My first Sony Experience would be the day when my elder siblings came home with a 14 inch Sony colored TV.

I and my siblings were born in a small town in Cavite. And because farming is the only source of family income, we never had the luxury of owning Nintendo, Sega, Lego or Barbie dolls. We used to entertain ourselves with sumpit, tirador, bahay-bahayan or playing with empty sardine cans.

We owned a television set, a gift from my grandmother. It was my mother’s prizest possession. But we only get to watch TV for 2 hours a day fearing that it might overheat. TV time aside from daily trips to the nearby river to do the laundry was my Nanay’s idea of quality time with us lot. After doing our home work, we flock to the living room and wait for my mother to finally turn the TV on. It was 2 solid hours of sheer bliss and awe. I remember betting with my brothers and sister on what’s going to be the next advertisement. And to make the game more fun, my mother said that whoever loses the game will wash the dishes the following night. Being the youngest, I always end up washing the dishes piled high up to my nose (aside from always being asked to get up to turn the dial to switch channels), but I didn’t mind. Just the idea of betting with my siblings made me feel so much more grown up.

When I finally managed to wash a million dishes, my elder siblings packed up and went off to the big city to work or go to college, leaving me alone with a beat up black and white TV. After so many years of fighting for my legitimate right to have a say on what TV show is good, I suddenly had the liberty to watch any show that I want without any big brother who doesn’t seem to run out of basketball championships to watch. When they all left, primetime TV viewing suddenly lost its appeal to me. I had a major falling out with TV commercials and station ID’s. Our living room that used to buzz with catfights and bickering grew so quiet and still. I could even watch TV until 11 PM with out my mother asking me to turn it off every five minutes or so.

After sometime, the dear old TV finally took its cue and bid farewell as well. I never thought that losing a TV would that be painful for such a young soul like me.

And then one weekend, my elder siblings came home and surprised my Nanay with a brand new, remote controlled Sony TV. That day was probably one of my mother’s proudest moments. Suddenly she became her old self again. She gave marching orders to my father to catch the best native chicken in our farm and pick the sweetest papaya. This calls for a celebration and she’s going to cook tinola. My Nanay not able and willing to contain her happiness went to her kumare and bragged that we now own a colored telly (we were probably one of the last households to own one). She was smiling from ear to ear as she watched my father position our new TV on a wooden TV stand. There… A 14 inch box in all its beauty and splendor.

After the hearty dinner, I sat in one corner and listened to my mother complain on how little my other siblings ate, how much they lost weight and they should never forget to utter a small prayer while aboard a vehicle.

And then finally I spoke, “binyagan na natin ang TV!”

Ceremoniously, my oldest Kuya gave the remote control to my Nanay. She pushed one button. The 14 inch box turned on. That instant she beamed like she never did before. She said, “I never thought Vilma Santos looked that good in red”. For the first time, we were certain that Ate Vi really is wearing red and never had to guess the color of her clothes she’s wearing. Another button was pushed and she switched channels. We all clapped to cheer her on. Then the remote control was passed from one hand to another. Every one wants to experience the spell of our new TV. Before I knew it, the remote control fell to my lap. And everyone’s attention was drawn to me.

Watching my parents so happy again and being reunited with my brothers and sister on such an occasion was too much for me. So to save myself from being teased for being a cry baby, I swallowed hard and said, “unahan sa patalastas!”

That moment we all became our mother’s children again, gathered under one roof, under her watchful eyes.

It is funny how small things can make people happy. For me and my family, it is just watching TV together. Only, it just got better when my siblings came home with that new TV.

It definitely gave significance in my life just like the Sony’s World’s First RGB LED Backlight LCD TV which brings to life colors and images in the screen like no other TV in the world can.

“We don’t foresee any major changes or outcome from the US elections. In fact, we’re confident that the US will continue to do offshore outsourcing especially with the recent economic crisis,” says Business Process Association of the Philippines (BPAP) Chief Executive Officer Oscar Sañez when asked whether or not there will be changes in the BPO Industry under a new American Regime which will be decided a few days from now.

With all due respect to the BPAP CEO, I seriously think there will be major changes to the BPO Industry in the Philippines after the US Presidential Elections.

About 84% of this Industry supports US clients. Fears of call center agents regarding the turnout of the elections are not unfounded.

Since Mr. Barack Obama started his $230M presidential campaign, he wooed American voters by promising that he is going to focus on creating local jobs and bigger tax incentives to businesses who would keep jobs within the country. Most of my co-call girls and call boys fear that if Obama wins, it would mean large-scale pull out of accounts and campaigns from the Philippines by US clients.

My colleagues therefore favor the more pro-liberalization Republican candidate John McCain who would most likely maintain the present order of things with regards to off shoring and outsourcing of services by US businesses.

The US economy is deeply imbedded in crisis. Since the Great Depression of the 1930’s this crisis is unprecedented. Small businesses are closing down while public funds are being used to bail-out giant companies from bankruptcy.

We must all remember that this same crisis is the main reason for the existence of off shoring and outsourcing. Because domestic workers in the US won’t put up with the wages these companies are willing to offer, they looked for cheaper labor, and more cooperative governments with pro-investment labor laws. Together with all Third World countries, the Philippines has become a major part of the global assembly line of giant companies in the US.

And because it is always imperative for companies to cut down on overhead to maximize profits and optimize the return of investment rate, the turnout of the US elections amidst an unprecedented global economic crisis would NEVER translate to pulling-out outsourced jobs to the Philippines. It would mean stricter requirements for call center applicants, lower basic pay for new hire agents, delayed or deferred salary appraisals for the tenured and harsher company policies to meet service level agreements with the client.

So before we put our customers on a long hold on November 4 to pray that McCain win the elections, we must all think that it is not about who is the better egg between Obama and McCain. Because it is not a question of who wins the race. It is the present economic crisis in the US that will draw the fate of the 320,000 BPO workers in the country.

“QA”, “queuing”, “EOP”, “ACW”, “AHT”, “avail”… If you are familiar with these terms, then you are one of the thousands kolboys and kolgirls in the Philippines.

We belong to the sleep deprived, nicotine inhaling, cab riding new breed of Filipino youth. We infuse our anemic, caffeinated veins with ferrous sulfate everyday just so we won’t be ‘NCNS’ (no call no show) on our next shift. Literally, ginagawa naming araw ang gabi.

Glamorous? Well if you consider swaying down Ortigas Avenue wearing Paris Hilton shades at 8am in the morning looking dog tired while everybody else is fresh and new as glamorous, then we are the kings and queens of glamour.

Bohemian? Ha ha! Fat chance! We follow a very rigid schedule; we cannot go on over breaks, we cannot hang-up on cursing customers, cannot refuse calls. And be still my complaining urinary tract, have to ask for approval first to answer nature’s call.

We are like prisoners in our own stations for 8 whole hours. To shed some light into this, it is not in any way Bohemian; I’d like to call it Spartan.

I can’t help but be catty and melodramatic about it. We say good morning when we all know that everybody but us (at least in this part of the Pacific) is in their deepest sleeps. We say (with an audible smile) “I’d be glad to assist you”, when we left our feverish son under the auspices of his yaya.

We afford to miss the family occasions, national holidays because we know that we will be compensated. Every birthday of a family member that we miss means P700 more to pay the bills, rent, and tuition fee. Heck and the pay for every national holiday that we worked for are allotted for the high government taxes that we are paying. Yes, my friends, we are paying for the supposed street lights along the avenues and highways that we brave every night.

Contented as cats are? No we are not. Laway lang ang puhunan, so they say but we are in one of the most stressful, brain cell draining jobs. We are just like the rest of the working class, overworked and underpaid. We are forced to defend the big banks, superstores, telecoms or any account that we are handling. Just like any proletariat, we are alienated from these giants that we work for. We apologize for things that we do not have anything to do with. We fix problems that to start with, we did not create. We are the cheap, apologetic and docile answering machines on the other end of the line. The receiving end of the ire and rants of shortchanged customers.

Apolitical? I beg to disagree. As I’ve very well stated above, we are tax paying citizens like the rest of the Filipino population. Yes, most of us only get the latest news from Libre (while riding the MRT on our way to work), but we’re also appalled on the P200, 000 bonus those solons got last Christmas, we are also furious with this government spending half of the national budget on debt servicing so that it can borrow more.

Much more, we’re also enraged when this shameless woman cheated her way to Malacanang.

We may be speaking in English more than half of our waking hours, but it doesn’t make us less Filipinos. We share the sentiments and burdens of every landless farmer, laid off factory worker, out of school youth, every hungry Filipino mouth. We give time to mourn over slain activists, priests, journalists and innocent civilians.

Most importantly, we share the aspirations of the Filipino people to build a just society where we can say “I’d be glad to assist you” and actually mean it.

(article written for January 08 issue of Pinoy International)

“Mangyari po lamang na humawak sa mga safety hand rails. At mag-ingat sa mga mandurukot.”

Di mo maisip kung matatawa ka o matatakot kapag narinig mo ito habang lulan ka ng MRT. Ako, mas pinipili kong matuwa, at least nagmamalasakit ang drayber. Kapag narinig ko na ang safety reminders ng friendly MRT driver, bigla kong kakapain ang cellphone at wallet ko. Mahirap na, baka masalisihan ako. Di ko maiwasang isipin, sa mga 1^st world countries kaya, ganito din ka-caring ang mga tsuper ng tren?

Mahigit 500,000 pasahero ang sumasakay ng Metro Rail Transit (MRT) araw-araw. Para sa kalahating milyong pasaherong ito, wala nang ibang pinakamabilis na paraan para makarating ka ng on-time sa trabaho kundi sumakay dito. Binabagtas nito ang kahabaan ng EDSA, mula North Avenue hanggang Pasay Taft Rotonda.

Sa mga mapanuri ang mata at malikot ang isip, mabubuo mo na ang istorya ng mga Pilipinong nagtitiis makipagsisksikan sa treng ito. Pati takbo ng pulitika at ekonomiya at bansa, kaya mo nang pag-aralan. Iiwan ng MRT si Pigafetta kung pagkokronikel ng buhay Pinoy ang pag-uusapan. Bakit ika nyo?

Si Erap pa ang presidente ng Pilipinas noong unang nag-operate ang tren kaya ang mga tiket, may mukha ni Erap. Nung kasagsagan ng EDSA 2, naging official carrier ng mga rallyista ang MRT papunta sa EDSA Shrine. At parang inaalaska pa si Erap, may istasyon ng tren sa Ortigas! Kaya kahit na ano pang gawing pagharang ng mga pulis sa mga alam nilang papunta sa EDSA, wala silang nagawa. Aba ay paano mo nga naman haharangin ang tren.

Kung gaano kabilis sumulpot si Gloria nang magtagumpay ang mamamayan sa pagpapatalsik kay Erap, mabilis pa din sa alas kwatrong, pinapull-out ni GMA ang mga tiket ng MRT na may mukha ni Erap at nagpaimprenta ng mga bago. Hulaan nyo kung kaninong mukha na ang nakalagay sa mga magnetic tickets?

Labingtatlo ang istasyon ng MRT. Habang iniiwan nito ang mabagal na usad ng mga bus at kotse sa EDSA, tanaw na tanaw mo naman ang kung paano ang inog ng buhay ng ating mga kababayan. Pag-alis ng tren nula sa North Avenue Station, makikita mo na sa gitna ng squatters area ay sumulpot ang isang dambuhalang mall, ang Trinoma.

Ilang istasyon pagkatapos nito ay sasapit na ang Cubao-Araneta Station at sigurado, maraming saleslady na kontraktwal ang magbababaan dito. Sunod na hinto, Santolan-Annapolis. Halos walang gustong bumaba, halos wala ding sumasakay. Ewan ko, siguro dahil pagbaba mo ng hagdan ng istasyong ito ay Camp Crame at Camp Aguinaldo na. Di ko rin alam kung nagkataon lang, katabi ng mga kampong ito ang isa sa pinakamahal at eksklusibong subdibisyon sa Pilipinas, ang Corinthian Gardens .

Sinisikap kong hulaan kung ano ang tumatakbo sa isip ng construction worker habang nakamasid sa mga naglalakihang bahay Corinthian. Malamang, nag-aalala siya dahil tatamaan ng road widening ang barong-barong ng mag-anak nya. Mula Ortigas hanggang Ayala Station naman ay makikita mo ang mga yuppies na parang hinahabol sa pagmamadali. Nagmamadali siguro na maging boss ng kumpanya na kahit kailan ay di magiging kanila. At mula Magallanes hanggang sumapit ang dulong istasyon ng tren, mga factory workers sa Taguig, construction workers sa Alabang at mga deboto ng Baclaran na lang ang maiiwan.

Lalo na kung rush hour, di mahulugan ng karayom sa dami ng taong gustong sumakay ng tren. Kahit di ka humakbang, di mo maiintindihan kung paano ka umuusad. Sa mga ganitong pagkakataon, bawal ang maselan at mareklamo. Dahil ang mga pasahero, sa sobrang dami, lahat nagiging close. Ipinatupad ang segregation ng mga pasahero. Ang ibang coaches ng tren, nakalaan lamang sa mga babae, bata, elderly at may mga kapansanan.

Habang nalilibang ako sa panonood ng trapik sa EDSA, narinig ko ang piksi ng katabi ko. Ang kapal daw ng mukha ng katabi nya. Pansamantala, binigyan ko ng pagkakataon na makisimpatya sa kanya at inalam kung sino ba yung katabi nya. Pagsipat ko, isang lalaki na hindi naman senior citizen, wala ding kapansanan at nakauniporme. Aba , pulis pala. Makapal nga ang mukha!

Talagang walang ipinagkaiba ang byaheng MRT sa buhay ng Pinoy ngayon. Habang ang mga simpleng sahurang mangagawa ay nakikipagsiksikan sa tren, may iilan namang magriribbon cutting lang ng bagong bukas na golf course ay nakahelicopter pa. Habang nagbibilang ng barya ang saleslady na katabi ko, may pamilyang nakatira sa palasyo na nagbibilang naman ng secret bank accounts sa Switzerland at Germany .

Muli, pumailanlang ang boses ng friendly MRT driver. “Huwag po tayong magtulakan.  Iwasan po nating sumandal sa magkabilang pintuan ng tren at mag ingat sa mga magnanakaw.”

By instinct, kinapa ko ulit ang bulsa ko. Safe pa din ang cellphone at wallet ko. May nakapa pa ako, tiket ko sa tren. Nang ilabas ko sa bulsa ko, nakita ko ang mukha ni Gloria. Tsk tsk, nasalisihan na naman ang sambayanang Pilipino.

It was raining like hell that day. Thousands of people along Commonwealth Avenue did not seem to mind the shower. Red flags were waving; wet placards were everywhere while policemen couldn’t wait for the day to end. Mrs. Arroyo was sputtering empty promises and made up accomplishments in front of her bored congressmen and senators.

While trying to listen to the muffled voices of the speakers on the stage, my thoughts persistently wandered on something else. Has he eaten his lunch yet? I hope he doesn’t catch pneumonia. I wonder where he is. After coming up with excuses to look for him, I finally gave in. Foregoing the umbrella (just in case he sees me first, I don’t want him to think that I’m such a sissy missy), I looked for the avocado green flag to catch a glimpse. Just a glimpse, I told myself.

Then there he was, sitting under the rain, satisfied with the company of comrades to keep him dry and warm. As usual, looking so unkemptly cute. Not heeding the promises I have made, I walked up to him and tried to sound nonchalant, “have you eaten lunch yet?” For whatever reason, his yes sounded like Freddie Mercury belting out Bohemian Rhapsody to me. Okay, he was still doing well. I tried to calm myself, didn’t look at his eyes, because otherwise “I’m dead”. I had to summon all the strength left in me not to stare in his heavenly eyes, just to be sure that I will be able to maintain an intelligent conversation, least a coherent one with him.

And that scene was from SONA (State of the Nation Address) two years ago.

What has changed? Nothing much really. The reasons that drove the people to the streets to call for the ouster of Gloria two years ago are the very same reasons that they have for this year. More and more people are hungrier than they were two years ago, in fact.

Well, after past and present governments decided that we need to have more hectares of land for golf courses, super malls, subdivisions, cash crop plantations, and mining than for rice fields, it won’t take a genius to solve the rice crisis. Most unfortunately, we’re not only out of rice, sense and logic among Mrs. Arroyo’s political and economic thinkers seem to have run out before the rice did. And so the dimwits decided to import more rice. An imbecile government official one time gallantly mentioned in an interview that we are very lucky because the price of rice in our country is much cheaper than that of Vietnam’s. Then someone please explain to me why on earth are we importing rice from Vietnam?

Motorists and commuters for months now are not thanking God when it is Friday. It is because oil companies are increasing their prices every Friday. In the defense of these weekly price hikes, the oil cartels are whining that business is not good and they are “nalulugi”. If they refer to billions of pesos in profits as “lugi”, then how much blood do we need to bleed just to make business good for them? The government, not missing a beat for media mileage, announced that the high cost of oil is a blessing in disguise. It encouraged everyone to think economical or healthy and take the LRT and MRT instead, or ride bicycles to work. I, even before this weekly price hikes happened, was forced to shed off pounds and inches just so that I could squeeze myself into overcrowded couches of the MRT. I have seriously contemplated of buying a bike to save on fare, but have you seen those red plated SUVs zooming along EDSA? I would rather die of natural causes. I have seen pink fences, pink urinals, pink waiting sheds, pink islands constructed in every corner of Metro Manila, but I don’t see any bike lanes for those who are braver and more adventurous than me.

Mrs. Arroyo’s government imposed 12% VAT on petroleum products, just so she can have the people line up to collect their one time “pantawid kuryente” assistance worth P500. Why not forget VAT and at least make the hard life easier? But oh no, she would not. She would rather have the people from Tondo, Payatas or Commonwealth wait in queue under the sun to a get a morsel of the money stolen from them. She, in her less that five foot frame has reduced the poor people to beggars.

It has been 2 years since that rainy SONA. Nothing has changed much. The Filipino people still do not have land to till, decent jobs, food on the table, and access to social services. We still have crooks for government officials and a stealing, congenital liar for a president who fattens up her husband with the people’s money.

The people have the same reasons why they are protesting on the streets.

It has been two years now since that rainy SONA. I still worry that he might catch pneumonia when it’s raining, still wondering if he has eaten lunch. He still is the same unkemptly cute person that he was two SONAs ago. What has changed? I now have the liberty to be lost in his eyes without the fear of revealing how I feel. I do not have to worry about not having any intelligent thing to say. Why, this man hangs on to my every word no matter how mundane my chosen topic is. (Had I known!)

Also, I do not miss out the umbrella anymore. Good for me.

You know what, I know three people who made promises two SONAs ago. But only two kept their promises (Gloria was not one of them). Why? Because we still have the same reasons for falling for each other as we had that one rainy SONA.

My son’s graduation would be by far the most accomplished day of life.

After countless days and nights of doubting whether we could make it, here he is marching, wearing his toga proudly, again proving that he won’t fail me.

To be very accurate, it is me doubting myself more than half of the time, always wondering if I could tide this through. Working overtime to pay for tuition, books, school uniform, and school allowance. But not even for a single second have I doubted if he can manage all the pressures of this whole stressful, tedious process called education.

Drama Queen Alert. Alert. Alert. Yes I am being Drama Queen again. My son is indeed graduating soon. From, my dearest friends, Kindergarten. And this is so big for me. I hope you would all forgive me.

I mean I do not consider myself as one accomplished person. I could not boast of anything except that I could cook, do the laundry and clean the house all at the same time. I was not given the chance to harness my talent in singing and dancing, was never on the dean’s list, never the campus crush. I’m so this close to mediocrity. Until my son Liam came.

A sudden realization hit me. Hey, I must not be that bad myself if someone as wonderful as he is came out from me.

Helping him conquer school, I conquered my fears and insecurities.

It’s not easy to let your most precious to be away from home for 3 solid hours. Who knows what’s going to happen. Will his classmates laugh at how I part his hair, or will he trade his sandwich to his seatmate’s toy car? I could hear my knuckles cracking by the mere thought of my son being bullied. And I was wishing to be transported back to the glorious moments when all he needs is me that one day he told me I don’t have to walk him to school.

I always thought the only difference between a tortoise and a turtle is the spelling. Liam told me that they do not only differ in size but also in habitat. Whatever. I’ll still call a tortoise a turtle. I wracked my brains out trying to figure out what creature is it whose name starts with a Y and looks like a cow and a carabao. Who knows? When I was his age, letter Y is always represented by a yoyo never by a yak.

I know I have done a pretty good job when he got one mistake in social studies. The question: Sino ang dapat na nasusunod sa pamilya. The supposedly correct answer: Tatay. His answer: Nanay. It’s a no-brainer! He truly is his mother’s son! With all due respect to my son’s favorite Teacher Wilma, and whoever is the author of that book, do not give my child any of that crap.

For all my shortcomings he only paid me back with unconditional love.

He asked me if it is true that we are surrounded by germs. I said, Yes, that is the reason why we should frequently wash our hands. (Just to prevent him from asking another question that I know would follow and that I do not know the answer to.) Then came the dreaded question, how many germs are there in the universe. I answered madaming madami, too many to mention, lots, gazillions. Go wash your hands now. Sensing that I want to end the conversation about salmonella and e coli, he said okay. As he was walking away he told me, alam mo mama, lab na lab kita mas madami pa sa germs.

I must say, I have learned more than he did. I have learned to be more patient, trusting, brave and confident. Liam was able to get through it, why wouldn’t I. I have a long way to go. I am preparing him for Big School now but he taught me how to be big in this equally big and nasty world. And I know that he will always be with me to guide me and tell me everything is worth it. And for the first time in my life, I might be enjoying school after all.

I grew up eating rice for breakfast, lunch and dinner. We always had lakatan, mangoes or whatever fruit it is in season for merienda. During the rainy season, my mother would boil camote that we would all generously dip in muscovado. Even toasting cashew nuts has become a family affair that I always look forward to. Food for us is whatever a small inherited land offers.

Family matters are discussed over sumang balinghoy, failing grades and misbehavior would mean grinding corn that would later be pulvoron. I never got to grind corn because of failing grades, but boy, see how my biceps grew.

This is how the romance between food and the misbehaving probinsyana blossomed. I took interest on how mother would patiently boil, squash and strain sampalok for sinigang. At an early age I took pride of my knifing skills. I could easily grate 10 ears of corn without injuring any of my ten fingers. The most important lessons in life, I have learned in the kitchen. Patience, hard work, perseverance, frugality. Where my mother’s rod failed in teaching me, the kitchen succeeded.

My nanay told me that food always should be prepared and served with love. You could serve tuyo and boiled camote tops and your loved ones will enjoy the meal. But morcon and menudo will taste like paper if prepared by a wounded heart.

Now who can blame me for being shocked when this charming man whom I have chosen to spend my life with turns out to be a hotdog fed, “what’s-the-point-in-eating fruit”, and “will-eat-because-I’m-hungry.”

Not to be discouraged, I slaved my self cooking my best recipes so that he will realize that sunny side up egg is not the most complicated, most challenging dish to prepare.

Refusing to take any shortcuts, I hunted for sampalok so I could cook sinigang for him the way my mother prepared it for us. The gata of my ginataang manok did not come from a tetrapak. Expecting rave reviews for my meticulously prepared meals he just ate them and said it was “okay”.

Demanding a reaction, I purposely did not put vinegar to the adobo. I asked him how it was and he said that it was “okay”. I surrender. Why this man who can write a news head line out of smelly socks but cannot make a decent comment on what is served to him is beyond me.

So one day I asked him, “What is your favorite food”. Silently pledging that whatever it may be, I, to the best of my culinary abilities will cook for him. Guess what his answer was. “Wala. Pare-pareho lang ang mga pag-kain.” And that was the last ditch. I may need to find another way to his heart because his stomach is impassable. I would have to take the road less traveled by.

Sensing that I was growing tired of his indifference to my personal crusade, he told me, ‘kahit pancit canton na lang”. I could have jumped with glee. Finally. But the pancit canton he was referring to is instant pancit canton. Oh no, I won’t let him eat food that has anything on it that I can’t spell. And I refuse to take part of him injecting himself with carcinogens.

But hey, he wants it. That is what he is going to get. I cooked instant pancit canton and he ate it with gusto. So much for home cooked meals.

Reflecting on this, I’ve realized that I’ve got a man who is not hard to please. Will eat anything that I serve him. Because it is instant, it is easy to cook (if you may want to call boiling water, cooking), easy to prepare. I am not too tired to enjoy dinner with him. And most importantly I have realized that he needs me not in the kitchen.

It is honestly quite hard to admit but one of the things that I enjoy doing is eating pancit canton with him. I am still dreaming for the day to come that he will tell me that it is my old-fashioned sinigang that he craves for. But for the time being, I might as well enjoy my chemical romance with instant pancit canton. And savor the feeling of how this doe-eyed man found his way to my heart with monosodium glutamate.