I went to my mentor in undergrad this summer to ask her to write me a recommendation letter. I was applying to my undergraduate course’s graduate studies program. The minute she found out I was going to resign from work to study, she said “What? You found out those Philistines don’t read Austen so you’re going back to school?” It was meant as a joke, of course, but it made me stop and think. Was I one of those people who couldn’t handle the real world and, therefore, needed to hide out in the academe, the bubble of “academic freedom” that is UP (University of the Philippines) in particular? Why did the words, “further studies,” sound dirty all of a sudden?

The assumption is if you go to grad school, especially with a program as fancy-sounding (useless) as Anglo-American Literature, you must want to teach. In my case, that couldn’t be further from the truth. When I answer the question, “You want to teach?” with a negative, the already creased foreheads of the people asking the question develops even deeper ridges and with a totally confused look, they follow up with, “So what do you plan to do (with a Masters in Anglo-American Literature)?”

This always leaves me stumped. Not because I don’t have an answer, but because half of me doesn’t know where to begin the explanation (and suspecting that the explanation will satisfy no one, including–and probably most of all–me), while the other half is surprised that there’s a need to explain at all. People do a lot of pointless things in their lives; can’t going to grad school be one of them? Why the utilitarianism? Will anyone ever accept an answer like, “I have this blank space on my wall and I think a framed MA certificate in AAL is just the thing it needs”? Whatever happened to knowledge for knowledge’s sake?

Then there are the people who have attacked me with statements like, “Well, I can’t afford it. I don’t have parents willing to pay for my schooling like you do,” as if my decision to go back to school is a judgment upon them. My father and I made a deal long ago, before I realized what an extremely good deal I was making, that he would support my studies for as long as I wanted to study. He must have either sensed that I will have absolutely no interest in being a member of the 9-5 workforce, or had misguided romantic visions of me as an erudite. Or both. But whatever his reasons were for striking that deal with me, the fact is, the deal exists. And while I’m young with the notion that I want to go to school lodged in my head, I’m going to milk that deal for everything it’s worth. I’d be crazy not to.

A masters in Literature isn’t even my main goal. It’s just a stepping stone to a masters degree in media or graphic arts (something “artsy-fartsy and useless”), and possibly film school abroad. My choices may doom my chance of ever being a certified yuppy, but what the hell. I only live once, may as well occupy myself doing things I like. If there was anything I learned about my stint as an office worker, it’s that I’m not cut out to be a pencil pusher. Give me anything but a desk job, or give me death. So maybe my aspirations to yuppiehood were doomed from the start and my going to grad school was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

I don’t plan on going to school forever. I’m no “professional student” wannabe. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.) As early as this semester I’ve already decided that while class discussions are a joy, schoolwork sucks. The point (if there’s any need for a point at all) is experiencing new things, exploring possibilities, maximizing potential–knowledge for knowledge’s sake, as trite as that sounds. Who cares what I do with it after? I’m sure I’ll figure out how all my learning will play a part in my life eventually. My decisions now may appear naive and just a little bit escapist to me someday, but as long as I’m spending my time getting an education, I strongly doubt I’ll ever consider it as a complete waste of time.

For now, seize the day and hit the books!

Mela is a Halfway Staff Writer

Now, the country’s political situation is again unstable as charges of election fraud, corruption, and involvement in “jueteng” (illegal numbers game) are hurled against Gloria Arroyo.

Rallyists and members of the opposition calling for her resignation or impeachment took to the streets of Makati’s Central Business District, while administration supporters gathered at the Rizal Park (Luneta) for a prayer rally with no speeches from major political figures.

But where was the youth?

While the student activists were present, as always, in the Makati rallies, and students coming mostly from Catholic schools in the metro were at Luneta with their teachers, the ordinary youth, those with no formal political affiliations who nevertheless marched during Edsa II in 2003, were nowhere to be seen.

John, 21, was at home watching the occasional news briefs on TV at the time of the rallies. He said he didn’t feel that the urgency for everyone to take to the streets was there yet. While he described himself as not necessarily anti-Gloria, he said neither was he pro-Gloria.

“There’s no need for another Edsa,” he said. “The country will just become more chaotic. Filipinos have to try using due process this time.”

Speculating on why the youth have not yet taken to the streets regarding the current political issue, he said “They don’t see the need. GMA is not as bad as Erap was. We have to find an alternative solution to the crisis.”

He said he doesn’t really want to see Arroyo resign. “There’s no leader,” he said. “It’s not even clear who the anti-Glorias are. There’s no unity among those opposing her.”

Rica, 22, agrees. “The anti-Glorias are in the same rally but they give different reasons for wanting to oust her. The issue is muddled unlike in Edsa II where everyone had the information and had a common goal,” she said. Besides this, she feels that there is no personality emerging as a possible replacement at the moment.

A newly certified public accountant, Rica was attending job interviews during the anti- and pro-Gloria rallies.

I can never part with my dad even for just a few hours without him asking me if I have enough money on me. The answer, of course, is never ever “No.” Not that my dad is overly generous with his money, because he’s not, but at the very least he will contribute a hundred pesos to my taxi fare, or some coins for the MRT. This kind of worrying for my welfare, I appreciate.

My mother, on the other hand, is the sort of mother who is worried about the practical yet outlandish things. Her suggestions make sense, but sometimes they border on the extreme. She’s the worst-case scenario thinker, my mother.

One issue we are always at odds with has to do with bringing an umbrella with me wherever I go, rain or shine. For one thing, I hate umbrellas. They’re bulky (even the foldable ones), and I always end up losing them. Besides, they cramp my style. There is just no way that the standard issue 100-peso flower-printed things from SM Department Store will ever go with the rest of my outfit. No way. She doesn’t understand why I absolutely refuse to bring an umbrella with me to a bar. I always have to sneak out of the house at the slightest drizzle so that my mom won’t chase me with umbrella in hand.

She doesn’t even need rain as an excuse to badger me into bringing an umbrella. It’s the threat of rain that matters. “It always rain in the evenings,” she’ll say sagely. I don’t know if she has a psychic link with the PAG-ASA (Philippine Atmospheric, Geophysical and Astronomical Services Administration) or something.

Another issue that we usually argue about is food. The Tagalog word for something one brings from the home to work, school or wherever one is going is “baon,” and most of the time it refers to food. My mother is a firm believer that one must always be prepared in case one goes hungry. I’m usually forced to bring a whole box of Skyflakes (a local brand of crackers) to work “so I won’t get appendicitis,” she says. Skyflakes is her answer to most of the world’s problems. She thinks anyone can survive a month trapped under earthquake debris as long as there’s a box of Skyflakes at hand. But Skyflakes is just for regular days when she doesn’t have anything else in the pantry. Sometimes there’s hamburger, mamon (a local bread), donuts, spaghetti, chicken and rice, and fruit. Baon could mean anything at all to her. People will be amazed to see her peeling green mangoes for us as we wait in line to get our passports renewed.

Whatever they come up with to see to my comfort, I know the bottom line is always, “It’s for my own good.” I really do understand that, though I may seem an ungrateful wretch at times when I complain about what I sometimes perceive as unnecessary meddling on their part when all I really want to do is peacefully leave the house for a few hours.

I guess, in the mean time, my parents and I will just have to agree to disagree on certain issues. Bringing an umbrella to a bar, for starters. Who knows, either they will eventually learn to accept that I can take care of myself when I’m away from them, or I will finally give in to their well-meaning demands out of sheer exhaustion. But no matter how much I try to avoid bringing a trusty umbrella or my mom’s homemade fruit salad in Tupperware as I exit the house, I hope they realize that I appreciate the fact that they give me the ultimate baon: their love.

Mela is a Halfway Staff Writer

In the Philippines, where the temperature can go as high as 38 degrees Celsius, people have only one goal in the summer months of March to May: cool down. Back in the ‘80s, the lucky ones got to spend a week in what is considered the Summer Capital, Baguio City, or a few days in the 2nd Summer Capital, Tagaytay City. Some went to their respective provinces, which may or may not be much cooler than Manila but at least guaranteed new surroundings to explore and the presence of relatives to entertain bored city folk.

The rest of us, however, had to stay in Manila to endure the heat and entertain ourselves.

In a time where cable TV, Playstation and the Internet were unheard of, this was easier said than done.

Metro Manila Info

Population: 1,654,761 (city); 9,454,040 (metropolitan area).
Ethnic mix: 91.5% Christian Malay, 4% Muslim Malay, 1.5% Chinese, others 3%.
Time zone: GMT + 8 (GMT + 9 from last Sunday in March to Saturday before last Sunday in October).
Average January temp: 25°C (77°F).
Average July temp: 28°C (82.5°F).
Annual rainfall: 2030mm (80 inches).
SOURCE: Tiscali Travel

After a breakfast of pandesal and Milo or Ovaltine, my day would officially begin with a viewing of Batibot, a popular educational children’s show, the Sesame Street of the Philippines if you will; although we did get Sesame Street in Manila. Then, it was out of the house to play with other kids, if there were still any left in the neighborhood, that is.

I learned my Filipino games in the summer. Usually a grown up, my mother or some older cousins, would teach us the rules and leave us to it so that we would, in turn, stay out of their hair. There was Langit-Lupa, literally Heaven-Hell, which was like tag but where players were safe from the “It” if they were in an elevated place or “Heaven”; Tumbang Preso, Kick the Can where players use their rubber slippers to knock the can over; Patintero, line tag with a surprisingly complicated set of rules depending on the “sophistication” of the players; and Piko, a cousin to the hopscotch. Other games were the Luksong Tinik, Monkey Monkey Annabel, and Agawang Base.

We spent hours under the sun playing those games. Playtime usually lasted ’til twilight, ending only because it was too dark to see the lines we drew on the streets with shards of broken terra cotta pots for Patintero. Rare was the summer where my knees or elbows went unscathed.

There were two interruptions to playtime, however. One was nap time and the other was snack time. All over the Philippines, mothers in the ’80s were begging, cajoling, and/or threatening their kids to go to sleep at 1 in the afternoon. Siesta was a habit Filipinos got from the Spanish and I took every chance I could get to escape it. For one thing, it was too hot to sleep. But mostly, I just wanted to play.

I’m sure everyone in my generation has heard the story of the tricycle driver/fishball vendor/taho vendor who kidnapped bad children who didn’t take a nap in the afternoon. Adults will say anything to make you go to sleep at 1. I used to pretend to be asleep then sneak out of the house the minute my mother finally dozed off. Of course, sneaking out meant staying quiet or risk getting caught and that meant no Agawan Base, Tumbang Preso or any of the other games.

Good thing our house at the time had a lot of fruit-bearing trees. As an alternate (much quieter) activity, my friends would climb the guava, makopa and star apple trees in our backyard while I caught everything down below with my shirt.

As for the second interruption to playtime: snack time. There were treats available only in the summer which made the heat just a little more bearable. The word for snacks taken in the afternoon is “merienda,” and for merienda, one could always count on the neighbors to sell halo-halo and ice candy.

Put kaong, nata de coco, jackfruit, slices of banana and sweet potato, monggo beans, gelatin, yam, rice crispies and leche flan in a glass, top it with shaved ice, add sugar and condensed milk and voila! You’ve got halo-halo! Ice cream on top optional.

There’s always one house in every street selling it. And even if the one in my street was a bit stingy on the sweeteners, my mom would just add sugar and condensed milk and it would be as good as Little Quiapo’s (a popular resto famous for its halo-halo).

Ice candy is really just frozen juice in a long plastic, the end of which children nibble on to suck the ice candy. If every street has a house with a halo-halo sign, ice candy signs sightings come to about five per block. It’s cheap, it’s easy to make, and kids spend all their summer allowance on it. I asked my mom a couple of times to make them so I could put up an “Ice Candy for Sale” sign on our gate as well, but my brother and I just ended up eating everything ourselves.

Good times, those.

Sometime around May, if my brother and I had been good all throughout the summer (which means they thought we took all those naps we were supposed to take), we would be rewarded by a trip out of town for a swim or some cool mountain breeze. Sometimes it would be Laguna, for a dip in swimming pool or hot spring, sometimes we would head to the beaches in Batangas, Subic, Cavite, Bataan, La Union or Pangasinan, and sometimes our trip would take us to cool Tagaytay. Always we would make it just before school began again with the accompanying rains, and even a typhoon or two thrown in for good measure.

I used to envy my classmates when we were asked to write about how we spent our summer vacations. I used to think my summers weren’t nearly as exciting or exotic as theirs. When I think about it now, those were probably some of the best days of my childhood. Lazy days where I was free to simply be a kid, and where the pressures that come with growing up seemed far away.

Mela is a Halfway Staff Writer

A sweeping generalization, but one I had to agree with.

I thought of the family of four a friend and I were touring China with. They were the type of tourists who, upon having their picture taken with whatever landmark was at hand as the background, would insist that the tour guide immediately take them back to the bus so they could go to the next pearl factory post haste and buy 3 dozen boxes of pearl powder whitening cream. They were the type of tourists who demand to be taken to the nearest McDonalds or KFC for dinner. The type who stayed in their hotel during “free days” because they didn’t know what else there was to see in Shanghai.

They boasted of having been to Europe, South Korea and the US. Mama Monster, as we dubbed the queen of the brood on day 2 of our 8-day trip, related: “I found out how to order ice in French in Switzerland…”

How is that impressive when the only place you’ll ever deign to ask for ice is from McDonalds?

These people go to other countries for the bragging rights: “I’ve been to Paris, to London, to Boston, etc. etc.” But so what? What did you do there? Buy more whitening creams? They pretended not to hear when we told them that the same brand was being sold for less than half the price in Manila’s Chinatown district.

Once you’ve seen one pagoda, you’ve seen them all. That’s why it’s important to pay attention to the little things the tour guides don’t point out. And go to places not on the itinerary.

My friend and I had a long list of places we wanted to check out on our free days and we updated and revised this list before turning in for the night. We spent our mornings exploring the neighborhood we were in, trying out the street food and observing people’s activities in the park. We got on the wrong bus in Shenzhen, went on a quest for a post office in Shanghai, and befriended a funky dog while walking in Beijing. I even lost my wallet for 2 agonizing minutes to a pickpocket while boarding a bus bound for Tiananmen Square before my friend snatched it back for me.

As much as possible, we tried to eat in small neighborhood restaurants. We created chaos wherever we ate because the menus didn’t have pictures, the waiters didn’t speak English, and the limited Mandarin we picked up was unintelligible to the locals. A young waitress in Shenzhen befriended us and asked us to teach her the pronunciation of some of the English words in their menu. Of the menu’s five pages, two had English translations and one of those was the beverage list.

There’s more to traveling than just hopping from one tourist spot to another. There’s a difference between hearing the history of a place from a tour guide before having a photo op, and enriching and deepening your understanding by actually being in the place where the events took place and observing its surroundings.

If people don’t care about the culture they can get from the streets, the little neighborhoods, the markets, then they should stay at home and wait for a travel program on TV. Or instead, head out to The Window to the World in Shenzhen, where they could have their picture taken beside a miniature of the landmark of their choice.

Without any sort of cultural context, it’s all the same. After all, if you’ve seen one pagoda, you’ve seen them all.

Mela is a Halfway Staff Writer