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Archive for the 'Creative Nonfiction' Category
Creative Nonfiction by Fe Maloloy-on | February 21st, 2010
In finding a job in the Philippines, many feel that the palaksan system always prevails: it’s not what you know, but whom you know. But I have come to learn that sometimes, things can come in their own time. As Kuya Kim on TV says: “Ang buhay ay weather-weather lang.”
In the summer of 1997, I applied for a job at the Department of Education in Agusan del Norte. After the competitive exam, the interviews, and the teaching demonstration, I emerged sixth among the more than two hundred applicants from the entire province.
Three months later, I still didn’t get a position while those who ranked lower than me had already been assigned as substitutes in our own town, Nasipit. My co-applicant, a neighbor of mine, said knowingly: “Bisan unsa pa ka kataas sa ranking ba ug wala’y lakas, ‘la man jud.” No matter how high you rank in the exam, if you don’t know anyone, it will all come to naught.
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Creative Nonfiction by Katrina Angela Castro | February 7th, 2010
I had it with me since then. It was what kept me sane from all those cynic thoughts I couldn’t prevent. It was my intense fondness for drawing. I was too obsessed with it. I couldn’t stand not doing it even for just a short while. It seemed as if my childhood days revolved around my sketch book. Drawing was my passion, my shock absorber.
I used to be very languid back then, more than what I am now. I was so sensitive that I had to pin my ears back on what others might be saying and doing behind me. I became very conscious of my words and actions because I did not want people to criticize me. I was a silent detective, collecting even the little signs of spitefulness. I admit that I had those irrational suspicions. I just couldn’t avoid them.
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Creative Nonfiction by Riza Racho | February 7th, 2010
How do we measure success? Each has her own answer to this basic question, and each is correct. It depends, I guess, on where one is coming from, or perhaps, where one is at the time the question came. Since is no right answer to this question, there is only the supposition of its accuracy, of its veracity. From whose perspective will the assessment of such accuracy come? I guess it will be from the perspective of one who had been there.
I measure my success not in terms of how much I have in the bank—for there is not a lot there, just a few measly pesos to tide me over till the next paycheck—nor even how long I have taught in the University. To do so, I think, is inutile, for then, I am but one of the many who have given their best to honor the age-old tradition of greater service for the glory of God. I am but one of the soldiers who march to the battlefront, swinging her gun to the rhythmic cadence of inspired heroism before the guns start to mow us down. I am one of the many who may still live the ideals of a world gone awry, tenaciously holding to what could have been so that this world could become a more habitable one for those who will come after us. So, what, then, is success for me?
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Creative Nonfiction by Sergei Reyes | January 24th, 2010
Unlike others who preferred creating nonsensical doodles, I fancied writing my thoughts on paper using my left hand, but due to my awesome talent to do continuous cartwheels, I broke it when I was six.
I was excited to show off; my arms were extended as if reaching for a tree branch, and my feet were giddy to come off the ground. My friends were aghast as I did one cartwheel after another. When I was about to finish my third, a female with huge hips and bouncy ass passed by and unconsciously bumped me, so I fell. I never felt anything until my friend who had been awed at first was horror-stricken, and he shouted, “Hala Sergei! Ang kamay mo!”
I looked at it, and saw that my left arm had formed an “L” shape.
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Creative Nonfiction by Aldory Gevero | January 17th, 2010
As I reflect on my life, I have come to appreciate how paper has shaped my personal life. My parents were bound by a legal paper called a marriage certificate. This marked the start of my life in this world. My birth certificate strengthened the legitimacy of my citizenship after my birth. We know how important this paper is. We need it in all our legal transactions.
When I was still young, I remember how my mother would drive away my sadness by making origami birds. She would give me paper birds of different designs and colors. And how I enjoyed playing with paper planes! Another source of my pleasure was expressing my feelings through drawings on my notebooks. I drew anime and cartoon characters. My self-esteem would increase when my classmates expressed their appreciation of my drawings. I also felt delight in looking at different pictures in books, magazines, and comics even without understanding the written texts. Later, I started to find joy in reading beautiful stories and informational selections from any reference papers. Then, I found recreation in writing my own papers that serve as my ultimate self-expression.
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Creative Nonfiction by Mucha-Shim Quiling Arquiza | December 20th, 2009
The tiny crescent island in Sulu where I was born and learned my name is unknown and hardly even visible in a map of the more than 7,000 islands of the Philippine archipelago. In the sixties or even earlier, when it started getting the attention of some anthropological researchers, it occasionally got briefly written about or sometimes mentioned in passing by Western authors in some ethnological studies for its famous pandan [reed] mat of exotic designs and riot of colors or else for the katakata, stories and story-tellers of never-ending amazement and deep mysticism. Allegedly, weavers and chanters fell into trance and met their muses in dreams.
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Creative Nonfiction by Aida Rivera Ford | December 6th, 2009
It seems to me that the whole village is just crawling with them—neighbors, professionals, government employees, even my own kin—lilintian! I don’t know how I’ve managed to live this old and managed to escape from these assorted maniacs and a fate worse than death, although I’ve seen many who have enjoyed that fate worse than …. But I caught myself from being repetitious. Yes, once a teacher always a teacher, and although I’ve been an English supervisor these five years now I still teach the rules of composition better than any of them—better than these new tissle-tassle methods that lead to nowhere! But back to these assorted maniacs. Why, even in our school there’s that Mr. Jover. Don’t ever make the mistake of letting him take you home. Oh, not even with a group—unless you make sure you don’t sit beside him because, Blessed Arkangel! he has a way of maneuvering-maneuvering and before you know it he’ll have his paws right on your blossoms quite by improbable accident. Or you’ll feel an arm pass by through your hip. His maneuvering is quite famous and he makes no discrimination between young and old, plain or pretty, so that you can’t even feel complimented by it. Why, even Mrs. Olarte the very staid Super from Manila was a victim of this maneuvering, and if it were not such an awkward thing to put on paper, she would have recommended his demotion. What would happen to poor Mrs. Jover who is such a pretty but nervous little wife who is hardly seen at all, what with her nine children—and some more coming, you can be sure. You’d think he would be satisfied with that? But no, some men are never, never satisfied—nor some women, for that matter.
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Creative Nonfiction by Edgar Bacong | November 29th, 2009
Magdadalawang dekada na ang inilagi ko sa labas ng bansa. Madalas kapag narinig ito ng mga di pa lubusang nakakakilala sa akin ay kaagad silang maghihinuha na mayaman na ako. Kumbaga, sinusukat nila ang naipon kong Swissfrancs sa tagal ng paninirahan ko sa Switzerland.
Sa simula, naaasiwa ako sa pahayag na ito. Subalit sa pagtakbo ng panahon ay sinasakyan ko na lamang ito’t inaamin na totoong mayaman ako. Iyon nga lang di sa pera kundi sa mga naipon kong karanasan bilang isang migrante. At ito ang nais kong ibahagi sa aking mga kababayan. Di lamang sa mga naglalayon na mangibangbayan kundi gayundin sa mga nananatili sa bansa sa kabila ng karalitaan. Bukod pa, ilang beses na rin akong tinanong at tiyak patuloy na tatanungin ng mga bagong saltang Pilipino sa Switzerland, tungkol sa kung paano maging magaa’t kaaya-aya ang pangingibangbayan. Kaya minabuti kong isatitik na rin ito.
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Creative Nonfiction by Floro Alvar | November 22nd, 2009
Comota is a barangay in La Paz, Agusan del Sur. Located 30 kilometers from the poblacion of La Paz, it can only be reached by walking or riding a banca or a motorcycle. When I was assigned there as a classroom teacher at Comota Elementary School in August 1999, what immediately struck me was the poverty of its inhabitants, composed of some 700 Manobo villagers and a handful of Cebuano families.
Poverty was due to inadequate family incomes that were worsened by the peace and order problem. The area was also frequently visited by floods that destroyed many of the crops during the La Niña phenomenon. For a teacher to be assigned in that place was, indeed, a challenge!
I taught 14 students from the Grade Five level and 36 from Grade Six. After a month of teaching, I got fairly acquainted with them, their parents and the barangay officials. One time, I was invited to attend the session of the barangay council and had a talk with the barangay captain and some councilors. From them I learned that each household owned several hectares of land, each of which was not fully cultivated. Almost 90% was still timberland from where they got logs as their source of living. This supplemented whatever they got from fishing and hunting.
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Creative Nonfiction by Gutierrez Mangansakan II | November 8th, 2009
beggars circle tables
dogs circle carrion
the lover circles
his own heart
-Rumi
1.
One occasion in my childhood changed my life forever. It was the arrival of a Sony Trinitron television in our home. Being the latest technology of that period, it was a departure from the electronic appliances that resembled pieces of furniture.
It was the last years of the Marcos era. In those days, television broadcasts in the province started at four o’clock in the afternoon with Batibot, followed by a back-to-back Christian cartoons, Super Book and Flying House. Music videos aired just before the evening news.
Coming home from school one afternoon, I switched on the television and saw a blonde girl with a headband and ridiculously large plastic earrings. She toyed with boys under a street sign, mouthing lyrics I barely understood. Soon I memorized the chorus of the song – Borderline — and eagerly anticipated the music video every afternoon. The singer, I learned, was Madonna.
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