The Price of Being the Good Son

The event was a minor one, the circumstances of little significance. Though it happened when I was in high school I remember all the details. I was at a stamp exhibition at Broadway Centrum. It was starting to get dark so I called home to tell my parents that I would be late for dinner. (This was before there were any cellphones.)

That pretty much characterized my  youth. I was Lawful Good, following all the rules as my parents, school and media preached. When one of my siblings erred in their responsibilities, my parents used me as an example of behavior appropriate for a son.

Then the inevitable happened: I got a life. In college I attended more parties and went out drinking with friends. Naturally, by that time I was 'too old' to report when I'd be coming in late. And my parents hammered the guilt trip into me.

And yes, I was guilty: I was guilty of setting unrealistic expectations. They expected me to be the Sonny Boy as long as they were alive. I now regretted that I wasn't a bit more of a jerk back then. Maybe then they would have resigned themselves to 'boys will be boys'.

But alas, loyalty and obedience to family was too deeply ingrained in me. When my father started to get older, he made it clear that he expected me to carry on the business. This, again, was natural. My siblings had chosen to work elsewhere, some moving abroad. I tried teaching at a speech center, but as my father made clear, this was only to be a sideline.

Let me hasten to add that my parents were far from dictatorial. It was my decision to be my father's successor. I could have easily worked as a permanent teacher at some school, but again filial piety made me ride in to the rescue of a business of two generations that could not die.

The result was an unmitigated disaster. The job carried a lot of responsibility, and I possessed none of the aptitude or temperament needed. I continued to slack off until the business nearly went under.

I ended up leaving the business and moving to Iloilo. My brother who handled the Iloilo side of the business took over the Manila main office as well.

Now when everybody was assuming that I was reflecting on my sins, what I was really tossing about in my head was that I was too dependent on letting my parents pronounce what was best for me. I had been a total schmuck to not consider the possibility that my talents lay elsewhere, simply too lazy to look for a different job just because there was one already waiting on a silver platter.

I had always been a lazy weakling, letting others do my thinking for me even though my intelligence was something others said they admired, and not bothering to speak up for myself. (Some would say 'rebel'.) I remember how part of my dad's grooming process was to insist I dress like he did: short sleeved polo shirts, dark gabardine pants and leather shoes. (He would drag me along to shop for these.) When I asked if I could get a long-sleeved shirt he actually got irritated.

Today, I am fortunate to have found my niche, even though I am still paying for my past sins. But now I have learned that if I ever have a child of my own, I will certainly instill discipline in him or her. (As my work mates will attest, I can be a pain of a stickler sometimes.) But I will certainly make sure that he grows up with some guts, to speak out without being insolent. That will mean constant communication with him without badgering him. I will respect his privacy if only because my own are constantly being violated. In short, I will make him WANT to work with me.

Not too long ago, I had to deal with an infuriating person who was lazy, deceitful and totally lacking in personality. Now I realize that my disgust was because I was seeing myself in that individual.

But I will make sure that I will not see that in my child. Because then, he or she will truly be A Good Child.   

  

The Measure of Heroism

Although the recent earthquake was felt here in Iloilo, I was mobile at the time, and a jeepney ride can rival the San Francisco quake of 1906. I only knew something was up when I saw crowds standing outside the different buildings I passed.

In the days that followed I read and listened to the various reports of the horrendous damage in Bohol and Cebu. On the one hand, I felt blessed to have escaped harm. But there was another, less savory feeling overcoming me: One of impotence. I would read how various private organizations like Tulong Kapatid would send relief missions to the hard-hit areas. And here I was, stuck in Iloilo. With every aftershock we felt, my desire to join Kapatid's army grew. Had circumstances been different, I would have tapped into my amassed Vacation Leave credits and enlisted. But alas, I was unable to leave Iloilo, and I literally had no money to spare.

This made me think how a disaster can create the feeling of helplessness on so many levels. Primary of this, of course, are the victims themselves, sheltering inside ruins that may come down on them any time. Then there are the frenzied workers of Tulong Kapatid forever worrying that they may not be moving fast enough, chomping at the bit whenever they got held up not just by earthquake damage but the sorry condition of our infrastructure. Lastly are people who want to lend a hand but are manacled in place for various reasons and have no resources to spare. I fantasized helping the Philex miners by lugging whatever cleared rubble I could carry, or lending my more than passable cooking skills at the soup kitchen. I would be the compassionate yet stone-faced monitor maintaining iron discipline to make sure the desperate crowd didn't rush the call stations set up by Smart Communications. Hell, I'd even lug cables for Meralco or maybe PLDT's plastic bags of relief goods and Maynilad's water to and from a 'choppa' or maybe up and down a gangplank, ignoring the pleas of my compatriots to take it easy, or I might have a heart attack.

(Yes, I admit it's not all altruism. I just love shattering people's expectations that I am a frail, slow moving old fart with my agility, stamina and quick thinking and coolness under fire - I hoped. I pride myself in never crying AY!! when surprised.)

I envy those relief workers and wish I could have joined them. They must be so proud of themselves. But something tells me that they would be so overcome by the tragedy around them that they would have no time to feel pride.

Yes, I would leave my cushy work station and get down and dirty, like these heroes. This is when I came to the conclusion that the measure of heroism is how badly ordinary people want to emulate someone.

The Making of a Grammar Nazi

"WITH!!!"

Heads turned at my outburst, but I was used to it. After three years in customer service, my ears still curled when I would hear a phone representative say: Is there anything else I can help you? Like hunting for the lost piece in a nearly-completed 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle, I found it excruciating not to supply that last word aloud.

(Of course, since I didn't even know the perpetrators of this gaffe, I could not very well march up to them and bellow in their ear holes. Yet I find it fun to be able to express my outrage even if they have no idea what's up with me this time.)

But there was a time I was able to correct teammates. That led one to ask me how I had become so fanatical about getting the correct grammar, syntax, pronunciation, etc. (We worked for a US-Based client.) I would just tell them it was the English teacher in me (which I had been at one time). Little did they know the dark secret I harbored.

The truth is, my applications at English tutorial centers for Korean students and at the Speech Training departments of the previous call centers where I worked had been continually rejected. Apparently, I was the wrong age. (The tutorial centers minced no words revealing this. Not surprising, since many of them are little more than friendship clubs at best and escort services at worst.) It was the old prejudice against older employees.

But what really ground my gears was that the very people who rejected me - the Filipino interviewers at the tutorial centers and the speech department heads and trainers at my previous call centers - were themselves guilty of multiple counts of Pinoy English. This is the brand of English (grammar, pronunciation, syntax, context and what have you) that many here have come to regard as the standard. The help you with example is one such. To be fair (note that I don't say In fairness or even worse Infairness) my interviewers did not say that, but they did commit such atrocities like taken cared of and the unnecessary article, as in That's a good news. They are so convinced that this is correct because 'everybody' is doing it.

(Apparently, the entire population of the Philippines represents 'everybody', and never mind that we comprise just 1.37%  of the world population.)

So these young punks who feel I'm not good enough to be a speech instructor feel justified saying in-TER-val instead of  IN-ter-val and As what I have said instead of As I've said.

Thus I go into a frenzy whenever I hear this Fag English, and correct it every chance I get. Rightly or wrongly, it's my way of vicariously rubbing their noses in the shit that they are full of.

(Lest I be accused of gay-bashing, let me say that Fag English is committed by people of any gender or sexual orientation. I came up with this name because I associate it with loud, shallow, pretentious and showbiz-obsessed aforementioned young punks, which I call fags, faggots or gaffots. See also my article: Dulling the Gay Blade. I guess that it was loud was the main reason I have come to connect it with these types.)

It is ironic that both the historical Nazis and this Grammar /Syntax/Pronunciation/American English Nazi were products of perceived injustices committed against them.