From a fishbowlful of names

In his blog several weeks ago, Tim Challies has written about how he hasn’t won anything in his life. He asked whether his readers have it differently, and I was planning on giving him a reply that says something like, “Not really, Mr. Challies.” This is a fairly accurate statement, at least insofar as it concerns raffle draws, because while I could point to certain memories of going up the stage to receive this and that prize, I could only remember two of them.

During one fiesta celebration in our village, my name got picked by Ma’am Valme from a tambiolo. She is a slim, middle-aged lady with a disposition of a preschool teacher and a charm of a politician. Clad in my old and dirty pair of rubber slippers, ill-fitted shirt and worn-out pants, I went up the stage to receive my reward. Just as I was about to leave, she thrust the microphone to me, and declared that I should say a few words. My voice was shaky and my pauses frequent as I tried hard to conjure an impromptu, Oscars-like speech. My brother was savoring the scene, and was laughing so hard at my expense.

My name also got picked during our church’s Family day celebrations this December. I became a recipient of an alarm clock and two sets of pens that I need. A lot of gifts were given that day that it seemed all you had to do to win anything was to be present.

However, beginning this December 13, I would be able to remember three. Here’s an account of how I won the third time:

After Tax 2 class, my classmates and I decided to eat at a nearby canteen. To be able to go there, we passed through the main entrance of the college. Tables were set and several people were coming in for a Christmas party that we had not been invited to and that we had no intention of attending. But this lady stopped us, and directed us to occupy an empty table. We were delighted. Free meals are always something to be delighted about.

Then, we were handed tickets, one for each of us. We obediently filled it out with our names. Mine bore the number 185. We were told the tickets were for the raffle draw. They were giving out, among others, two 19-inches Phillips LCD televisions. My classmates all wanted to win. I was the most cavalier. I didn’t want to come in front lest I be made to conjure an impromptu, Oscars-like speech again.

Then the guy picking out the winners announced my name. I won the television. And there was no need for the speech.

I gave the television to my parents when I came to the province for the Christmas break. Our old one is very old, indeed. My parents bought it when I was 8. I’m 23 now. When I told them my name got picked in a raffle draw, my mother thought I was joking. When she realized I was not, she exclaimed, “An unexpected blessing from the Lord.”

I agree with her. It is an unexpected blessing, indeed. It is a blessing because it is undeserved. I didn’t do anything good to merit it—I didn’t do anything at all except, perhaps, write my name on the ticket. It is unexpected because I came to school only to attend classes. I was not told there was going to have a party downstairs. I was not told someone would hand us tickets to fill-out. I was not told my name would be called. And it was from the Lord. I believe that God is in control of everything, even in the picking of a name from a fishbowlful of names.

Counting the days, and the one time I remember being good with numbers

I’m bad at math, and I’m quick to admit this—quicker even than I would admit watching Zaido in GMA religiously when it was still running. I can’t remember dates very well, which gets me in hot water with friends because I forget whose birthday falls on which day. I can’t add and subtract with such speed the way Manila jeepney drivers do. When a cashier asks me if I have 75 centavos after handing her three pesos so she could give me 1.25, I simply smile and give a quick nod, resigning myself to believing she knows what she’s doing.

The only time I was good with numbers was way back in kindergarten. The teacher told the entire class to recite in chorus the multiples of two up to ten. While the rest obediently stopped when we reached ten, I went on rattling off the numbers up to twenty. This I did with a smirk on my face indicative of intellectual snobbery that a four-year old could muster. I could have gone up to a hundred had she not interrupted me with a, “Very Good, Ralph”—perhaps, a polite version of, “Stop it Ralph. Let’s move now to Jack and the Beanstalk.”

So, you see, I’m not a big fan of numbers. But lately, I have found myself numbering the days, counting and marking them off one-by-one with much gusto paralleled only by the excitement of Pierre de Fermat when he discovered an original method of finding the greatest and the smallest ordinates of curved lines (Okay, I have to thank Wikipedia for that sentence. I really don’t know who this guy is much less what “ordinates of curved lines” means. I must have heard his name from one of my mathematically-inclined friends).

Such fascination with counting and numbers can be attributed to a longing that I have of going back home to Koronadal, South Cotabato. It has been ten months since I last saw my parents and talked to them face to face. Ten months since my father last woke all his children up at 6 a.m. to join him for breakfast. Ten months since I last enjoyed a lungful of fresh, provincial air. Ten months since I last watched a movie with my then unmarried aunt for 40 pesos (how much does SM or Trinoma charge?). Ten months since I last ate a whole fruit of durian—smell and all. Ten months.

As of this moment, there are three more days before home.

Bing from Baguio

Bing is from Baguio, and she has not gone anywhere beyond Luzon. The only Philippine language she knows is Tagalog, although she told me she could understand a bit of Ilocano. She was the one who suggested that we (with our friends from the Yakal Christian Fellowship) stay in their Baguio home one summer. She was also the one who invited us over to their ancestral house in Bicol and Camarines Sur.

But even before we had the chance to take her invitations seriously, she is already wading through the streets of my hometown more than 2,000 kilometers from Manila; where Tagalog is as seldomly used as the 30 volumes of Encyclopedia Americana in the age of the internet.

Now, while I go back to Manila on the first week of June, she’ll be stuck here working for another six months or so. Thus far, she has complained of the unforgiving heat of summer. Feared of developing migraine. Got conned by a tricycle driver in General Santos who demanded a 15-peso fare, when it could have been only six pesos. Ate durian. Went to our home church. And had dinner at the beautiful “The Farm.”

In Between

In between the tedious task of organizing several crimes under the Revised Penal Code (for the Criminal Law Review team of which I am a part), I managed to make work smell like the sweet and unhurried fragrance of summer break. This I did by visiting interesting blogs on the internet. Lately, I have been reading the works of Austin Kleon. He is a guy from Texas who blacks out words in a newspaper article and creates poetry out of it. The idea is really brilliant.

Here’s one poem called, “Vandalism (From the Heart)”

The Second Time Around

If everything goes well, I’ll be in Cebu by lunchtime tomorrow. This will be my second time in Cebu. The last time I was there was the first time I learned what it was like to take a plane ride. It was also the first time I asked the flight stewardess—that was what they were called during that time when the gender-neutral “flight attendant” was not yet in vogue—for a barf bag, which I did manage to use just as the plane was about to hit a complete stop.

I now only have vague recollections of what Cebu used to be like. I’ve heard that now, it is almost just like Manila sans the footbridges painted in a ghastly species of pink.

I’m going with my friends from church to attend the CCM Youth Convention. I’m really excited at the prospect of leaving Manila even for only three days. But I’m more excited at the thought of how God would be ministering to all of us in the convention. Indeed, nothing is more exciting to a starving pauper than the invitation to dine in a banquet of the most delicious cuisines with someone important as the King—and everything for free.

I pray that I may feast and be satisfied.

Breaktime Chronology

Between now and my last post, a lot of things have happened. Here they are in chronological order:

1. Confirmation of Intention to Enroll at the College of Law. Right after graduation, my parents told me to arrange everything at Malcolm Hall. I rushed there early in the morning to confirm, but they told me to do it in writing. I immediately went to my ex-dorm in my ex-room, where I found my ex-roommate (which, by the way, happens to be my brother), and typed something like this in my ex-computer:

Dear so and so,I am pleased to receive the letter informing me of my admission at the College of Law. I am now making known my intention to enroll.

Writing this took me a long time.

2. Trip to Bacolod. The Wednesday after I submitted my letter, my family and I (excluding Lance, my ex-roomate/brother; but including RR, my cousin) boarded Superferry 17, where we endured Sharon Cuneta's "Trip Kita" song being played repeatedly over the audio system of the ship. One day later, we were in Bacolod; and after a few hours and some fifty or so kilometers, we found ourselves in Kabankalan eating sugpo, sisi, alimango, and a whole lot more without spoiling our appetite by thinking of the prices.

Everything was free courtesy of my mother's best friend, Tita Mimi.

3. Trip to South Cotabato. After three days and two nights in Kabankalan, we headed to Ilo-ilo and waited for Superferry 15 to bring us home. The ship was big but a little bit quiet; we didn't get to hear the "Trip Kita" song anymore. The weather, by the way, was very beautiful.

4. Trip to Polomolok. I visited my grandmother in the nearby town of Polomolok, and stayed there for three nights. I had a fun time catching up with my relatives' busy lives.

I thank God for everything. This break, just like everything else in my life, is an undeserved gift from Him.