with the P.M. class.

I think it’s safe to say that the first person to believe I could write was Mrs. Clarita Sumahit. She taught us Journalism and was the adviser of the UB Newlite school paper. Mrs. Sumahit took me and Edwin Oligo as reporters.

One of the coolest places to hangout was at the Dap-ayan hall. With its red carpeted steps and pine wood furnishings, I fell in love with this place. The view from there of the city market and the disaster waiting to happen condemned building of the Hilltop Hotel, was breathtaking. There was a black grand old piano on the stage. And we held leadership seminars and afternoon dances at the Dap-ayan.

The secluded steps of the RnR canteen, that sold us corned beef sandwich on a bun which was 99% potato and 1% corned beef, was another site.

At the side of the downward road that lead to the high school building from Asumption road, stood Alnos trees. And students sit at the ledges where the Alnos gave shade was a nice hangout too.

Campomanes where no one played chess at those chesstables. The library at the Commerce building. The scouting office of Sir Jorge Borja and I remember there was a makiwara there. All these were nice “tambayans”.

Finally the morge at the top of the Engineering building. With the foul smell and dead bodies laying around, there I had my first kiss with the nominee earlier. We also puffed and smoked Marlboros there.

All these places are gone now and these led me to do this piece. To remember and at least preserve the memories of being a freshman at UBHS.

Black Ribbons

On Good Friday I was assigned to tie black ribbons made of cloth on the flags we have here in the hotel. We couldn’t pull down the flags in half mast because the poles are to short. So the ribbons would give gesture that we are in mourning like the rest of Italy. It was my first time to do this.

I thought of the people who lost their lives in the earth quake while I was making an overhand knot with the black cloth. I went back to the 1990 quake too, back home. Then I remembered how Diego, my wife’s patron, told her one day how embarassing was the Prime Minister Silvio Brulusconi’s comment on the in coming President of the United States Barrak Obama. Saying that Mr. Obama is “tanned”.

I’m amazed by the innocence of the PM’s observation on the disaster this time. He said that the devastated area “loks like a camping site” (for tourists). Diego won’t be here to talk about this to my wife because he killed himself.

Lukie saw that my wife was crying when she got the news on the phone. When he understood what just happened, Lukie placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder and said, “It’s okay Mama you will still find another job”.

I’m so relieved on how innocent my son took this loss.

Lovelyn cleaned, washed, ironed and cooked for Diego and his family. She visited, more than once, his employer when he was in the hospital. She often told me that he was a good man. Then when Diego got his first brush of death, due to a heart attack, that’s where things started to crumble.

Diego got depressed, felt lonely and useless. He talked about his two children and how they changed and also about the divorce that was mutual. He often times told her about suicide.

Lovelyn tried to help even though she didn’t know how to. She talked to Diego and listened to him too. Then one night she had a dream, it frightens me when she has this nightmares because she sees dead people and sometimes she fells them too, she saw a coffin but couldn’t know who died. Lovelyn knew, that night when it awakened her, that someone will pass away.

The last time Lovelyn talked to Diego, she wondered why he was only taking a brief case to Piemonte, Diego’s home town for a week, and left it for my wife to see it near to where she was ironing. Lovelyn was worried so she sent him a text message and Diego assured her that he made the five hour drive safely.  

When we talk about it, it made sense to everything but it’s over now.

It would be hard on my wife these following weeks maybe months, where she wouldn’t have to wake up early to get to work. Where she wouldn’t have to chase boats and buses to get in time to Diego’s house. Where she would only have our house to clean, cook and work on. She will miss her good patron.

She cries a lot but I know she will get over it. Lovelyn is one tough cookie much stronger then me. And I know she will also find time to untie the black ribbon she has on her and forgive herself.

In Service for a Better Life?

I think Mr. Chip Tsao is addressing the Fillipino fashion designer Boyet Fajardo on his peice he wrote. Probably it dawned on him, when he read about the news on the fashion designer, that Filipinos could now really be a threat in claiming the disputed Spratly Islands.

Filipino workers here in Italy must always flex their muscles at their patrons to show them that they are capable of scrubbing toilets day in day out.

Many Filipinos were outraged, running amok on the web criticizing  Mr. Chip on his article. The Philippine government shouldn’t be preoccupied too much about this, the Chinese government should.

The Overseas Filipino Workers of today are called “Heroes” (Mga Bagong Bayani ng Bayan). I don’t know why they call them “heroes?” Maybe because the OFWs have something in common with our World War II veterans, who are still fighting to claim for their pensions or benefits from government agencies. The veterans are luckier than the OFWs, because they can always show their war medals at any government office to prove they are WW II veterans.

Here the OFWsare suffering from the same problems they encounter back home. At Philippine embassies and consulates, when they ask for assistance, the government employees run OFWs in circles.

The price of being an OFWhero is a broken family. The core of Filipino family values are often harshly tested by working abroad. And when you hear their stories it will only break your heart.

Like the “TNT” who was frantically searching for fellow Pinoybalikbayans to take an extra person with them. It’s difficult for her situation that’s why she is sending her months old daughter back home.

There’s the father who only takes five euros from his monthly pay for a pack of cigarettes and the rest he sends back home.

The wife who confessed to her husband that she had an affair. Every time she comes home from work she was tired, lonesome and depressed. One day she met this guy who filled the void in her life.

The Italian police labeled a letter writenby a Filipino teenage as evidence when they investigated his death. The boy wrote that he was being bullied and taunted at school because his peers said he was gay. Case closed.

Many OFWparents are worried about their children back home because the money they send isn’t enough to comfort and guide their kids to the right path to growing up.

A father in the Philippines tries to be a mother to her adolescent daughter who had just had her first menstruation.

And how about the teenagers who spends their parents earnings on wrong and destructive vices.

Filipino care givers here often times are paid more than any other immigrant workers. Maybe because Filipinos add a special ingredient into their work.

Tiyay, a native of Iloilo, took good care of an old Italian lady till her death. When her employer was sent to live the rest of her remaining months in a hospital, Tiyay stayed with her even in the nights where she didn’t even had a bed to rest on. Tiyay was the only person at the old woman’s funeral who cried like rain and wailed uncontrollably much to the amazement of the deceased family and friends.

Rebecca Stepenson, an English woman who lives and work in Venice, always let her Filipino part time maid and family use the masters bedroom to sleep in while Rebecca and her husband are out of the country for a month or so.

There’s Boy, a good cook and driver. He was worried about his employer’s health because everything he cooks they eat and want more. One time he told me that he thinks his patrons have Filipino blood in them now because when he served them Orate (a Mediterranean fish) in Paksiw, he could hear their slurps in the hall way salvaging what is left on the fish’s head.

Filipino care givers keep their employers families in tack while their own families are in pieces.

And like any other Filipino parent, I know when my sons will tell their children and grand children what line of work their mama and papa had, they will be proud of what we did. I know this because we are Filipino.

A Dose of Home

THE PHILIPPINE CONSULATE GENERAL Milan

I went to the Philippine Consulate in Milan two days ago. The office used to be at the heart of the city, near Duomo, then it transferred somewhere else.

The directions given to me were easy. First, take the sub way from the Central Train Station and get off at S. Ambrogio. Then walk a few yards to a bus stop and take the bus that goes to Piazza Vesuvio. Finally at Piazza Vesuvio look for Via Stromboli no.1. Piece of cake, no. . . . .? so I hailed a cab.

A Filipina filling up a form

I was greeted warmly by fellow Filipinos outside the building. Everybody offered me food. From siopao, hoppia, langonisa, to red eggs and etc. I told them first things first. 

In another building I got my picture taken then I filled up the form, got my documents photo copied and then went back to the Consulate building. While walking I noticed that I looked stoned in my photo.

The guys hanging outside offered me food again. I have to get inside I told them.

There were two women working at the three counters for releasing, processor and cashier. Both were not smiling. The Processor checked my papers and the cashier took my money and told me to wait in the processing room.

At the processing room, a guy wearing a suit typed my documents in a computer. He looked like a comedian and I saw that he married twice because he wore a ring on both ring fingers. A girl came in and asked him where she can get a number.

“What number?” he asked back. “The numbers for lotto?” I was right he was a comic!

Then I went to another desk. The guy behind it wore a suit too. His glasses made him mush more professional. He asked me the correct pronunciation of my name, if my mother is a foreigner and where I’m from here in Italy.

A young Filipino walked in and conversed with another male employee at another table. The young man left then came back again to ask the same question he had earlier.

The employee said, “Second floor. Look for Virgie but just call her ’Gie’. He was about to explain the name calling when the guy with the glasses cut him off.

“She doesn’t like to be called Virgie because she is not a virgin anymore.” he said in a serious tone.

I answered and signed my name on a document without understanding it. The guy with the glasses didn’t explain anything to me and I didn’t ask. 

Then everything  was over in an hour but my new passport will be “released” on the 29th next month.

THE ROLLING FILIPINO FAST FOOD

It was lunch time when I left the Consul edifice. The guys were still out there so I ate, no, I swallowed a siopao on by the side walk. I made them laugh when I told them that I was an Igorot. After I bought more siopaos and two packs of langonisa for home, I went to the Filipino Fast Food nearby.

The Rolling Filipino Fast Food

I was happy clicking my camera away when all of a sudden a Filipina confronted me saying that I should ask the owner or the employees of the fast food first before shooting. She was right, dead on. And when she asked my purpose for shooting, I told her it’s for my blog. That’s where we went into this little argument.

This left me a little embarrassed and felt the apprehensiveness of some of the Filipinos there but didn’t understand where it came from. I’m not there to report on them and tip them off to the police, “they’re not violating any laws!” and I’m not doing them any harm. I didn’t ask because we were all Filipinos there. Anyway I let it die down and stood there observing.

While some employees of our government went in an Italian cafe, all the Filipino immigrants there had lunch at the side walk or in the park where the fast food was.

Someone lifted me up from my mental discomfort when she said that she will also take pictures of the “FFF” and upload it on her friendster. I smiled at her and later she wrote down her e-mail when I requested so I could add her at friendster. Her name is Liezl Gonzales.

I saw a man who was sifting through the garbage. He took out styrofoam plates out and placed them on the other yellow grabage sack. Later he lit up a cigarette. He looked haggard and that meant only one thing, he’s hard working and industrious. I gestured to him for a cigarette and he offered without hesitation. While we smoked I asked him where he’s from, he told me Santiago, Ilocos Sur. I told him I was from Baguio and I am an Igorot, he laughed heartily like I was joking. His name is Edward and he owned the “FFF.” His wife and daughter were busy serving the hungry Pinoys.

I connected well with Edward. We traded jokes and he mentioned that the police often comes by to respond to calls from very concerned Italian citizens. He nearly sacrificed an arm and a leg to get a piece of paper that would allow him to feed hungry Filipinos.

Edward’s daughter came out for a break and asked where I’m from. His father answered for me and added that I’m an Igorot. Edward’s daughter laughed and slapped him on the side of  his shoulder saying, “Si Daddy naman!”

Wow! I was really making a “killing” by being who I am!

I didn’t know how to get back to the train station, but a young woman from Batangas made it sure I didn’t get lost. Karen Gonzales guided me till I took the right subway train. She also wrote down her e-mail for me and would probably invite my family and I on the christening of her first baby. Karen is happily married and three months pregnant.

As the train for Venice moved on, I stared out the window and appreciated all the things that happened to me to that day.

I made new friends and they gave me a wonderful feeling of being back ”home.”

I also learned one important lesson.

Give respect to your own people just like what you give to the citizens of your host country.

The Gas Bill and the Pidocchi Pets

THE GAS BILL

Yesterday was the start of my “ferie” or holiday. I don’t have work for a week so I took Dylan out for a bicycle ride this morning and run some errands.

Here in Italy, we pay the bills for water, gas, electricity and so on at the post office. The Poste Italiane also serves as a bank. So we went there and I paid our monthly rent of the house and that slices my monthly salary into half. I also took care of the phone bill and Internet.

I think Dylan enjoyed the ride, the sun was out and it was really a nice day. When we got home I checked the mail box and took out a letter. It was from the Gas, Water and Garbage company. Yes, they’re all rolled up into one. I prayed, before opening it, that it won’t ruin my day with my son. The envelope was thick and I quickly shuffled the papers to look for the sum total to surprise my self. When I saw that there were four digits, excluding the two digits for the cents, I nearly fainted. I really almost did.

As soon as I placed Dylan down the bike, he ran towards his plastic toy dog with wheels that he rides and pushes around. I said to myself they probably made a mistake or at least they should have made one. But the records were clear and true.

Poor little Dylan, he went to play alone as I just stood there watching him. My mind never fails to do its job of thinking of other problems to connect to the gas bill. Like, we will likely postpone our trip back home this year again. The next was that I don’t have the tips from work this week because I’m on a holiday. Another was, this is the most troubling one, that our labor union at the hotel thwarted an attempt by the managers to hold a meeting, with us the dependents, about probably some lay offs this month and the next. The union wasn’t given the proper notice for this meeting so they succeeded in stopping it.

The word lay off is a frighting word specially in these times. I’m predicting that the first person to go is no other than yours truly! Because I have a seasonal work contract and not a fixed one.

I would like to add just one more problem from my mind’s list. Just for the sake of prolonging this entry. On Wednesday we have to go to the immigration office to renew our papers. I religiously pay my taxes but here you need to spend more for your work permit.

Suddenly my mind miraculously thought of one good idea, thank God! I left my son for a minute to run inside the house and turn off the damn thermostat.

The Pidocchi Pets

Two days ago my seven year old son, Lukie, happily pulled out a wiggling tooth. At bed time he placed his white precious gem underneath his pillow and went to bed with a smile on his face. When he woke up the next morning his tooth disappeared and he found a ten euro bill instead.

When he got home from school yesterday, while we were having our merenda, another tooth fell. Boy! Was he lucky or what! He did the same ritual and in the morning the tooth was gone and he got another ten euros.

Today coming home from school again, Lukie wore the sweetest smile when he came in the door. With the two missing tooth amplifying the “TH” sound, Lukie joyfully informed us that another one of his gems was wiggling. Oh brother, I told my self, enough already with this. There’s a financial meltdown for christ sake! He was scratching his head when he told us. For once, just once, I hope the Tooth Fairy would pick up the tab for this one! What we didn’t know that he also brought home some “petS”. Mind you that’s with an S.

When I was slightly older than Lukie, I brought home stray puppies. Now that I’m a father I’m still sure the puppies were stray. Anyway those were the  problem free days where life was simple. In our time now we can’t have a dog or a cat. We can’t afford to rise any pets. Don’t get me wrong I want me kids to have pets but now is not a good time. Let me repeat that again “NOT A GOOD TIME”.

While we sat all together on the table having tea and cookies, Lukie still kept on scratching his top. My wife, annoyed with the head scratching, quickly inspected our son’s head. Like a concerned mother ape, she combed using her fingers, Lukie’s hair. In a split second she screamed “PIDOCCHI!” And in an instant she ordered me to buy an anti pidocchi shampoo.

The anti pidocchi shampoo burned a hole worth thirteen euros, “13 euros,” through my wallet. It burned through the thick receipts I had in there, if you really want to know the truth! Killing them pest petS cost money these days.

Lukie would have to wait after dinner to wash his head. In the mean time I was curiously crazy about my son’s pidocchi. I wanted to see them petS with my own eyes. So what I did was search the house for a comb with teeth that have very narrow gaps between them. I found one and took the most white bond paper I could find, placed it on the table, asked Lukie to bow his head facing the paper and I combed him down. Several strokes later, WALA, one gray pidocchi fell on the bond paper. It wriggled while I continued and another one, a smaller one, fell.

My wife went running out the bedroom when she heard us rejoicing in our hunt. We only found two but that was enough to put us all in high. It was a good killing. Squashing the tics and hearing the loud tic beneath my finger nails, my finger nails I remind you, not my wife’s finger nail, was . . . . . . I’m lost for words to describe  the feeling. Wow, is all I could think of now.

Before bed time my wife shampooed Lukie’s hair thoroughly, rinsed it well then blow dried it. She inspected it again and spent quite awhile with him that night.  Finally she came in our bedroom as I was reading Dylan his favorite book entittled Spot. It’s about a dog. Moving on, she told me that there were still a lot of pidocchi eggs in our son’s hair. I think she was a bit delighted that the eggs were still there so she could spend some extra quality time with Lukie. Being a Filipino we simply love this pass time. Then she took Dylan for breast feeding and all of us got a good night’s sleep.

It’s kinda funny how these little creatures made us forget about the gas bill and ending our day with a smile in our hearts.

Mga Kababayan Ko

I’m writing this entry in memory of the Filipino Master Rapper.

Reading a post by Jem at BCO, a Baguio based internet forum, triggered me to get down with this. I just had a drinking session with my ever loyal drinking sidekick, my wife, and the vodka gave my fingers some idea on what to rant about on the keyboards or the aphrodisiac to let my mind wonder and function as a “writer.”

Anyway, Jem posted that the government gave Francis Magalona a “Posthumous Presidential Medal of Merit for promoting patriotism through music.” If I’m not mistaken, Francis M released the album Mga Kababayan nearly twenty years ago! Why did it take us that long to recognize him. With this, I think we should immediately give an award to Andrew E for being funny and breaking new ground in the Filipino Rap scene. I mean, who would ever think of suggesting in a song that if you want to live a life happy life you better find some who is ugly! What Francis avoided in his rap music Andrew embraced it and shared it with us.

I felt so ashamed of not knowing that the Masta Rappa was sick with leukemia. And through his blog, he asked for his fans to pray for him. That really killed me, it really did.

I actually met the man when I was a ponyboy at Wright Park. I got the chance of guiding him and his posse, along with Scott Madon, now the newly inducted president of the Wright Park Ponyboys Association, a horse back ride to Mines View park.

I rode side by side with him all the way. And he surprisingly struck me with his kindness and humility. He conversed with me as a friend, not just a guide. He told me that he liked the smell of horses. When we galloped, he held on to the saddle horn like hell not wanting to fall off the horse. But fall he did, and he also brought down the saddle with him.

I’m sure everybody liked him. I’m sure too that many people who met him for the first time, had the same story to tell, like mine, they quickly recognized what he truly is, kind and humble.

I won’t forget the cane he had that time. And I guess he is now on that big stage in heaven jamming with The Notorious BIG and Tupac Shakur.

It would always be a “Cold Summer Night” without him.

Para sa aking tunay na Kababayan. . . . . . . . . . Master Rapper Francis M

In a World of Their Own

A few months after Lukie was born, I decided to buy a DVD player. It had been a long time since we’ve seen a good English language movie. While we were in Malta back then, we would spend our day offs in the cinema and now that we are here in Italy, we missed watching a good film.

So I bought out first DVD. I also registered in one of the DVD rental shops, rented a couple of disks and we watched them. I spent about 250 euros for the DVD player and my wife told me its too expensive for a player. We she was right, but the player that I bought, made by Sony, was also a video game console. Its actually a Playstation 2 and I told my wife that it would also be for Lukie to play with when he grows up.

The very first game I bought for my son was the Formula 1 2001 a game of racing. When I was alone with Lukie I would put him on a sling to put him to sleep and play the game with him watching till he gets tired and sleepy. Not long after, when he turned two, he would grab the joy pad and try to play. Lukie learned quickly and at age three we are already playing along side each other. He would cry when he came in second so I let him win most of the time.

When Lukie started going to daycare, his teachers asked my wife what he does in his free time. They said at his age it is too early for him to play video games. They are probably right but he was learning how to read with the PS2 and learning a bit of geography too. Believe me, by that age he could tell a brand of car and say where it came from or a race track and where it was located.

When he turn four he started to beat me. When he did it again for the second time and then the third, it annoyed me, it really did.

One parent in the internet blogged about the bad effects of video games. She vowed that she would never buy any of these games for her kid even though her son was asking for one. I think that she is being a little too harsh on her decision. I wouldn’t deprive my kids on games that technology brings. To me it is only a matter of controlling their playing time and the choices of games.

My son can not play any game until he is done with all the homework he has. On school days we let him play for just thirty minutes or so. Or we would let him read and practice his writing skills before he plays. The only bad thing that we saw in our son when he plays is that he gets rude and angry when he is bothered or we ask him to stop playing. Other than that everything is good.

The thing that bothered me was when we went to a birthday party a year ago and I told Lukie to play with the other kids. He came back after awhile looking bored and I found out that the other kids wouldn’t let him play with their video games. I felt sorry for him and told him to just watch them play and he did.

In another birthday party I was shocked to see that all the kids there were busy playing some video game except Lukie. That didn’t concern me, what bothered me was that every kid was in a world in their own! A boy was palying with a Gameboy, another was with a PSP, two were shooting villains on an X-box and another two were playing with the computer. I went to another room and all the children there had their heads bowed down on a portable game. There was definitely something wrong with what I saw and it hit me right in the core.

I thought about the parents of three boys in the party. Each one had a game in hand and after eating they started to play till it was time for them to leave. The parents of the three boys must have a lot of free time to themselves, I thought.

At the party no one played hide and seek, no one played with toys, and no one interacted with anyone.

When I was a kid, I think my parents were relieved that I never asked or pestered them on buying me a video game. I guess I knew then that we couldn’t afford it. Luckily a cousin of mine and some of my friends in our neighborhood had video games and they would let me play. They always shared back then. And when I was at a party I always played with the other kids because its the thing to do.

The last time we went home, a couple of years ago, I visit my Dojo at YMCA. I asked my senpais why there aren’t much kids practicing. They told me that I can find them in computer rental shops. No one is enrolling in sports activities because children play sports on computers they said.

One cold Sunday afternoon in the house Lukie was playing with the PS2, Dylan was clicking away with his toy laptop, my wife was raconteuring on on her site on the computer and I was in Lukie’s room playing with the PSP. That day we were all in a world of our own.

The Children of Gaza

Date Name Gender Age 27/12/2008 Ibtihal Kechko Girl 10   Ahmed Riad Mohammed Al-Sinwar Boy 3     Ahmed Al-Homs Boy 18     Ahmed Rasmi Abu Jazar Boy 16   Ahmed Sameeh Al-Halabi Boy 18   Tamer Hassan Al-Akhrass Boy 5   Hassan Ali Al-Akhrass Boy 3   Haneen Wael Mohammed Daban Girl 15   Khaled Sami Al-Astal Boy 15   alaat Mokhless Bassal Boy 18   Aaed Imad Kheera Boy 14   Abdullah Al-Rayess Boy 17   Odai Hakeem Al-Mansi Boy 4   Allam Nehrou Idriss Boy 18   Ali Marwan Abu Rabih Boy 18   Anan Saber Atiyah Boy 13   Camelia Al-Bardini Girl 10   Lama Talal Hamdan Girl 10   Mohammed Jaber Howeij Boy 17   Nimr Mustafa Amoom Boy 10 29/12/2008 Ismail Talal Hamdan Boy 10   Ahmed Ziad Al-Absi Boy 14   Ahmed Youssef Khello Boy 18   Ikram Anwar Baaloosha Girl 14   Tahrier Anwar Baaloosha Girl 17   Jihad Saleh Ghobn Boy 10   Jawaher Anwar Baaloosha Girl 8   Dina Anwar Baaloosha Girl 7   Samar Anwar Baaloosha Girl 6   Shady Youssef Ghobn Boy 12   Sudqi Ziad Al-Absi Boy 3   Imad Nabeel Abou Khater Boy 16   Lina Anwar Baaloosha Girl 7   Mohammed Basseel Madi Boy 17   Mohammed Jalal Abou Tair Boy 18   Mohammed Ziad Al-Absi Boy 14   Mahmoud Nabeel Ghabayen Boy 15   Moaz Yasser Abou Tair Boy 6   Wissam Akram Eid Girl 14 30/12/2008 Haya Talal Hamdan Girl 8 31/12/2008 Ahmed Kanouh Boy 10   Ameen Al-Zarbatlee Boy 10   Mohammed Nafez Mohaissen Boy 10   Mustafa Abou Ghanimah Boy 16   Yehya Awnee Mohaissen Boy 10    Ossman Bin Zaid Nizar Rayyan Boy 3   Assaad Nizar Rayyan Boy 2   Moaz-Uldeen Allah Al-Nasla Boy 5   Aya Nizar Rayyan Girl 12   Halima Nizar Rayyan Girl 5   Reem Nizar Rayyan Boy 4   Aicha Nizar Rayyan Girl 3   Abdul Rahman Nizar Rayyan Boy 6   Abdul Qader Nizar Rayyan Boy 12    Oyoon Jihad Al-Nasla Girl 16   Mahmoud Mustafa Ashour Boy 13    Maryam Nizar Rayyan Girl 5 01/01/2009 Hamada Ibrahim Mousabbah Boy 10    Zeinab Nizar Rayyan Girl 12    Sujud Mahmoud Al-Derdesawi Girl 10    Abdul Sattar Waleed Al-Astal Boy 12    Abed Rabbo Iyyad Abed Rabbo Al-Astal Boy 10    Ghassan Nizar Rayyan Boy 15    Christine Wadih El-Turk Boy 6    Mohammed Mousabbah Boy 14    Mohammed Iyad Abed Rabbo Al-Astal Boy 13    Mahmoud Samsoom Boy 16    Ahmed Tobail Boy 16    Ahmed Sameeh Al-Kafarneh Boy 17    Hassan Hejjo Boy 14    Rajeh Ziadeh Boy 18    Shareef Abdul Mota Armeelat Boy 15    Mohammed Moussa Al-Silawi Boy 10    Mahmoud Majed Mahmoud Abou Nahel Boy 16    Mohannad Al-Tatnaneeh Boy 18    Hani Mohammed Al-Silawi Boy 10 01/01/2009 Ahmed Al-Meshharawi  Boy 16    Ahmed Khodair Sobaih Boy 17    Ahmed Sameeh Al-Kafarneh Boy 18    Asraa Kossai Al-Habash Girl 10    Assad Khaled Al-Meshharawi Boy 17    Asmaa Ibrahim Afana Girl 12    Ismail Abdullah Abou Sneima Boy 4    Akram Ziad Al-Nemr Boy 18    Aya Ziad Al-Nemr Girl 8    Ahmed Mohammed Al-Adham Boy 1    Akram Ziad Al-Nemr Boy 13    Hamza Zuhair Tantish Boy 12    Khalil Mohammed Mokdad Boy 18    Ruba Mohammed Fadl Abou-Rass Girl 13    Ziad Mohammed Salma Abou Sneima Boy 9    Shaza Al-Abed Al-Habash Girl 16    Abed Ziad Al-Nemr Boy 12    Attia Rushdi Al-Khawli Boy 16    Luay Yahya Abou Haleema Boy 17    Mohammed Akram Abou Harbeed Boy 18    Mohammed Abed Berbekh Boy 18    Mohammed Faraj Hassouna Boy 16    Mahmoud Khalil Al-Mashharawi Boy 12    Mahmoud Zahir Tantish Boy 17    Mahmoud Sami Assliya Boy 3    Moussa Youssef Berbekh Boy 16    Wi’am Jamal Al-Kafarneh Girl 2    Wadih Ayman Omar Boy 4    Youssef Abed Berbekh Boy 10 05/01/2009 Ibrahim Rouhee Akl Boy 17    Ibrahim Abdullah Merjan Boy 13    Ahmed Attiyah Al-Semouni Boy 4    Aya Youssef Al-Defdah Girl 13    Aya Al-Sersawi Girl 5    Ahmed Amer Abou Eisha Boy 5    Ameen Attiyah Al-Semouni Boy 4    Hazem Alewa Boy 8    Khalil Mohammed Helless  Boy 12    Diana Mosbah Saad Girl 17    Raya Al-Sersawi Girl 5    Rahma Mohammed Al-Semouni Girl 18    Ramadan Ali Felfel Boy 14    Rahaf Ahmed Saeed Al-Azaar  Girl 4    Shahad Mohammed Hijjih Girl 3    Arafat Mohammed Abdul Dayem Boy 10    Omar Mahmoud Al-Baradei Boy 12    Ghaydaa Amer Abou Eisha Girl 6    Fathiyya Ayman Al-Dabari Girl 4    Faraj Ammar Al-Helou Boy 2    Moumen Alewah Boy 9    Moumen Mahmoud Talal Alaw Boy 10    Mohammed Amer Abu Eisha Boy 8    Mahmoud Mohammed Abu Kamar Boy 15    Marwan Hein Kodeih Girl 6    Montasser Alewah Boy 12    Naji Nidal Al-Hamlawi Boy 16    Nada Redwan Mardi Girl 5    Hanadi Bassem Khaleefa Girl 13 06/01/2009 Ibrahim Ahmed Maarouf Boy 14    Ahmed Shaher Khodeir Boy 14    Ismail Adnan Hweilah Boy 15    Aseel Moeen Deeb Boy 17    Adam Mamoun Al-Kurdee Boy 3    Alaa Iyad Al-Daya Girl 8    Areej Mohammed Al-Daya Girl 3 months    Amani Mohammed Al-Daya Girl 4    Baraa Ramez Al-Daya Girl 2    Bilal Hamza Obaid Boy 15    Thaer Shaker Karmout Boy 17    Hozaifa Jihad Al-Kahloot Boy 17    Khitam Iyad Al-Daya Girl 9    Rafik Abdul Basset Al-Khodari  Boy 15    Raneen Abdullah saleh Girl 12    Zakariya Yahya Al-Taweel Boy 5    Sahar Hatem Dawood Girl 10    Salsabeel Ramez Al-Daya Girl 6 months    Sharafuldeen Iyad Al-Daya Boy 7    Doha Mohammed Al-Daya Girl 5    Ahed Iyad Kodas Boy 15    Abdullah Mohammed Abdullah Boy 10    Issam Sameer Deeb Boy 12    Alaa Ismail Ismail Boy 18    Ali Iyad Al-Daya Boy 10    Imad Abu Askar Boy 18    Filasteen Al-Daya Girl 5    Kamar Mohammed Al-Daya Boy 3    Lina Abdul Menem Hassan Girl 10    Unidentified Boy 9    Unidentified  Boy 15    Mohammed Iyad Al-Daya Boy 6    Mohammed Bassem Shakoura Boy 10    Mohammed Bassem Eid Boy 18    Mohammed Deeb Boy 17    Mohammed Eid Boy 18    Mustafa Moeen Deeb Boy 12    Noor Moeen Deeb Boy 2    Youssef Saad Al-Kahloot Boy 17    Youssef Mohammed Al-Daya Boy 1 07/01/2009 Ibrahim Kamal Awaja Boy 9    Ahmed Jaber Howeij Boy 7    Ahmed Fawzi Labad Boy 18    Ayman Al-Bayed Boy 16    Amal Khaled Abed Rabbo Girl 3    Toufic Khaled Al-Khahloot Boy 10    Habeeb Khaled Al-Khahloot Boy 12    Houssam Raed Sobeh Boy 12    Hassan Rateb Semaan Boy 18    Hassan Ata Hassan Azzam Boy 2    Redwan Mohammed Ashoor Boy 10    Suad Khaled Abed Rabbo Girl 6    Samar Khaled Abed Rabbo Girl 2    Abdul Rahman Mohammmed Ashoor  Boy 12    Fareed Ata Hassan Azzam Boy 13    Mohammed Khaled Al-Kahloot Boy 15    Mohammed Samir Hijji Boy 16    Mohammed Fareed Al-Maasawabi Boy 16    Mohammed Moeen Deeb Boy 17    Mohammed Nasseem Salama Saba Boy 16    Mahmoud Hameed Boy 17    Hamam Issa Boy 1 08/01/2009 Anas Arif Abou Baraka Boy 7    Ibrahim Akram Abou Dakkka Boy 12    Ibrahim Moeen Jiha Boy 15    Baraa Iyad Shalha Girl 6    Basma Yasser Al-Jeblawi Girl 5    Shahd Saad Abou Haleema Girl 15    Azmi Diab Boy 16    Mohammed Akram Abou Dakka Boy 14    Mohammed Hikmat Abou Haleema Boy 17   Ibrahim Moeen Jiha Boy 15    Matar Saad Abou Haleema Boy 17 09/01/2009 Ahmed Ibrahim Abou Kleik Boy 17    Ismail Ayman Yasseen Boy 18    Alaa Ahmed Jaber Girl 11    Baha-Uldeen Fayez Salha Girl 5    Rana Fayez Salha Girl 12    Rola Fayez Salha Girl 13    Diyaa-Uldeen Fayez Salah Boy 14    Ghanima Sultan Halawa Girl 11    Fatima Raed Jadullah Girl 10    Mohammed Atef Abou Al-Hussna Boy 15

Source: Al Jazeera

 

The financial crisis had left my beloved hotel, where I work, with just a handful of guests for nearly a month now. All the rooms in four floors are empty. Like the past several days work was light and tips are low. My colleague, before he finished his shift left me a list of rooms to work on. He told me to dust off the “Baldachino” (those curtain like things that hang on the beds and head boards) using a vacuum cleaner. I went to work, finished a room and moved on to the next.

The work bored me to death and my boredom made me feel tired, sleepy and lazy. I was about to go to the next room when I decided to take a break. So I grabbed the remote control, sat on the edge of the bed and clicked on the TV. Nothing caught my interest till I got to CNN. The Cable News Network ran the war on the Gaza Strip as it dragged on for the 21st day now.

A UN facility was in flames, the Israeli army hit the compound because they were being fired upon from the building. CNN also showed a footage of a large crater some where in Gaza and the Palestinians standing around the rim of the hole looking on. BBC was running the same news and I changed the channel again. I continued to surf the channel and was about to switch it off when the studio of the Aljazeera caught my eye. The news anchor was standing and behind him was a video wall, wide and black with the names of all the Palestinian children killed written in white letters. They highlighted a name, and said he was four years old, his sisters died too killed by an Israeli bomb. They picked another name and this time the boy was two and he died in his mother’s arms. Then Aljazeera showed the images of the dead children, some of them were lined up and covered with cloth, others were covered by debris, one was mangled and many were being carried by Palestinian men. The lifeless faces of these children were scarred and bloodied. Some were “lucky” (I don’t know if this is the right word) enough to be recognised others were not. As I sat there and looked on, shivers ran down my spine and I wasn’t bored any more.

Aljezeera continued on with the children but now they showed the survivors recovering in hospitals. A pretty little girl told a reporter of a bullet hitting her hand and another one found its way on her back. I saw a boy lying down, his head bandaged, his face covered with scars and his eyes were covered with tears as he tried to talk about what happened. Some thing in me gave way when I saw this boy’s tears. I started to cry and at the same time tried to control the tears but I could not. My mind told me, “goddamit its okay to cry!” So I turned off the TV and cried.

Except for the breathing and sniffing sounds I made, the room was became quiet. I got up, paced around and dried my tears. Then I left the room draging the vacuum clearner along and headed for the service elevator. I decided to put away the machine and do something else. Tears began to fall again when the lift started to move down.

I cried a lot of times this day. I cried after I called me wife telling her what I saw. I cried again when I was on the boat on my way home. I’m crying now as I write this piece.

I don’t understand this war I couldn’t even tell who is winning. One thing is clear the Palestinian children and civilians are paying the price. I’m a father of two boys and I felt that the dead Palestinian children were my own. I wonder about the Israeli fathers and Hamas fathers who are fighting each other in this senseless war, do they cry too like me? I hope and pray that the monsters who are killing our children would stop.