Kahirapan at Katatawanan

Bagama't nakakasawa na pakinggan, lagi pa ring ginagamit ang pagiging mahirap bilang katwiran.

Ang kahirapan ang ginagamit na katwiran ng mga kamag-anak ng mga binitay na Pinoy sa Tsina. Kung hindi man katwiran, ito ang sinisisi bilang ugat na nagtulak sa kanila upang bitbitin ang mga ilegal na droga sa kanilang mga gamit, at suungin ang alam naman nilang mapanganib na misyon. Kamatayan ang kaparusahan sa kanilang mapangahas na pagsugal upang kumita ng malaking pera.

Sa kanilang kamatayan nagising muli ang madla, muling pinukaw ang nasyonalismong nakahimlay sa mga dusang pilit kinukubli ng mga palabas na katulad ng "Willing Willie."

Bagama't araw-araw may namamatay, ang pagtangis ng bayan ay natuon bigla sa tila mala-bayaning pagsasalarawan sa tatlong kung tutuusin ay mga kriminal sa pananaw ng bansang Tsina, at kahit na sa ating bansa ay mga kriminal ding maituturing dahil labag sa batas ang kanilang ginawa.

Pero ang namamayani ay ang pananaw na dapat silang unawain dahil mahirap lang sila. Dapat silang kaawaan dahil mahirap lang sila.

Ang kahirapan ding ito ang siyang ginagamit ni Willie Revillame upang bigyang katwiran ang di-mawaring kalungkutan at luhang umagos sa mukha ni Jan-jan habang ang kanyang inosenteng kamalayan ay tila naging alay sa altar ng panandaliang yaman kapalit ng halagang Php 10,000 sa kanyang pag-indayog sa entablado sa isang malaswang sayaw habang ibinuyo siya ng kanyang tiyahin, kinunsinti na kanyang mga magulang at pinalakpakan ng madlang uhaw sa aliw.

Nakalulungkot isipin.  Nakapanlulumo.

Kahirapan ang nagtulak sa ilang kababayan nating pumayag na maging taga-bitbit ng droga at labagin ang batas ng ibang bansa, na ang naging kapalit ay ang kanilang buhay.

Kahirapan ang nagtutulak sa napakaraming kababayan natin na araw-araw pumila sa mga programa sa telebisyon at umaasang mapagbibigyan silang umakyat sa entablado at ilantad ang kanilang mga personal na dalamhati upang maging batis ng pangmadlang aliw at saya. Sa ngalan ng katatawanan ng iba at sa perang mapapanalunan nila, ang itinataya naman nila ay ang kanilang dangal at kahihiyan.

Ngunit nakagagalit malaman na ang kahirapang ito ang siya ring pinagsasamantalahan ng ibang mas angat ang katayuan sa buhay. Pinagsamantalahan ng mga mangangalakal ng ilegal droga ang kahirapan ng napakaraming kababayang handang kumapit sa patalim, kumita lang ng pera upang matustusan ang pangangailangan ng kanilang mga pamilya. At pinagsasamantalahan ng mga mangangalakal ng aliw at saya na kinakatawan ng mga katulad ni Willie Revillame ang kahirapan ng mga taong salat sa pera at rangya, at handang kapalan ang kanilang mga mukha, magmukhang katawa-tawa, at maging tampulan ng katatawanan makakuha lamang ng maliit na halagang magagamit nila upang makatawid sa buhay kahit ilang araw lamang.

At ang higit na nakapanlulumo ay kung papaano isinalarawan ng mass midya ang mga kwento ng tatlong binitay na kababayan sa Tsina, at ng binastos na inosenteng batang si Jan-jan--bilang mga palabas, mga makatotohanang teleserye ng buhay, isang pag-gamit sa dusa at pait bilang mga mayayamang materyal upang maibenta sa isang madlang, masakit mang tanggapin nguni't totoo, nakakukuha ng aliw sa dusa at pait ng ibang tao.

Sa isang bansang pinamamayanihan ng Mara Clara gabi-gabi, hindi nga naman talaga mahirap unawain kung bakit habang umaagos ang luha ni Jan-jan, habang ang kanyang kamusmusan ay naaagnas unti-unti habang siya ay malaswang umiindayog sa entablado, ang madla ay pumalakpak pa at tumawa.

Smiling in the face of pain

It is that smile that launched a thousand criticisms.

I am referring to our President's as he watched the miserable remains of a bus that used to be full of eager tourists wanting to savor the sights and sounds of Manila, but has turned into a bloodstained arena that sustained the brunt of the vengeful frustration of one dismissed cop. At the end of the orgy of incompetence and, were it not for the tragic end, almost comical performance of Manila's finest, nine lives were lost, including that of the perpetrator, one named Rolando Mendoza.

It was also one the President was wearing, some even called it a smirk, as he earlier officiated a past-midnight press conference which only night owls like me were able to watch, or those who were unable to sleep bothered by the lingering images of incompetence and death all rolled into one a few hours ago on that fateful Monday.

That smile, or smirk, or uncontrollable muscle spasm--take your pick, has, unfortunately, become a turning point, a sad milestone in what until then was a blissful Presidency where many Pinoys have reposed their hopes and dreams as they ventured into the straight path to P-NOY's brand of paradise.

Some may be creative enough to call it a quick karmic turn. One can say that this is what you get when you start your term with vengeance, masquerading as exorcism for good and clean government. You wanted to massacre midnight appointees with impunity, without discriminating those who were really beneficiaries of Gloria's malice and mischief, and those honest and deserving civil servants who were simply promoted/appointed at the wrong time; you end up being humiliated in the world stage by another type of massacre, more non-discriminating than EO2 and EO3 combined, where bullets riddled bodies of many innocent guests, and only one guilty cop. Oh, lest we forget, also that boy who got a share of the limelight and the stray bullet, the one which Kris Aquino, for some reason, visited in his wounded state, even as her brother's officials were busy condemning "usiseros." The irony of this karmic reversal is that in this massacre, any claim towards good and clean governance has now been compromised and negated by an image of an inept, lazy, nowhere to be found, sophomoric Head of State.

He who wanted to massacre midnight appointees of the previous administration, who in turn was humiliated, by a massacre, in a belated midnight appointment with the press.

The one who smiled despite the seriousness of the event, and who admitted that it is his normal reaction when he is confronted with a difficult situation.

You know what? I really buy this. I mean, for once I will have to defend the President, despite my continuing criticism of his management style. That smile, the one that drew the ire of Hongkong, is an authentic representation of a Pinoy trait.

Some may call it insensitivity.

I don't. I call it our natural.

After all, we are a people who can easily turn our tragedies into comedies. From typhoons, to coups, we never run out of our capacity to smile despite the seriousness of the situation. At the height of Ondoy, when a big portion of Manila was submerged, when we saw people struggling to save their lives and possessions in the muddy flood waters, in the midst of tragedy we saw people still managing to celebrate a birthday while stranded in their roofs, of people waving to TV cameras even as they negotiate the flood in their makeshift lifesavers, from bath-tubs, to airbeds and anything that floated.

We are also a people that laughs at those who slip and fall, instead of offering a helping hand. And we do so not to insult, but to express a sense of camaraderie, assuring the one who slipped and fell that it is alright.

This is the people from where those who posed in front of the Hong Thai bus came from. The same people who will watch a running gun-battle, and applaud at the real action like a movie. The same people who will give a nervous smile in the face of pain and tragedy.

This is us.

This is how we cope.

For a society prone to pain and suffering, that is how we survive.

And this time, Benigno Simeon Aquino III, in his smile, embodied us as we face another crisis.

And if you are distressed by this claim, you may just, in fact, instead of frowning, succumb to your gut response and command your facial muscles to display that all too familiar, and very Pinoy smile. Whether it is in bewilderment, or as a dismissive gesture, or a sincere reassurance of your own bearings and to defend your sanity in the face of the B.S.. But still, a smile.

Peers who persecute

I don't know what's wrong with people in academe who, in their moments of bias, call the work of others as trash and without rigor when they themselves do not understand what it is all about.

I, for one, have been getting this flak for a long time.

As a post-modern political scientist, my scholarly endeavors are far from the usual and ordinary. I do not study what most in the political science community are studying. And in doing so, I am definitely an outsider.

I know this as the risk I had to take. Facing the specter of being marginalized, I had no choice but to endeavor to publish as my way of laying the ground from where the firm bases of my scholarships can stand. It is not an easy task, mind you, but modesty aside I was somewhat successful.

There were many stumbling blocks along the way, though.

Recently, my book manuscript was called a piece of trash by what I found out to be a Filipino scholar who now lives in the United States. The review was so mean and insulting that I recoiled at how deeply angry the reviewer could be. I know that the book I wrote is controversial, but I never thought it could elicit such a violent response from someone who was presumed to provide an objective review. After recovering from the initial shock at such personal assault, I gathered up myself to confront it and soon realized that the problem lies not in my book, but in the academic politics against which it is ranged.

The mean reviewer, who I may not know by name, and have no interest in knowing, is not actually alone. There are so many of them found in the august halls of the academe. People who masquerade as dignified experts who are committed to a particular profession, but are in fact insecure, childlike, envious brats who would persecute anyone they see as threats to them--from people who raise new ideas that would threaten their own comfort zones, to colleagues who threaten to overtake their academic ranks.

They abound like gremlins after being drenched with water.

Some people may hold up to high esteem the academe as an exalted place.

But unfortunately, it is a place where peers end up as persecutors. Some may have the courage to do it upfront and reveal themselves. These are the easier ones to deal with. Its either you just ignore them, or you fight them head on.

But the more dangerous kind are those who hide in the anonymity of double blind reviews--just like this S.O.B. Americanized Filipino scholar who called my work a piece of trash, who I know would not have the courage to say the things he said about my book to my face. Unlike this coward, I can face him anytime to express an "up yours" response.

The process of peer reviewing is one of the most abused endeavor, both in the process of publishing a work, or in seeking a promotion, and becomes a breeding ground for scholarly persecution, and a nurturer of malicious intent.

There are those who would accept the task of becoming critics of scholarly works when in fact they have fundamental disagreements with these in terms of methodological and theoretical frames. I would like to think that if you have fundamental differences with the approach of a particular scholarly work, then you are not in fact a peer, and therefore have no right to be involved as a peer reviewer. It is a travesty for a conservative political scholar to serve as a critic of a manuscript written by a radical Marxist, or an empirical-positivist to pass judgment on a work done by a post-structuralist post-feminist. What would you expect from this picture: an unbiased review? Only the seriously naive would think so.

The more serious, and I would even claim criminal, offense is when people from other disciplines, or who do not have any iota of familiarity with one's work, take on the job of passing judgment on the work and qualifications of others. You see this in promotions board where people from other disciplines can claim a work of somebody from another discipline to be unacceptable. I can even tolerate biases. But this one is not borne out of bias, but out of sheer arrogant ignorance.

Unfortunately, the control mechanisms to ensure that peers who persecute are not given their day to terrorize are not yet fully in place. There are still editors who do not have an understanding of the nuances of a particular discipline, and the different grounds from where ideological rifts would eventually descend to personal conflicts. And there are University administrators who try to inflict their own disciplines' supposedly neutral ethos into others. You see this happening when you have University Administrators who are engineers, natural scientists, or economists of the mathematical kind who make decisions over the careers of humanists and interpretive social scientists.

I had once a conversation with a well-meaning administrator who argued that no one can put a good scholarly work down.

I pointed out that, ideally, that should be the case. Unfortunately, it's not.

And it is this naivete, or perhaps, this too much trust on the kindness of people, that enable the proliferation in the University of peers who persecute.

It should be said. There are just too many nasty, insecure, envious and immature people in academe. That is the ugly truth.

My unchanging politics despite the long hiatus; or no, they don't own EDSA

I could not believe it.

The last time I wrote something in this blog, we were still under a much hated President, and it was not Ferdinand Marcos, Sr.

There were many times I wanted to write, but held back. I wanted to give my mind a honeymoon period, so to speak. There were so many things I wanted to write about, from the very petty family quarrels among siblings, to the annoying neighbor I have, to the frustrations of being rejected, to the triumphs of being redeemed, and yes, the May elections.

I wanted to write about the May elections, its conduct and results but hesitated for the simple reason that I wanted to sit out and wait for the finality of its results, even if it was already there staring at us even prior to the casting of the first ballot, as announced by SWS and Pulse Asia.

And he was proclaimed...

He gave a speech...

Wang-wang...

I am just awed by his humanity, so engaged, so simple, so likable. I may not have voted for him, but he is now my President.

There are just too many reasons why I should like him. Regionalism aside, he appointed three Bikolanos to his Cabinet. He appointed my favorite mayor of Naga City where I studied in high school, Jesse Robredo. He chose Leila de Lima, a lawyer from our neighboring Iriga City. And of course, he selected my batchmate in College who is from Guinobatan, Albay, Mon Paje, even if all of us know that he is just bench-warming for Neric Acosta, who, coincidentally, is the godfather of my eldest son. And to top it all, he took in my former boss in La Salle, Bro. Armin.

And of course, I still hate the one to whom he stood against, the one I shall not even dare name if only to symbolize my repulsion, but now stands to represent her district somewhere in Pampanga.

But there is something in me that prevents a willing idolization to grow in the political vaccuum left after nine years of yearning for a counter-narrative, one that would be pitted against what has become a long episode of corruption and personal aggrandizement that surpassed the Marcosian years.

It took me a while to reflect on my negative feelings towards him, and it is only now that I could articulate it with clarity.

It is not because I voted for someone else. I am not that petty. It is easy for me to accept defeat, and move on.

It is not because of his neglect of the environment in his inaugural and SONA speeches, for I could easily overlook these.

It is not because of the annoying cacique mentality of his wards, and the overly vindictive attitude of his eager beavers which has made exposing the already well-known shenanigans of the past administration as a predictable ritual, thereby courting the danger of people getting desensitized to the level of corruption of the short inglorious one.

There is a deeper reason for this.

Perhaps, the problem lies not in him, but in me.

I am just too clairvoyant when it comes to gut feelings about where the country is headed for. I have this feeling that we are heading in the wrong direction, even if the road getting there is the good one.

Perhaps, it is my discomfort with false messiahs, my suspicion of idolatry.

First, they declared his father a hero, even without reflecting on the kind of politics he had prior to his martyrdom.

Then, they almost canonized his mother. There were even attempts to do so, literally and not just politically.

Central to this idolatry is the discourse where the darkness of Marcosian dictatorship has been banished by the light of democracy as supposedly a handiwork, if not an exclusive property of his pedigreed family.

The discourse that has created him is casted in historical myth making that vulgarly took over, or in the language of his mother's politics, "sequestered" the movement that returned power to the people as an event that could have only unfolded because of the heroism of his father Ninoy and the sacrifices of his mother Cory.

And now, he was again casted as the grand architect of the good road to which our country will be redeemed after nine years of inglorious abuses.

It is this hijacking of a historical conjuncture that makes me squirm.

No. The freedom and democracy we have now in this country could not be solely attributable as a legacy of one family, no matter how sweet is the sugar and fertile are the lands which fed them at the expense of those workers who they have now duped out of their entitlemens, in the same manner that the abuses and corruption could not be solely be the work of Apo and the inglorious one.

EDSA is not the property of Cory in memory of Ninoy, now embodied in their son.

EDSA happened because of us, those who toiled to appropriate the memories of a fallen homecoming in yellow ribbons as a symbol to rally around; who supported the yellow widow despite her lack of credentials, and later lionized her despite the fact that her record of governance is, objectively speaking, lackluster; and whose plurality has again bestowed on a lackluster performing Senator-son the mantle of redeeming us from ourselves.

They are heroes because we made them. And for many to diminish the role of the ordinary Pinoys as simply the hapless Jews to be saved from the Pharaohs of corruption is but a lie, a false idolatry of the new gods and saints.

This is the core of my discomfort.

Until such discourse is changed, I could never truly love this President as my own, even if a big part of me thinks he is adorable.

And key to this will be an admission by the son that we are not just his bosses. We are also his creators.

A journey worth taking

At some points, the road was bumpy, and the sea was rough.

But it was a journey worth taking. The company was good. After all, it was a group of classmates and their families. I brought my whole family with me, in fact.

It was a sentimental journey as well, a search for that youthfulness still deeply embedded in a body now facing the specter of graying and/or balding hairs for some, of beer bellies for others, and yes, the weakening of knees and joints brought about by the advancement in years for many.

Life was good. Life IS good! We have in our company tales of survival, not only of some of us who surpassed life-threatening encounters, but of the trip itself, that started in Quezon City, to a pick-up point in Los Banos, for an overnight journey to Guinobatan interrupted only by a pit-stop in Tiaong and Calauag. We had our first serious moment of heaven when we had our breakfast there at Casa Basilisa, a fitting opening of a day full of fun to a company of 19 batchmates, some with their loved ones and companions, to make a happy crowd of 43 plus the presence of one generous class-mate who made it all possible, and an amiable PENRO whose hospitality made this distant place a home for us. And yes, our drivers, whose mysterious demeanors elicited both fear and discomfort, but nevertheless was necessary for us, to remind us that the road to paradise could be littered with inconvenience, but still, what matters most is the destination, and of course, the company.

The visit to the ruins of Cagsawa, and a view of the majestic Mayon, and the trip to the Camarines Sur Water Sports Complex are but a tip of the iceberg, an undercard experience, a usual appetizer, a needed preview for the more breath taking scenes that awaited us. But for me, the other significant homecoming, not only since Cam Sur is my home province, is that the trip provided my wife and I the chance to visit my parents, and my children the gift of seeing once again their Lolo and Lola, who I know are very fond of them. My father is already blind, but I saw in his face the joy that he usually hides, and can only feel even if he could no longer see how such joy has brought tears to my eyes. My mother is old but still the ever gracious woman that nurtured and protected me from the pains of childhood to enable me to experience its joys. Her smile provided me the assurance that while we may not be seeing each other often, the love is always there to transcend distance.

And yes, the food they served. Simple. Delicious. From the heart.

For me, the brief stop-over in Buhi was the most significant part of the trip.

But not to be outdone is the experience that Caramoan bestowed on all of us. Awed by the natural beauty that unfolded in our very eyes, my son, the ever respectful and prude person I know he is, asked permission from me if he can curse as a way of expressing his admiration to the natural museum of beauty that paraded in front of us. The sights of Caramoan made me forget the dangers of the sometimes rough seas we had to endure, or the inconvenience of the dirt roads we had to travel. These are but small prices we had to pay for a priceless experience.

And yes, the people we had to meet, in addition to the ones we already are with, are part of the rewards of the journey. The amazing feat of the boatmen that steered our craft, their skillful demeanor as they navigate the randomness of the waves which for them have become part of their lives, are just remarkable in their simple message. Here are people who are not as highly placed in our totem poles, yet they show us the main metaphor for survival.

In awe, a thought came to me as I savored the beauty of Caramoan in the company of my loving and beautiful family, and together with my batch mates in what could now be considered as the "Batch" that may not have produced rulers, but has been blessed by talent and opportunity to be together as we travelled this rough road and seas to experience the beauty of nature and the priceless rewards of camaraderie. There, I rediscovered the mystery of life--how beauty is to be savored despite the risks, how family has to be loved despite the distance, and how friendship has to be kept despite different pathways taken.

As pointed out, some in our batch are actual survivors--they survived life-threatening experiences. Others were already feeling the toll of advancing years, with wobbly knees and feet. The fact that we all managed to complete the journey to paradise, and live to tell stories of beauty, family and friendship is in itself a mystery of creation.

For a moment, I forgot the political drama unfolding in the country, and the possibility of having a mentally-challenged President. In those days of paradise, what mattered most was the company. In the beauty of Caramoan that I discovered lies the metaphor of hope. Sometimes, you just have to take a journey in order for you to realize the beauty of life.

My son asked me the permission to curse, as his expression of awe.

It's my turn now to say, "Shit! Life is so beautiful!"

Noynoy's Woes

At present, I am still on the sidelines in terms of who I will actually vote for, although I was quick to call attention to the disowning and denial of Winnie Monsod of the article that was supposedly written by her, as well as the blatant disinformation about the Mugabe mansion being allegedly owned by Villar. The reason why I did so was not to defend Villar (he has already lots of money, enough for him to have been able to hire 5 professional PR and advetising firms to run his campaign), but to correct this peddling of lies to favor Noynoy. This strikes deep at the heart of my discomfort right now. It makes me realize that we are now in such a mess that many of us, with good intentions, and with all sincerity, have been made to Vote not "for" a person, but "against" a person. This is not, in political science theory, the sign of a mature democracy. It is this kind of electoral mood that forces people to go into negative campaigning, to a point of concocting lies like the Winnie Monsod and the Mugabe mansion fiasco.

I too, for a while, was rooting for Noynoy, especially right after the death of his mother. I, too, want a clean government. But if Noynoy has to win, it should not be because of myths which make him somebody that he is not, one that is bigger than the Benigno Simeon Aquino that he really is. He should win not because of Villar's flaws and faults, but because of his own credentials and capabilities. The danger in a campaign in which Noynoy wins by capitalizing on the weaknesses of his opponent is that after the last ballot is scanned by the PCOS machines and certified by the Comelec, and after he is proclaimed by the Joint session of Congress, and it is time to govern, where the demon of Villar has already been cast off, then his own demons, one that was not made visible during the campaign, may just haunt the eletorate.

A content analysis of the campaign right now reveals that the negative campaigning has been intense on the side of Noynoy's camp targeting Villar. In fact, a mapping of the campaign discourse significantly shows that the venom is hurled from all places, from LP to Dick, Jamby, JC and others, and aimed at one direction--at Manny V. Lest we forget, the Filipino electorate is one that is sympathetic to an underdog. Villar, with his cool and almost (I hate to say this, but objectively it is true) "presidential demeanor" despite the intense mudslinging aimed at him, and despite the fact that he is rich, and thanks to the professional advise of seasoned marketing and PR consultants (who are all well-paid) is effectively appearing as the under-dog! Contrast this with Noynoy's petulant behavior, from his spat with Tony Lopez in one forum, to his incessant barrage of anti-Villar statements during his speeches, to even the petty things of Villar copying his campaign style, and lamenting that Manny V. might even end up copying his hair-style, was just way out of line, and too "un-presidential." Erap could have run away with this kind of murder, but not Noynoy. It does not help that he ends up in the league of Jamby Madrigal, who is so disliked by the electorate (imagine this: she is at the bottom of the surveys, with Nicky Perlas and JC de los Reyes outpolling her, despite the fact that she is a senator).

The Filpino electorate has turned into politics like a spectacle, an on-going soap. In this political culture, Villar has effectively turned the tables around and made himself the poor-boy who became rich, but could not be accepted by elites. He has allied himself with the heroes and heroines of soaps and reality TV. Meanwhile, the real son of heroes seem to have lost his bearings and is now seen in the company of "villains"--the rich and wealthy "contrabidas" scheming to thwart the success of this ambitious outsider from the slums of Tondo. This is the narrative that is more appealing to the same "outsiders" that Villar has imaged in children swimming in a sea of garbage.

And this is why Noynoy's campaign, despite the fact that he is still the front-runner, is running scared. The irony however, is that the only way he can fight Villar is to keep on bringing up the latter's negatives. He could no longer rely on the myth of his parents, for as polls show, this has effectively been eroded. He can still keep on saying what he is not (i.e. corrupt), but he has to match this with an equally attractive narrative of what, in fact, he is. And if he tries offering his own credentials and record, and his performance, the more that he may end up troubled, for these may be, sad but true, scarce and lack-luster.

Weird choices, rational choices

Ever since I posted in my Facebook account my choices for the Senate in the upcoming May 2010 elections, I have been receiving comments, some posted openly in my profile, others as private messages, which are rather interesting, in the sense that they are questions about the a) sanity, b) rationality, and c) political correctness of some of my choices. What particularly drew the ire of most are my votes for Adel Tamano, Miram-Defensor Santiago and Bongbong Marcos.

At first, I felt amused to a point that while I replied to the pointed comments, initially I was somewhat dismissive of them in the sense that I thought I do not owe anyone any explanation for practicing my fundamental right.

But then again, I realized that I needed to provide some logic and reason to the 12 names I have listed, if only to disabuse the minds of my friends who may feel a) betrayed, b) annoyed or c) amused.

But I am not going to be selective and simply justify why Adel, Miriam and Bongbong are on my list. Instead, I will give a complete picture of the political framework from where I based my choices.

At the outset, there are a couple of parameters upon which I grounded my choice, as I do believe that the process of choosing contains elements of personal ties and personal politics. Hence, there are candidates that I chose on the basis of affinity, whether by kinship or kindred, and there are those I chose for political reasons.

On the basis of affinity, I only have two names: Neric Acosta and Sonia Roco.

Neric is a friend of mine. He is the godfather of my eldest son. We were together in Hawaii as we both pursued our graduate studies in Political Science, where we also both danced with the Pamana Dance Company, a spin-off of the Bayanihan. But other than this, Neric is a very much qualified candidate, thereby making me feel much better to choose him since he possesses qualifications other than our personal friendship.

Sonia is not a friend of mine. I don't even know her personally. She doesn't even know me. But I am voting for her anyway as my commitment to her departed husband, the good Oragon Senator from Bicol, Senator Raul Roco, whom I have voted for President in the past. Just like Neric, I am also heartened by the thought that she is also a qualified candidate, thereby denying anyone the ammunition to criticize me for simply being too sentimental, or regionalistic.

Now, my political choices.

Of course, I have Risa Hontiveros, Liza Maza and Satur Ocampo to represent the progressive left, further emphasizing that the three collectively represents both sides of the Philippine left, eeven made more compelling since Risa and Liza have their feminist roots as well. I may disagree with some of the left's positions, but I still believe that it is about time that they have to be officially represented in the Senate, and I have no doubt that these three will represent all the facets of the progressive movement in the country.

Then I have Pia Cayetano for the environmental agenda, which I also strongly support. Pia Cayetano has grown in me during her first term. I did not like her, the first time, particularly her being just an inheritor of his father's seat (at least, Allan Peter was a member of the house when he was elected). But she has shown me enough evidence of a low-key, but effective advocate for the environment.

I also think that we need Muslims in the Senate, this is why I am voting for Adel Tamano and Yasmin Busran-Lao. They represent the two sides of Muslim Mindanao that I want to enfranchise--a moderate Adel and a progressive but rational Yasmin, to blunt the image of an Al Qaeda infested place where backhoes are used to dig common gravesites.

Then I also have to get some from mainstream politics, but ever conscious of the need for young, alternative voices. Ruffy Biazon appeals to me as one who is critical but fair. Joey De Venecia is a controversial choice, but I told myself that he would be an interesting addition to the Senate, as a foil to the future ghosts of Gloria that may still lurk deep in the halls and inner sanctums of government.

People asked me why I am voting for Miriam. My answer is: why not? Personally, I have not agreed with her on many instances, but simply put: I find her amusing. A gadfly. A patroness of irreverence in the halls of the upper legislative chamber. She would be the inertia that we need when sanity dictates we go on full speed; she would be the battery that would keep us going when sanity dictates we slow down; in short--she is the insanity that could somewhat blunt the safety and convenience of a rationally sane, yet acquiescent mind. When almost all would say "yes," somebody seemingly insane shouting "no" in colorful and outlandish words and manner would be a big relief, a comforting distraction, and an opportunity to think if indeed we are going in the right direction at the right pace. If there is one candidate that captures my post-modern leanings, it is Miriam.

And finally Bongbong Marcos. Ahh! The scion of the evil bloodline in contrast to the Cory-Ninoy saintliness now being tried hard to be rubbed on Noynoy. But as I have posted in my Facebook account, despite the demonic images that we have painted of his family, in the entire term of Bongbong as Governor and Representative of Ilocos Norte, he never performed in a "demonic way" and I have never seen or heard of him engage in acts that are contraty to my sense of propriety. What I see in him is a serious attempt to redeem the much damaged Marcos name. My vote for him is not a repudiation of the dark years of Martial Law, but as recognition of the inner spirit of redemption that is natural in us. A desire to prove to society that one Marcos could be different may be a driver as powerful as a desire to prove to society that a son always inherits the virtues of his parents. After all, while some of us would like to continue the good legacy of our parents, there are also those who swear that they would never inflict on their children what they have suffered from their parents.

I just suppose that my politics is one of hope, where I put premium on the promises of the future, and not dwell on the ghosts of the past.

Of departures and coming back

This is horrible. I have been away for so long in this piece of cyberspace where I used to populate with my words with gusto. Something must have happened to turn me into a passive blogger, or a blogger in absentia.

I guess, it was the holiday season that kept me away. Then came January, where I thought I could begin again, except that I had to pick up the pieces of my old tricks as I went back to full-time classroom teaching. It was almost like going back to biking--something that you know how to do, but could still feel some hesitation the first moment you stepped on the pedal and maintain your balance, familiar yet somewhat new. In my case, it was the enjoyment of a Sabbatical that provided the inertia that turned my pedagogical homecoming into something less enjoyable.

But I have to come back to this cyber-kingdom of mine, There are just too many things happening around me--politically, personally. The C5 controversy, my inability to choose a President, trouble with siblings--this is just a sample of the many things I want to write about again.

But all of these have to wait.

For now, I want to say good bye to someone.

Bobby Mendoza just died.

A fun-loving person with his own quirks, but a person I will miss. Many things could be said about him, but he was one of the very few cooperative faculty members in the College of Liberal Arts during my stint as Dean. Sure, we had our differences, particularly when he was one of those who protested my decision to replace the Chair of his Department at the time. But Bobby never had the malice. Bobby always was available not only to make you laugh, but to provide poignant pieces of advise, if not friendly reassuring talk. And he was one of those who I was able to coopt into allowing me the pleasure of dancing during the Green Idol performance of CLA, something which others simply did not give me.

But Bobby left, as he usually does, unnoticed, in contrast to how he announces his entrance into a place with his signature "Are you happy today?" spiel. Bobby has to die for me to have the courage to write again, if only to tell him that he will be sorely missed.

I guess, that is the whole point of it all. We have to treasure the moments of our returnings to familiar places, for this could also remind us of treasuring the moments when we remember those who would no longer return, except only in our memories.

Mommy D. and Me

The last time I posted something in this blogsite was more than a month ago. I was too busy finishing my book, and doing some other things. In addition, I just took up a new career as a part-time aerobics instructor in my neighborhood gym. It's something that I have taken up to make my life more exciting. At 48, I want to prove something. I am not just an academic. I am not going to stand by and let the years of my life pass as a routine. I don't want to be bored by what is expected and the usual.

Besides, if Mommy D. a.k.a. Dionesia Pacquiao can dream of becoming a recording star, I told myself that I have every right to become a fitness guru.

That is exactly the point that makes me crazy--when people who have no right come up and claim something that they don't deserve, or have no talent or capacity to become. This is why I decided to teach aerobics, albeit on a part-time basis, as a way of resisting the politics of boldness of these people who simply lay claim to an image just because they can get away with it.

Mommy D. became a celebrity by virtue of Manny P. Without him, she would never be taken seriously. I told myself that my becoming a fitness instructor is someting that I worked hard for, spending time learning the trick, losing pounds by lifting pounds, and spending at least two hours six times a week in the gym. I do not have to rely on the fame and fortune of someone else to make my 151 pounds turn into 137.

If Mommy D. can have the audacity to sing, and be bold enough to even see the products of such as fit to be sold in record bars, then I, in my humble opinion, have more right to lead those who desire to be fit as they sweat it out in the gym. She may have Manny and his money to be used as a fulcrum to make her and others believe her make-believe. I have nothing to offer except my health, both in body and mind, and yes, my authenticity, to my aerobics students.

Mommy D. as singer; Tonton C. as aerobics teacher. The former is a mystery of wealth defying the laws of sanity; the latter is a work of health transcending the challenges of age.

A Tale of Two Universities: A Case of Two Contrasting Everyday Forms of University Politics

In the Philippines, there is tendency for a shorter-term modality for appointing University administrators but with unlimited reappointment to also co-exist with the corporate modality of choosing administrators, thereby further entrenching a very top-down and centralized mode of university governance. On the other hand, a longer but fixed-term modality with limited reappointment has been also associated with universities that have more constituency-driven types of selecting their administrators, thereby further enabling a more participatory and decentralized mode of governance. The first ensures predictability and control by limiting spaces for constituency representation and articulations while the latter privileges voices or representation but also open the floodgates to more open contestations. This is not to say that there are no contestations in the first mode, but such are not expressed more openly, and usually take the form of faceless subversions and behind the back maneuvers in which people anonymously attack colleagues to whom they are actually otherwise cordial in face to face encounters. While open conflicts and contentious narratives may predominate a university with more participatory modes of governance, and thereby give the impression of an overt and visibly destructive politics, everyday forms of resistance—from preponderance of gossips and rumors, a high prevalence of anonymous poison letters, and latent undermining of people—tend to be more pervasive in a university that has more centralized forms of control. This effectively transforms the university into one that possesses a silent yet just differently but may be equally disenabling form of everyday politics. Universities that tend to have more manifest conflict have also provided more spaces for contesting authority and asserting organized and individual resistance. While politics here is less predictable, its architecture of power enable hierarchies to be more responsive since they are easily engaged and confronted by an academic politics that is more openly expressed. On the other hand, those who tend to be more controlled also tend to have more latent conflict, have less spaces for contestations, are more regimented and predictable, even as its everyday forms of academic politics are more insidious and invisible, effectively hiding in the niceness of their façade and the relative regularity of their rituals.

Concrete examples abound to show this. In one university that is noted for its liberal and participatory academic culture, faculty voices are very much openly expressed not only in the selection of administrators, but also in taking them to task and holding them up accountable for their actions. In this culture, open confrontation and direct engagement of concerned parties, whether among colleagues or with superiors, are more frequent, and aggrieved parties are less constrained to personally confront their antagonists and are willing to author or sign their names in a formal complaint or petition. Here, collegial decision making bodies exist at the university and college levels composed of faculty members that enable direct faculty representation not only on academic matters such as curriculum and student graduation, but also in organizational matters. This relatively open space for contestations is enabled by an academic culture that allows the proliferation not only of power centers, but also of individual expression of resistance against such power. This is ensured by a less rigid management regime in which while rules of conduct exist, these are not in fact totally and absolutely enforced, and if so, there is plenty of room for negotiability. Faculty members are allowed greater latitude not only in their academic endeavors, but more importantly in their own personal lives and how they express their own lifestyle preferences. There is less micromanagement of faculty behavior, in terms of strict monitoring of attendance or having dress code requirements. However, the relatively open space for contestations often lead to cases of severe factionalism manifested at all levels, from departments and units, up to the whole university. Some faculty meetings become virtual war zones, with faculty enmity openly expressed. This situation tends to undermine not only the operations of some units, but also even the careers of individual faculty members, some of whom are forced to leave the university for places that do not only offer better working conditions and salary packages, but also less political intramurals.

On the other side is the case of a leading private university in which the academic culture is more corporate, and where faculty representation is more tiered and less open, where the venues by which constituency interests are expressed are enabled only by a cascading hierarchy of Deans and Chairs representing their constituencies in specific bodies at the university and college Levels, This, however, does not fully insure authentic interest representation of the constituents by their Chairs or Deans, considering that the latter are appointed on a one-year term basis, thereby making them vulnerable and prevents them from truly going against top down imperatives. Such role is shifted to the faculty club which operates like a labor union, but takes more an identity of a company union that is still under the control and direction of management. The only direct participation of all faculty members exists at the department level during departmental Meetings. In this university, the constrained space for direct faculty participation is also matched by a relatively regimented academic culture, in which faculty members are monitored not only for their compliance of dress code policies, but also on their classroom attendance.

There is also a controlled atmosphere of contestations, in which dissenting voices tend to be less publicly expressed, thereby giving the impression of a less contentious academic culture. However, this is replaced by a more invisible domain of expressing resistance, seen in what I earlier referred to as the deployment of weapons of the weak, such as gossip and rumor, anonymous attacks, and the presence of informal corridors of power in which influence is exerted by subordinates to bypass their immediate superiors. In this academic culture, faculty members are more predisposed not to directly engage their colleagues with whom they have grievances, but instead go directly to their immediate supervisors, or if the conflict is with their immediate supervisors, they circumvent the line of command and directly go to higher administrative levels, even as they are also not willing to put their names and faces to a formal complaint. There have been many instances in which faculty members, Chairs or Deans are summoned by their immediate supervisors on the strengths of a complaint of an unnamed colleague or subordinate. This modality has the benefit of insulating the faculty ranks from vicious confrontations, but at the same time it also tends to institutionalize a system in which people are bold to talk on others without owning up to the responsibility of standing up for their grievances and accusations. It should be pointed out, however, that there are also faculty members who are much bolder and openly contest and challenge colleagues and superiors. However, one interesting pattern is that the likelihood of this behavior is significantly higher for those faculty members who have experienced teaching in and/or are graduates of the other university cited above.

The architecture of power in a university may also be reinforced by the actual physical spaces within which the campus is designed, particularly its classrooms and faculty offices. There are universities in which the faculty members have the luxury of having their own spaces. On the other hand, there are also those in which limited space only allows faculty cubicles in an otherwise common work space. This spatial configuration may have some implications on everyday politics, as it is easy to associate units with individual offices to a culture that may be prone to a less communitarian atmosphere, in which faculty members have their own private spaces where they can isolate themselves apart from others. In these private spaces, they are relatively insulated from peer gaze, and where, as one faculty member from a university with this type of space allocation pointed out, individual faculty members can easily plot against their colleagues, and where opposing camps can meet secretly to plan how to wage open war with each other.

A more communal working space, on the other hand, may foster a stronger sense of community and civility. Forced to share a workspace with colleagues, faculty members learn to adapt and have a more tolerant attitude towards others, even as the absence of “walls” enable a more shared sense of collective identity. However, common workspaces may also be more restrictive, and may in fact be more disenabling for the exercise of individual freedom, as it is easier to deploy control and regulation and to monitor faculty behavior. This is also seen when classrooms are designed to have glass windows on doors, where it is easier for administrators to monitor the attendance of faculty members. This type of physical architecture where faculty members’ share a common workspace may also foster a false sense of community, in which people are engaged only in superficial forms of camaraderie to maintain an air of civility, but such may not necessarily be sincere and deeply embedded.

In the final analysis, it is a choice between two different architectures of power, one that celebrates the liberating freedom of individuals to engage in an open discourse, or one that offers the security of controlled predictability of a community; a politically contentious and divided place but where you know who your enemies are, or a place with a strong sense of community but where your enemies could easily wear a smile as they plot against you. It is also a choice between a culture wherein contestations are more open but may lead to disenabling conflict that can visibly destabilize the institution, or one in which conflict is pushed to hide below what appears to be a calm institutional façade but may in fact work, like termites, to weaken its foundations. In the end, these are just two different manifestations of everyday university politics.

Writing about the ordinary and everyday as epiphany and political redemption

I started this book by making reference to my ordinary and everyday journeys, not only in physical terms as I travel a distance from my home to the university where I teach, but as an existential expedition into a constrained space for finding academic and scholarly meaning. While the theoretical and conceptual challenges may have appeared insurmountable, I derive pleasure in being able to craft my own narrative that on its own has become not just a scholarly endeavor, but has also acquired a form that is also personally and deeply political. The materials that I used in stitching what may appear to some as diverse bodies of texts are all based on my personal encounters, either as actual physical experiences, or as virtual immersions.

Being a TV fan, I considered media spaces as a natural home from where I can launch my inquiries. In the end, not only that I was able to draw empirical data from my sources, I was also able to establish kinship with my respondents, from TV journalists to celebrities to reality game show contestants. It is also in writing this book that I became a netizen. In my attempt to enter the world of cyberspace as merely a methodological strategy from where to craft my inquiries, I eventually became an active participant in the online discussions in Pinoyexchange as a “PEXer,” an avid member of the Facebook community, and a blogger managing my own site.

The human body also became a space of interest to me, being someone who has been mystified by the centrality of the body in our discourses, even as we try harder to cover and hide it. It is here where I was able to engage the pleasures of having my body re-worked in a gym and rejuvenated by alternative medicine that started just as efforts to put some methodological rigor and adopt participant observation techniques in my research to ensure a more immersed form of inquiry, but has become rituals that I have come to associate with a lifestyle that made my body sexy and healthy not only for my private satisfaction, but for the pleasure of being the object of public admiration. While I could be accused of succumbing to the power of the dominant body narratives, this made me realize the complexity of human choices that could not simply be limited to submission and defiance, that one can still be empowered by refusing to be beholden to this simplistic dichotomy. It made me realize that repression is not just about submitting to dominant narratives, but also comes when you un-problematically submit to constructs that fix your position as one that is supposed to be repressed. It is also in this regard that while my inquiry into the public narratives of the body enabled me to learn about the private pains of commercial sex workers, it also unsettled what I thought was a stable ground for my theorizing that fixed the identity of prostituted women as always disempowered and without choices. That single encounter with a sexual worker in Calamba City has seriously confronted my own academic biases and has motivated me to think outside the box of theoretical politics drawn from long years of having feminists as friends, into a more nuanced appreciation of how different, and how powerful and theoretically sophisticated the ordinary reflections from marginalized identities and objectified bodies are.

The university is an easy place for me to inquire into. It is my natural roaming ground. It is also where I encountered most of my pains, even as it is also a place where I asserted my own political identity. The inspiration that led me to write this book is in fact drawn less from my theoretical readings of the French cultural theorists, or of Foucault. While they provided the templates from where I crafted my narratives, as they also provided me what may have appeared as my ideological framework for engaging my own political projects, what actually inspired me more to write this book was how I experienced institutionalized disempowerment in a university setting, and was further cemented when I still felt this even at a time when I already occupied a position of administrative leadership. It really made me realize how fluid, and how contentious ordinary and everyday power relations are, how inadequate the meta-narratives of the dead white men of political theory could be, and how limited our dominant tools of political inquiry have become.

Writing a book about the politics of ordinary and everyday experiences may be too theoretically avant garde, and I may court accusations of lacking performativity, or usefulness. This may be the “truth” for others, but it is far from my own truth. This book has an extremely performative value, not only as it was able to exorcise my personal pains, but more importantly, it is a concrete step in providing a compelling story to tell against the dominance of statist political science. It is my own stake in a discipline to which I migrated from a totally different field in the natural sciences, but within which I also found myself lost. This book is a narrative of how I recovered my own ground.

This book touched on the logic of cultural production as a domain of contestations, and posited that the dynamics by which these are institutionalized through our narratives is a complex game of those who assert their power to dominate and those who challenge them by engaging in a complex array of acts of resistance, from open contestations to the deployment of hidden and everyday weapons of the weak. This book is at the heart of this dynamics. I showed that a book could also be a narrative of resistance, in as much as it can also be a political project. This book is an artifact invested in how I assert my own performativity, narratives and templates as my way of speaking loudly to the power or truth and desire, as a body of knowledge the production of which has brought me much pleasure. It is also a vehicle by which I was able to recuperate the authenticity of my political identity, even as I proposed modalities by which others can recuperate theirs. Finally, its redemptive power lies in how I was able to build its politics around a sense of community with those whom I am writing it for, the ordinary peoples as they negotiate the challenges of their everyday lives, even if I must share the guilt of having presented this in a form which many of them may not be able to access or understand.

The most political moment, however, is when the validation of this book will rest on those whose flaws and imperfections it may have implicated in its texts. I may have to admit that some of the most biting critiques I have launched were directed at those practices which “had” us, and will continue to “have” us. One of the most enlightening epiphany of reflexive scholarship, experienced both in writing and reading texts, is when one realizes that much as we want to search for the enemy in the spaces, narratives and bodies of others, that in fact it lies deeply embodied in our own spaces, narratives and bodies. Realizing such is, however, the moment when redemption begins, and proceeds further as we also discover that our liberation rests not on the permission of others, or on account of the meta-narratives found in the grand ideologies, methodologies and canons of our disciplines, but on the power of our own local, ordinary and everyday small stories, and of those stories that are told about us. This is the whole point of this book. It makes our politics personal, and places our liberation in our own hands. It is about the political that lies in the ordinary and the everyday, not in unfamiliar spaces where narratives of domination and resistance emerge and are contested by others, but in familiar grounds, found here, now, in us.

Alternative Healing, Jolina, Kiko and Bebe Gandanghari

It is evident that the option for healthy and sexy bodies, from enrolling in the gym, to buying diet pills and whitening creams, or getting a liposuction, or patronizing the new generation of food supplements and health drinks, is a luxury which is available only for those who can afford. However, it is also true that if one looks at the bodies of those who work on manual labor, the farmers, mechanics, stevedores, and baggage handlers, we can see toned and muscular bodies matched with flat abs and bulging biceps and triceps. For them, there is probably no need to go to the gym and spend time on the treadmill or in lifting weights, considering that their everyday working lives is already one big gym. They also would probably don’t have to diet, considering that their meager income could only afford them to have simple and low calorie meals, perhaps even too low to a point that many of them end up critically malnourished. This is why while they may have the external appearance of having “bodies to die for,” it is their health that are seriously at risk. This is their tragedy, one that is caused by the lethal articulation between an increasingly toxic environment brought about by natural and anthropogenic alterations of our planet, and an increasingly expensive cost of Western medical health care, coupled with the deployment of unhealthy Western lifestyles, from fast and junk foods to unhealthy vices.

However, relying on Western medical interventions may not even be providing us a cure to the ailments of modernity. Aside from their prohibitive costs, there is also an increasing discomfort with the ferocity by which new drugs and other chemical-based medical interventions are now being pushed by pharmaceutical companies and the medical practitioners who subscribe to them. It is in this domain that the flaws of Western medicine is confronted and engaged by the emergence of alternative medicine which is more herbal, organic and oriental, and in some cases, may be more affordable. The popularity of traditional Chinese medicine, for example, has reappeared even in modern cities like Manila. These herbal-based medical practices that consider disease less of a chemical malfunctioning of the body and more as a result of an internal imbalance within, offer an interesting counter-narrative to the more intrusive, chemical-dependent, and expensive Western medical practices.

On a different note, and based from my own personal encounter with this alternative form of healing, the delivery of treatment and care takes on a different spatial configuration compared to a Western medical facility like a clinic or a hospital. The Chinese doctor I regularly visit in Chinatown is both a doctor and a source of humor, and the space where he works is not just a clinic but an inclusive community. While Western clinical practice subsists on the privacy of doctor-patient encounters, and its associated confidentiality of diagnosis, the clinic in Chinatown offers a public viewing of such encounter. The room where the doctor works is a small one, and his diagnoses of his patients, made in broken Tagalog, are orally delivered not as a confidential reading of what is wrong with the internal balance of the body of the patient, but as a recitation within the hearing distance of those in the room at the time. While those reared in Western medical practice may frown on this as highly unprofessional, it has demystifying effects, even as it makes the whole process a participatory and inclusive exercise of a group in community with each other. Those who know how to speak Chinese in the room automatically become translators both to the Doctor and to the patient; old-timers help those who are new in explaining not only the rules in the clinic, but also provide their testimonials to clear up doubts, or simply to give advise; people who are first in line help facilitate the queue. These are rituals of community that may not necessarily heal the sick, but are definitely composite of a social capital that is enabled as a group of people negotiate the space through which they seek their own healing.

This alternative form of healing, in addition to other indigenous ways, which include the native Filipino art of healing, confronts a dominant narrative in which the focus on the body, its appearance and vitality, is now in the context no longer just of capitalist production, but also of consumption and pleasure in a political economy of images, in which the body becomes now a commodity to be bought and “consumed”, and not just a resource for capitalist production. In this domain, a dominant narrative specifies not only the “look” and the “body” that is to be desired but also how these can be achieved. There is a deployment of dominant templates not only for fashion and diet, but also even on internal wellness and external appearances. These are then institutionalized in a complex array of discourses and narratives that are produced in society through the operation of certain kinds of truth and knowledge as embodied in templates as diverse as fashion rules, appearance norms, and appropriate lifestyles drawing their logic from professions like Western medicine and effectively deployed by efficient marketing.

However, there are those who refuse to go with the flow, as they create their own embodiments. Jolina Magdangal, a movie personality, is well known for creating her own sense of unconventional fashion which transgressed the established norms of color combinations and accessory matching to the consternation of established fashion gurus. In fact, the word “jologs” which refer to crass and of the hoi polloi was coined based on her name. Nevertheless, Jolina was able to impose her sense of alternative fashion to a point that she is now considered a fashion icon herself. Raymund Francis Rustia is a walking conversation piece with his dreadlocks and elaborate adornments that is uncharacteristically out of the ordinary. His appearance in the first season of “Survivor Philippines,” particularly his ethical playing of the game catapulted him to fame. Kiko, as he is popularly called, transgressed the norm provided by society, and instead of ending up being called weird, now appears in mainstream TV as host to an environmentally-oriented show in one of the TV networks. Bebe Gandanghari is another person who breached the norms provided by society with regards to the human body. Formerly a male matinee idol in the name of Rustom Padilla, he came out and admitted his true sexual orientation in one of the most explosive moment of the reality game show “Pinoy Big Brother,” went abroad, and came back totally transformed into a woman figure. Far from being considered a “freak”, Bebe is now accepted less as an anomaly, and more as a transformed body that carry a sense of personal power by deploying a kind of truth that may not be comfortable to the established norms, but nevertheless speaks loudly as a physical counter-narrative to the constrained identities that imprison those who remain in their closets.

Jolina, Kiko and Bebe, as celebrities with bodies who transgressed social forms of control provided powerful images that find meaning among a citizenry that derive their templates from popular culture. Their transgressions offered a counter-narrative to the dominant images that are displayed in the same venues where they exist—the showbiz media, TV and the entertainment industry. In their iconic presence, they are just three of the many more who are not celebrity figures, but who in their ordinary ways have tried to transgress, resist, and confront the disempowering politics by which their bodies are expected to conform to the ideal shape, size and configuration as dictated by the dominant political economy that images the body not only as a project to be produced but also as a resource to be consumed.

Gym Politics

One of the epicenters of the modern body as a project to be reformed and reconstructed is the gym. While barber shops and beauty salons have earlier become places where looks are changed, they are merely alterations of external body appendages like hair and nails, of which changes may create an illusion of a different look. However, it is in the gym where the body becomes an object of a more radical alteration without surgical operation, in which muscles are pumped to make them bigger, or toned to make them firmer and tighter. The modern gym is no longer a place where the young, mostly men, learn the rudiments of masculinity as they study and engage in physical exercise in their naked glory. In fact, the word “gymnasium” is rooted in Greek, where it originally meant as a place where one can be naked. It is now a place where they celebrate the body as an architectural work for both masculinity and femininity, with gyms now catering to both men and women, straight and gay.

A day in the modern gym is like paying homage to vanity manifested in body flaunting by those who have the perfect physique, and of body envy by those who are trying to acquire such perfect physique. The gym is turned into a place for another kind of learning no longer conducted by master teachers in the Greek tradition on young men as they learn not only the rewards of truth and knowledge but also the pleasures of desire. The modern gym becomes a place where you come in with a sense of inadequacy and an urge to overcome it by learning from the templates that you see in the images created in the media about the perfect butt and the washboard abs, and as re-presented in the bodies that you see parading right before your very eyes. The gym is almost like a sorting place of images of people coming in as veterans, as showed by the badges embodied in their biceps, triceps and deltoids, and as neophytes seen in people with fat bellies, or undeveloped muscles, people who look nerdish, the geeks and the dorks. The latter undertakes the rituals of bench pressing, crunching and lifting, and has to endure both initial shame and lots of pain, looking forward to the day that their hats as beginners will be replaced by the crowning glory of buffed bodies ready to be exhibited to the new batch of nerds, geeks and dorks. The gym, in this regard, becomes a space for an institutionalized fraternity of sorts, with neophytes and masters interacting in the context of a symbolic brotherhood based on sweat and muscles.

In the Greek tradition, the gym is a place where truth and knowledge articulate with pleasure and desire. In its modern incarnation, such truth is no longer residing in the wisdom of philosophy and the arts, but in the simulated images of a body which modern capitalism has produced as commodity to be sold in the media, through the images of half-naked models and actors parading their physiques to create a demand for these, and then reproduced in the body rituals which the gym now offers to its clients for a fee. Thus, the media images of a perfect body is a commodity consumed by those who desire to have it, even as a sculpted body comes out of gyms and other fitness establishments as a reproduction of such images, where they now join the array of representations that further reproduce the commodified perfect body to the eyes of those who feel inadequate about theirs. While there may be no words that attend the sculpted, reformed and remade body, in that it is pure image, its physicality becomes an embodiment of a silent yet potent narrative about the power of a new political economy of human appearances. The desire for a god-like body and the pleasures for having it become a powerful driver of this narrative.

It is easy to associate the politics of the gym with male domination, considering the relatively stronger presence of the male image compared to the female one. In fact, in most gyms and fitness centers, aerobic dancing sessions, which many consider as feminine, are more patronized by women, even as the weight training sessions are very much male-dominated. However, the creeping presence of vanity-induced consumerism, and the simulacra of ideal appearances now deploying not only images of women as reality, but the reality of male beauty as image, have infected even men to create a demand among them not only for aerobics lessons, but even for beauty enhancement treatments. This led to some gyms establishing saunas, spas and salons in their own premises, even as men’s consumption of these services in places other than the gym has increased. However, a more political form of resistance, which De Certeau (1984) have theorized about, that tend to undermine the dominant masculinity prevailing in a typical gym was the preponderance of gay bath houses presenting themselves as fitness centers cum gyms, mainly starting in US cities such as San Francisco and New York but has since spread to other gay-dominated sectors of major cities in the world. In these places, the overall strategies associated with straight body envy and the rituals of heterosexual physicality found in gyms are subverted by a gay sub-culture that effectively deployed tactics that converted these spaces into places where gay men express their lifestyles. Exclusive gay bath houses are now already present in Manila, even as anecdotal evidence suggests that a gay sub-culture here is silently trangressing and implanting itself in the shower and steam rooms even in mainstream gyms and fitness centers. In the end, the gym which used to be a haven for straight male power, have in fact become a potent cruising venue, if not a playground for gays in search of pleasure as they consummate the truth of their own sexualities.

I remember a comment I heard once which said that the single place with the highest density of gays, next to a beauty salon, is the gym. This is not to be taken as an insult, but as a celebration of a successful form of gay politics.

Politics as a Party

Now that elections are less than eight months away, I am tempted to again ready my party shoes, my pop corn, and my drinks and be prepared for one big party event.

There is one thing that Filipinos are noted for—it is our talent to entertain. Our fiestas are much awaited not only for the food we serve, but also for the dances and songs that we perform. Other people, including even Americans, which are perceived to be natural party animals, are amazed at the way we Filipinos are able to orchestrate the transformation of a seemingly dull moment to an explosion of fun, food, and frolic, not to mention booze. To us, however, this is our natural. After all, we are the same people who converted EDSA I into a big party, a grand political festival, where we easily transformed a tense conflict situation into a venue for community gathering and celebration.

It is in this context, therefore, that we should not be surprised if Filipinos see a “political party” not as the boring institution of loyalty, ideology, and platforms that textbooks in political science depict. Instead, it is seen as a “party”—a fun-filled political event, where anyone can dance with abandon in a political game where the norms are not the principles that one have but the camaraderie and personalities that one can enjoy.

We are indeed natural party animals. We have deconstructed a technical political term and turned it on its head to reveal another meaning. This is the only explanation I can think of, if only to make sense of this explosion of political partying by many of our politicians. Indeed, they turn politics into a party, where the talk is not about issues but about appearances; where the spoiler is the one serious and boring, and the star is the one who comes with a glittering dress or a perfumed look or a plastic smile talking an empty talk. There, the likes of Winnie Monsod become a spoiler while Miriam Santiago is party queen.

Politics became a party in past elections, when someone like Eddie Gil appeared as a serious option for citizens who have lost their faith in the electoral process. Politics became a party when a candidate like the late Raul Roco, who had the reputation for explosive temper, suddenly turned into a flower lover, later joined by Lito Atienza. Politics became a party when Ping Lacson, allegedly feared for reasons only Mon Tulfo knows, began to smile, and even shed tears on camera, although lately he has caused Erap Estrada, his erstwhile friend, to frown a lot.

Politics become a party when being a simple newsreader, as Noli de Castro was and still is, considered as equivalent to good public service; or when cute people like Pia Cayetano suddenly came out of nowhere to claim the senate seat of her late father, as if it is an inheritance. Politics became a party when Brother Eddie descends into the arena like a messiah, allegedly sent by God, and joyfully announced by an MTV VJ in the person of Donita Rose herself. Politics became a party when Jamby, Lito and Bong became Senators of the Republic.

Politics became a party when former enemies Miriam and Gloria became friends, and when Imee and Bongbong have only good things to say about Noynoy, for indeed parties are occasions when rivals kiss and make up, even if only for show. Of course, the greatest party of all explodes in its most feverish frenzy when Gloria threw a big one in New York, raking up bills that could rival the ones made by the greatest party animal of them all—Imelda Marcos, whose reinvention of herself through the power of popular culture is a rare political feat, to a point that the CCP has even honored her.

This is how we practice politics—as a party. In this party scene, rules of the game designed by the great minds in political science are thrown out. In fact, we Filipinos have created our own categories that go beyond the imagination of any bookish political science major. The absence of strong political parties, and here I refer to groups that aggregate political interests and compete during elections, is not the only peculiar contribution we have to the annals of political theory. We should be reminded that we are the only country where Senators from the opposition parties (again, I refer to the political group) become chairpersons of committees.

However, and lest we become cocky and declare our uniqueness as our monopoly, let us be humbled by the fact that there are other countries where political parties (again, I refer to the group) are as weak as ours. There are also countries where politicians easily change their political parties (again, I refer to the political group). There are also countries where crazy and weird characters brave whatever sanity impediments to join the political party (here, I now refer to the event, and not the political group) and enjoy the fun.

African countries have also weak, if not weaker, political party systems. Cambodia, Myanmar and Laos have strong dominant parties, but weak opposition parties. China, the sleeping economic giant, has only one political party. The United States is supposed to have two strong political parties, but their system was not effective enough to stop a George W. Bush from inflicting himself on all of us, until Barack reinvented himself to redeem the Democratic Party from being the party of losers.

Thailand, the emerging tiger of Southeast Asia, was once dominated by a party, the Thai Rak Thai, whose ranks grew from the migration of politicians from the other established parties. Speaking of Thai Rak Thai, its name simply translates to “Thai loves Thai.” How is that for a name? Not even Imelda could have had such creativity to name a party “Pinoy Mahal ang Pinoy.” However, Former Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra was able to get away with it, and Thai Rak Thai was poised to build an even stronger majority in the Thai Parliament, until financial scandal and corruption charges, and a simmering Muslim secession movement in the south, spoiled Thaksin’s party (here, I refer to both meanings of the word) and caused him to live in exile.

As for colorful characters, I do not have to remind you of the California elections some years back that Arnie won, which had a fun-filled cast of characters that included a midget and a porn star—indeed a perfect party! And what about the eunuch that ran in India? Or those mynah birds and holy cows used as campaign materials there? Apparently, in India, when they throw a political party and invite party animals, they also make it a point to include the real ones.

On Simplifying Politics as a Morality Play Between Good and Evil

The surge of Noynoy Aquino's popularity, based from the latest polls, albeit only on limited but significant areas in Luzon (http://newsinfo.inquirer.net/inquirerheadlines/nation/view/20090914-225115/Aquino-tops-Luzon-poll) is very tempting for someone to toot the horn and celebrate the impending victory of the good versus the evil, or at the very least, that the good is winning over the evil.

While I am partial towards Noynoy, I would caution anyone against simplifying politics and life as a battle between good and evil. It is not, at least to the ordinary citizen.

Conrad de Quiros, in his column which appeared today, September 14, in the Philippine Daily Inquirer, criticized those who problematize the "good versus evil" narrative. I am one of those. In the column, he called us too theoretical, too confined in a tiny box, and too out of touch with the reality of politics and how the ordinary Filipino citizen thinks. (http://opinion.inquirer.net/inquireropinion/columns/view/20090914-225096/It-is-Good-vs-Evil)

I have high respects for Conrad, and have agreed with him almost 99 percent of the time. This is one of the rare one percent that I would strongly disagree with my fellow Bikolano.

The narrative of good versus evil, in fact, is a convenient template for those in power and those who challenge them to mobilize and rally their supporters. It is easy. And it is too simple. All you have to do is to reduce the complexity of people's choices into a dualism between the good (which is always whoever you support), and the evil (of course, the one you don't support). Thus, it is in fact less of a reality that people experience, but more of an image that one conjures and simulates. Using plain language, it is an advertising campaign, an image building strategy. And our experiences with ads and image make-overs is that they create a hype to manipulate people's search for completeness in the face of a flawed existence--buy this product to make yourself whole, so to speak.

It is the same in political discourse. We speak of an incomplete national experience, a flawed national narrative brought about by evil forces now incarnated through a short woman with a mole who loves expensive food. We want to sell an alternative, our "product" who embodies the "good." No matter how strongly one can agree with the demonification of Gloria, this should not cloud our judgment in being honest with ourselves. It is all but campaign hype. But to offer it as biblical truth is, if I may use the metaphor of boxes, not even thinking in a tiny box, but thinking in a very large but nevertheless very imaginary box.

The opposition between good and evil is a convenient tool of those at the top of the overt national narrative, the elites, and power strugglers and their apologists. It is never the discourse of the ordinary. To assume that ordinary citizens could easily fall in this trap is assuming too much of the elite's power to beguile and too less of the ordinary citizen's ability to discern.

To the ordinary citizen, the issues that matter most are survival, authenticity and how to cope and make best of what they have. In a situation in which uncertainty, complexity and the multiplicity of possibilities predominate your decision landscape, it is going to be suicidal and inauthentic to simplify your choices between a good and an evil. Ordinary peoples negotiate the complex pathways of their everyday lives by their willingness to compromise and suspend moral judgments to survive the cacophony of obstacles thrown their way and to retain their bearings. This is why there is a white lie told even by those who go to mass everyday to make their children secure and safe; of a traffc transgression occassionally done by a conscientious tax payer and efficient manager if only to be on time to a meeting; of a human rights advocate technically living in sin with somebody without the benefit of a marriage, or with somebody of the same sex, if only to satisfy his or her own right to happiness; or of a farmer tenant pilfering from his landlord's share of the harvest by not reporting the correct volume; or of the many who are forced into prostitution just to support their families. The list could go on and on.

And in the above examples, the acts of the people mentioned are not cases of pure evil. And the choices that they make are not simply choosing one over the other.

No, it is not us who theorize about the complexity of ordinary life that are out of touch with reality.

On the contrary, I value the experience of the ordinary too much that I am not about to be stampeded by an ideological desire to justify the candidacy of somebody, no matter how I like him, by calling the choices that people make as unreal and fictitious.

History may have been written as an opposition between good and evil, and great transformations have been painted to be triumphs of the good over the evil. But I have said this before, and I am going to say this again--the history that we know is always written by the winners, and not by the losers. There is much to be teased out from the silences that are not articulated there. It is in these spaces that life becomes a complex terrain of everyday struggle, seen in ordinary people's own personal histories of negotiating the pathways outside the simplifying templates of an ideal good and a demonized evil driving the choices that they make. In fact, a careful check even of grand events, or of actions of kings, presidents, revolutionaries and great intellectuals will reveal that these are not purely manifestations of moral decisions in the context of a good-evil moment.

Furthermore, while Barack Obama and Cory Aquino may have been children of this Manichean opposition between good and evil, as Conrad points out in his column, so was Adolf Hitler when he demonized the Jews and painted the great Aryan race as the vessel from which the good in the human race could be realized. Many historical goods have come out of the narratives of good fighting evil. But in the same manner, many evil deeds have also been legitimized by it. Besides, what is "good" and what is "evil" is relative to the one who speaks. In an elitist narrative, those who have been given the right to write history would naturally have the upperhand.

And the last time I checked, Imelda Marcos is still at it whenever she talks about the true, the good and the beautiful. And she was just recently honored by the CCP.

I would say this: let those who write and speak emotionally and with conviction on behalf of the candidates they are committed to support no matter what speak the language of good and evil. They are just doing their jobs. That is their box, their very large but nevetheless very imaginary box.

Agonizing About Noynoy

In the past several Presidential elections, I have always voted for a loser, to a point that some friends joked about the fact that I am not a very good political scientist, considering that I should know better whom to vote for using my own "objective" assessment of the political landscape.

My defense was that I am not an ordinary political scientist, considering that I study the ordinary and the everyday, and not the grand political processes associated with the state. My expertise lies in discerning the political out of Darna and Survivor Philippines, and not in divining political futures from grand scripts and discourses. And even if I could, I would never vote for someone just because she or he is going to win. The exercise of suffrage is too sacred for me to use to mortgage my principles in exchange for the feeling of having been on the winning side. I derive comfort from the fact that what most of recent history have told us is that the winning side is oftentimes also the wrong side.

This time, however, my losing streak may just end with the eventual vote I may cast with Noynoy.

But things have to be brought to careful attention, things that lead me into an agonizing self-reflection. The operative word here is "may," implying that I am not yet 100 percent certain, not only of my vote for him, but also of his chances of winning.

One source of my personal agony is the nagging thought that despite the fact that I may eventually be on the winning side, then why is it that I am not that ecstatic of the possibility? I am bothered by the fact that I still have doubts.

A friend recently told me that Noynoy is the best choice to lead the country into a moral recovery, considering that moral uprightness is in his genes. This is exactly what makes me uncomfortable, for indeed while there is no doubt to the moral force that characterized the union of Ninoy and Cory, and the dominant presence of faith in the worldview of the latter, buying the genetic argument poses a serious risk when one looks at what happened to Kris.

Seriously, however, I am very much uncomfortable putting my hope for the country's recovery in the hands of a family name just because of its political pedigree. This is tantamount to an act of legitimizing a fated form of dynasty, where one clan is almost bestowed the divine right to rule. What would be next? That any Aquino is good, and that all Marcoses are bad? Well, aside from Kris, there was the dancing queen Teresa Aquino-Oreta who sided with Erap with her notorious dance moves in the impeachment hearings in the Senate to prove that the genetic argument is extremely flawed. Kidding aside, what if it turns out that the elements of Kris and Tessie running in the blood of Noynoy might just show up?

Doubts like these emerge simply because we really don't know Noynoy as himself that much. Before the death of his mother, he was just an average performing legislator who simply capitalized on his surname to win a seat in the House and later in the Senate. Noynoy has to really try harder to project himself now as not just the son of Ninoy and Cory, and begin to chart for himself a political narrative which is different from, even as equally if not more promising and compelling than, his parents'. And here, it seems he is not doing very well, considering that his trajectory is in the same manner as her mother's. A death catapulted him to take on a presidential bearing like his mother; he evinces reluctance in the same way Cory was reluctant before; he went to the South on a retreat to reflect like what Cory did. In this process of retracing the path which his mother took, whether deliberately or not, he began to acquire an umbra of religiousity the public has never seen him to have. This may be good to some, but for me it simply betrays the lack of originality and authenticity. Personally, I have always been suspicious of candidates who appropriate religion in building their images and increasing their political stocks. This is why I will never vote for Fr. Ed Panlilio, Bro. Eddie and Bro. Mike.

I have a feeling that this coming elections will be fought not in the domain of memories, but in the landscape of the future. May 2010 may not be that far in time from now, but in a political campaign, a week could be a century. Many things could happen. As the Cory magic wanes, Noynoy will begin to be scrutinized not for what his bloodline would imply, or what his parents have bequeathed him at the time of his birth and at the times of their deaths. He will, by his own terms and record, now be deconstructed, evaluated, weighed, rated, scored, attacked, interrogated, and engaged by an increasingly critical and discerning public, and by competitors who will undoubtedly deploy all tactics, from fair to dirty, at and against him. Among others, he will be put to task regarding his position on agrarian reform. He could not even use the C5 controversy against Villar for the simple reason that he is part of the Senate that allowed such insertions when the budget was first deliberated.

As for me, I will continue to hope that he will do his best. I hope he can begin to be his own person. I hope he can escape from his elitist image and penetrate the CDE crowd to compete with Villar, Erap and Noli. I hope that while using his pedigree and his parents' moral force as an inspiration, that he will now chart a forward looking course of not capitalizing on their deaths and what they could have done, but on embarking on a journey about our future lives, his plans and what could be accomplished, as a way to wing it through the youth vote for which he will compete against Villar and Chiz

I am hoping he will do this so that when the last ballot has been scanned in May 2010, hopefully in the cleanest election we will ever have, that I could finally say that at last, I have voted for the winner, and after six years, I can also proudly say that my winning side was also the right side of our history.

Of Awards and Recognitions

It took me a while before I could muster enough courage to say this.

Now is the time.

I am sick and tired of awards and recognitions. Particularly if they come as a price you have to pay for acting unnatural just to please. Or when the recognition is tantamount to being knighted as part of an elite group. And most particularly if they come in exchange for some kowtowing and ass licking (pardon my French).

And this is not coming from someone who is just sour griping. I have won awards and recognitions on my own, and would not even dare list these just to prove my point. Those who know me would testify that I am not lying.

But what really gets me are the kinds of awards and recognitions in which what you become is a person recognized for what you are not, and for what others would like you to be.

There is this prestigious award given to young scientists, for example, but I know of many who have been awarded this recognition not out of exemplary work, but of extraordinary interpersonal skills. I know of a place, I am not going to name where but for those in the know would probably be able to guess, in which a quick way to win the award would be to be nice to a select elite group. I remember being approached by someone who I presumed cared enough to advise me that if I want to become an outstanding young scientist, that I should know who I should be and should not be associating with. Of course, it is but natural for this select group to take care of their own (and conversely, to make it difficult for those who do not belong in their group), to a point that the older members use their clout in the science community to facilitate the recognition of their younger cohorts--provided that they behave. Indeed, they even have a very efficient reservation system and a pecking order in which one young member already is reserved for a given year when to receive the award.

Naturally, the principled person which my parents taught me to become shuddered at the thought of playing politics and kissing asses of senior scientists if only to win a medal I could not even be proud of.

And then there is this award for outstanding alumni, in which people nominated me to receive, but I flatly refused for the simple reason that I have to produce my own evidences and supporting documents. I was just too proud, perhaps, to believe that all my work are public in nature, and therefore those who feel I truly deserve the award must find the time to look for these themselves, instead of me carting off boxes of publications, medals and recognitions. This is in the same league as that pesky international who's who that offers you to have a place in an alleged book of outstanding individuals, if only you pay a fee.

But the cake is reserved to one group organized to be supposedly composed of scholars par excellence but whose elitism and exclusiveness are taken by some of its members to medieval heights , in which people who are nominated to become one of them are subjected to scrutiny far beyond their academic reputations, but would include their personal life. And here, we are not even talking about immorality, but the very trivial quirks of somebody being denied membership for the simple reason that he is perceived to be quarrelsome, or somebody in the group doesn't like another nominee's style of written communication. One time, I almost fell on the floor when I was told that one reason why somebody was denied membership was that she was a single mother (as if all single mothers are of dubious moral character), or that one male nominee who is obviously gay is said to be having an affair with another man (and what did they expect from him, to have an affair with a woman? For crying out loud, this is why he is gay!), when in the same breath you have currently sitting members who are also as gay as you can get, but perhaps are just too good in hiding their affairs.

Here, my deepest sense of moral outrage was ignited by what I find as ridiculous and hypocritical acts of misplaced moral uprightness. I guess, I am just offended by a group anointing itself as guardians of morality. Reminds me of the Pharisees, or of moral McCarthyism. In the name of guarding their precious values, they forgot what one morally upright outcast of His society in His time once said: let those without sin cast the first stone.

Awards and recognitions come and go, and could be one or the other. The National Artists controversy, if only to give an example, is a shining testament to how political power can easily poison the process, even as one could also reveal an exclusionary elitism masquerading as due process and embedded in the vetting of nominees. Carlo Caparas may not necessarily be 100 percent wrong when he said that hell was raised against him because of the kind of art he practiced. It is too bad Gloria made it worse for him. What can I say? The lady simply pollutes anything she touches of late, including expensive dinners. I am going to bet that had Carlo received the award from Cory, many in the progressive art group would find ways to justify this as a form of democratizing the process.

I may still value awards and recognitions from peers in the form of academic journals publishing my work; or of being promoted using a very rigorous, fair and objective process such as the one we have at DLSU; or of getting grants or fellowships from competitions which have fairly established protocols. This is why I am proud of my publications, my promotions, and my recent Fulbright grant.

But what makes me even proudest is when I go home to a family that loves me the way I am, bare and devoid of all medals and accolades but simply being me--a husband, father, son and brother. My family is my most priceless medal--pure, unadulterated gold, silver and bronze rolled into one with some accents of timeless diamonds.

So, to those who think I am unlucky and miserable just because I am not an outstanding young scientist, or have not been invited to join this elitist group, or have not been recognized as an outstanding alumni of my school (from elementary to college), pardon my French--but I can tell you this: get all your medals and plaques, and shove them up as high as Mt. Everest for all I care!