If there’s anything that made me pick up Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan by Vlad Bautista Gonzales, it was its size and title - the same things that allow me to pick up books by Milflores Publishing more often than I would any other publishing house. There’s something easy and light about the way their books are packaged, something that calls out to you as you browse through the Filipiniana section of any bookstore. And with prices that are almost always only equivalent to the price of a large cup of coffee in your neighborhood Starbucks, it’s easy to shell out for their seemingly endless set of new releases.

Gonzales’ book of essays though also had the word “astig” going for it. A word that the author himself swears to using, but really only has a flimsy because broad description for what it actually is. In the essay with the same title as the book, the word “astig” is allowed a life all its own: “Kahit saan ako pumunta may astig. Sa bahay, may astig. Sa eskuwela, may astig. Sa TV at saka sa DVD, may astig. Minsan may nagtsismis sa’kin, astig daw ako. Hindi ako naniwala (102).”

And yet, it is this instability of definitions that allows for the book itself to bank on the notion of the “astig” - whether it means to or not. Particularly to a female reader, it is the one thing that allows for the book of essays to be digestible at the very least, and downright enjoyable at most.

This is of course not to say that Gonzales’ essays are politically incorrect as far as gender issues are concerned. In fact, what he employs as male essayist, obviously talking about Pinoy male experiences, is a self-conscious - if not self-deprecating - tone. Usually beginning to tell a sexist joke by precisely saying it is sexist; more often than not speaking of male experiences (such as Military Science, or issues with other males in the family, or conversations with friends) and noting that it is precisely Pinoy ka-macho-han that is the point.

But beyond the male-female dynamic that this self-conscious Pinoy macho voice dares deal with - rare enough on this side of patriarchal Philippines - Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan has much more to offer.

For the generation to which Gonzales belongs, there is familiarity in the book’s nostalgic turn towards the lives we lived in the 90s. We are reminded by these essays that the shows we watched, the music we listened to, the roads we traveled, were by and large the same; we are told that the lives we lived then were intertwined by the technology we had (TV and cassette tapes), and learned to get used to (pirated DVDs and computers); we are made to imagine that we are bound together by the malls we started to frequent, and the changing landscape of consumerism that we began to live and believe.

It is here that Gonzales’ writing becomes even more integral to his telling of the lives he has lived, and continues to do so. In the throes of neo-coloniality and its contingent effects on contemporary culture, the form that Gonzales uses to keep his readers interested is as important as what it is he actually says.

Gonzales’ use of the essay as form, is in fact a reclaiming of a space that in recent years has come to be equated with the woman writer. Through the non-fiction narrative, the woman has been allowed her own voice and experiences - a writing back against the patriarchy that has oppressed her. With Gonzales’ self-conscious, gender-correct, use of the form in telling the lives he has lived within the expectations of becoming a full-blooded Pinoy macho, he himself may be seen as someone who writes back against this patriarchy.

It becomes clear throughout the essays in the book, that the Pinoy male is also as much oppressed and repressed by patriarchy’s expectations of its own self. That the length of the essays is sometimes as short and as experimental as blog entries is telling as well of how these experiences are dependent on memory - selective as that may be. That the experiences are almost always funny, if not downright hilarious, is telling as well of the things that memory keeps, and the ways in which we cope with the things that oppress us.

Another aspect of form that can’t be left unsaid is the language that Gonzales chooses to write in. Using a Filipino that’s easy and comfortable to read, that shifts to English when it must, Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan is representative as well of a generation grappling with the issues neo-coloniality in the forms of available technology and the changing urban landscape. What Gonzales ends up treating readers to is a language that’s urban vernacular at its best - the kind that we use everyday, but which we are told, isn’t the kind of language we can write in. Because it’s too informal, or is just not done.

But Gonzales proves it can be done. In fact, through Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan, he proves many things to be possible for the Pinoy male writer: the use of a perspective that’s critical of his “macho” self, and that’s self-conscious about the sexism that his culture allows him; finding affinity with the form of the essay and its recent function as response to patriarchal literary production; the unapologetic use of a Filipino language that disregards academic notions of acceptable writing.

In the end, and probably without knowing it, Gonzales has in fact defined what it is that makes his writing astig. And as a full-blooded female reader, I can only agree and say: “Astiiiiig!”

It is such a strange time for Philippine TV - and I’m not talking about reality television taking over our lives and creating many talentless stars in the process; nor about the fantaserye reminding us of how much we need to escape from the realities of rising oil prices and NFA rice lines. Both of these aren’t so much strange as they are sad.

What is strange is the rise of the Filipinized Korean-novela - a unique entity in a country where the Mexican telenovela Marimar was only Filipinized a decade after the original became a TV hit. This remake was something we actually had coming, given the too familiar plot of a poor simpleton turned rich powerful woman, ready to seek revenge, but is softened by her true love. It’s the stuff every other Pinoy soap opera is made of.

The Korean telenovela meanwhile is an unexpected entity that has appealed to Pinoy taste. When Meteor Garden became a big hit, it was a surprising thing - what with four chinky-eyed, pale yellow-white lead stars in the F4 and a simple-looking girl as lead stars, alongside a love story that seemed premised on cariño-brutal - not the usual Pinoy love story. Between the turn of the millennium to the present though, the Pinoy TV audience has taken to what we’ve come to call the Korean-novela like moths to a flame, even when the stories have evolved from strange love stories to complicated historical romances. And while it’s clear that the Pinoy taste for chinky-eyed Korean actors and actresses has much to do with the success these telenovelas enjoy, one can’t deny the possibility that there is as well an interest in the more complicated and unfamiliar plots that these stories keep. The kind that we rarely have in this country, fantaseryes notwithstanding.

Probably a testament to the appeal of the Korean story is the re-creation of these Korean-novelas into Filipinized versions, with My Girl on ABS-CBN 2 coming head-to-head with Kim Sam Soon (re-titled Ako si Kim Sam Soon) on GMA 7. These are two very disparate stories, with quite different target audiences, and now as Filipino versions of the originals, very distinct ways of taking on the challenge that is Filipinizing quite a foreign cultural product. How have they fared? And where do we find the Filipino, in plots that are so alien to us?

My Girl As Pinay Girl

It’s pretty clear from the way this teleserye was promoted that the decision to do it had much to do with the new-found success of reality show winner Kim Chiu and her team-up with co-winner Gerald Anderson. Never mind that neither are really actors, nor did their reality show Pinoy Big Brother Teen Edition have anything to do with talent at all. In this land where star creation is about hype and the bombardment of images more than anything, anyone can be a star.

Or get their own primetime slot. Chiu, a typical Filipino-Chinese teenager with the right amount of conservatism and quirkiness, seems tailor-made for the lead role of Jasmine. In fact, half the time, you almost think she’s just being herself. In this Filipinized version of My Girl, Jasmine is a teenage Filipino girl, always trying to save her father’s skin from being thrown in jail, to the detriment of her own individual life which ideally would only involve getting an education and some good ol’ puppy love.

But one out of two ain’t bad at all, for while Jasmine didn’t go to school, she does have her own prince charming in the character of Anderson. And as expected, not everything is well in this love story. For one thing, Jasmine’s job, for which she is paid by Anderson, is to pretend that she’s the long-lost granddaughter of Anderson’s grandfather. For another, this charade (which so far has allowed her to keep her father out of jail, and from being killed) has recently been found out by Anderson’s ex-girlfriend - the kind who doesn’t go away.

My Girl had much going for it in the beginning, with Jasmine’s foibles including her lack of knowledge about the lifestyle of the rich and famous that she was suddenly a part of. And while the love story is what’s mostly sold here, much can be said about Jasmine’s ability to rationalize her existence within the “fairytale” that she suddenly lives in; there is too, value in Jasmine’s love for her father - regardless of his flaws. How Filipino can you get?

But the creative team of My Girl seems to be Filipinizing this a bit too much - at least to the point of it becoming testament to the need to serve a buffet table of artistas at any given time. In this case, it’s the addition of the new batch of teen winners from the second season of Pinoy Big Brother Teen Edition. A decision that might take away audiences who had survived the neophyte acting of the show’s lead stars so far, but now have to contend with beginner’s-acting from reality show contestants turned actors. Obviously the goal is to get a bigger audience share, not keep the story going - which in recent weeks, has really been only going around in circles. Because too, how complicated can you make a Filipino teenage girl’s life? How complex can you make life seem for Kim Chiu and her image of the sweet quirky - ideal - teenager of the times?

Introducing the Pinay Old Maid

What My Girl lacks in complexity, Ako si Kim Sam Soon makes up for. Starting off with Sam Soon planning her wedding to, and being stood up at the altar by, her husband-to-be, this Filipinized version of Kim Sam Soon was off to a good quick start. The first week established the complexity in Sam Soon’s character not just based on her experience of a broken heart, but also with regards to the emotional turmoil that her status in life brings: she’s a Filipina in her 30’s, overweight, jobless, and is pressured to get married.

Sam Soon’s also ruled by the presence of a social climbing sister (who, strangely enough, is thin as a rail), a noisy nagger palengkera of a mother, and a dead father who leaves her with more than just memories. The latter leaves her family in debt - the one thing that pushes her to find a job, and enter a deal with new-found boss Cyrus - the least likeable leading man possible. This deal allows for her family to survive through the debt her father incurred, but is also the source of complexity in Sam Soon’s life, stuck as she suddenly is with a pretend-boyfriend and a real-life boss.

Regine Velasquez’s take on Sam Soon’s character is a refreshing one, willing as she was to look the part (complete with a fat suit and fat clothes, bad hair, and barely any make-up), and become as “fat” in terms of mannerisms and attitude. Watching Velasquez dive into an overflowing plate of rice and adobo, or filling her mouth with pastries, listening to her travails as a Pinoy single woman wanting to find the man of her dreams, or as a discriminated overweight Pinay, is surprisingly believable.

Mark Anthony Fernandez’s Cyrus meanwhile, is by turns a touching character and an irritating one - kindhearted when he wants to be, but absolutely antagonistic when he feels threatened by Sam Soon’s knowledge of his pusong mamon tendencies. Much of what happens between the characters of Cyrus and Sam Soon, is fodder for the comedy that happens in the show, a feat in itself for Velasquez whose only experience with acting has been for light drama movies that tend to repeat themselves. Fernandez’s take on Cyrus’ character is that of the conventional Pinoy male who refuses to be tied down, but likes having a woman swoon over him - if only to keep his confidence intact. This becomes the perfect opposite to Velasquez’s Sam Soon who, at her age, is so ready to believe that prince charming can come in any package - even the antagonistic one that Cyrus appears in.

If there’s anything that drags Ako si Kim Sam Soon down, it’s the minor story about Sam Soon’s sister, which takes up too much time and only seems like an effort at putting in some puppy love story to cater to an audience of a different age bracket. The thing is, the show barely needs this, as the complexities of Sam Soon’s and Cyrus’ lives can stand on their own. In fact the activities and characters that surround the hotel where they both work is contextually enough to keep the show interesting. And downright funny.

Director Dominic Zapata has said that Ako si Kim Sam Soon, unlike the top raters of primetime, is a “slow burn”. What it has become is a good slow burn. Because while I can already imagine the ending to the Filipinized version of My Girl - focused as it has become on the teenage love story/ies and celebrities it wants to sell - I can’t quite say for sure what will happen to Kim Sam Soon and Cyrus next week.

Now that’s a Filipinization that doesn’t sacrifice the complexity of character or plot, originally Korean as this was. In fact what it proves is that Filipinization gives way to a different kind of complexity, one that’s grounded in a culture that’s anything but Korean, and just might be able to tear apart the stereotypes of the Pinay and the lives that she’s expected to live. That can only be a good thing.

an essay by Ninotchka Rosca, aptly titled The Usual Can Be Criminal, on the ways in which our notions of womanhood and the roles we play, allow for us all to be victims.

such an enlightening read, even when we can only truly imagine what our domestic helpers are going through as they sacrifice their own families for a life of discrimination elsewhere. my favorite quotes:

“Household work has been historically women’s slave shackles, rendering her a service unit in the family power structure, stunting her growth and development, erasing her sense of self.”

“<…> having a household servant impacts even the employer who slides into this semi-feudal role of patriarch and patron. I hope others will seriously develop a political economy of housework. A serious one.”

In her last SONA, the one thing that seemed like a good thing was this:

Para sa mga namamasada at namamasahe sa dyip, sinusugpo natin ang kotong at colorum upang mapataas ang kita ng mga tsuper. Si Federico Alvarez kumikita ng P200 a day sa kaniyang rutang Cubao-Rosario. Tinaas ito ng anti-kotong, anti-colorum ngayon P500 na ang kita niya. Iyan ang paraan kung paano napananatili ang dagdag-pasahe sa piso lamang. Halaga lang ng isang text.

Texting is a way of life. I asked the telecoms to cut the cost of messages between networks. They responded. It is now down to 50 centavos.

The first paragraph was complete with the presence of Manong Federico, in a barong, obviously uncomfortable, but who apparently had more reason to be there than elsewhere. The second was greeted with canned applause, and GMA’s wide smile.

But of course it took only a day to realize that the promise of 50 cents per txt message is an empty one.

Both Smart and Globe have been selling their own versions of “unlimited text messaging” for the longest time, where you pay a certain amount for a fixed number of txts within your network. For Smart’s Unlimitxt for example, you pay P20 for 100 txts to other Smart numbers, plus 10 free txts to other networks; Globe’s version of this is called EverybodyTXT20. These promos in fact, defeat the point of GMA’s promise.

Which as it turns out, can only be availed of if and when we pay P20 pesos to register for the 50-cents-per-txt promise. And you wonder: given the P20 pesos=100 txts promos, why would you settle for a P20 pesos for 50-cents-per-txt promo? Considering that both these options only last a certain amount of time - which, by the way, is never mentioned in these telecom companies’ advertisements, nor was it mentioned by GMA - none of this makes rational sense.

Malacanang’s press office itself released a statement talking about the telecom companies’ promise to continue with their “promos” - all of which require a P20-peso registration fee. Without realizing it, that press statement admitted to one thing about its boss: that she had lied through her teeth about the 50-cents-per-txt promise.

Kaya pala isang sentence lang ang inaksaya ni GMA sa pangakong ito. Mas mahaba pa ang pasakalye gamit ang kuwento ni Manong Federico.

And without knowing it, GMA, in her desperate need to make a promise - any promise! - that would deserve some amount of celebration from the ignorant and/or ill-informed, had opened up a can of worms. As TxtPower via Tonyo Cruz has pointed out, if there’s anything that these promos tell us, it’s that both Globe and Smart are overpricing their consumers with the standard rate of P1.00 per txt, and even with a false promise of 50 cents per txt. TxtPower also insists that it’s entirely possible that without interconnection charges and GMA’s beloved VAT, both of which can be removed, txt messaging could cost as low as P1.00 for 100 txt messages.

TXTPower: one point. GMA: liar with zero points.

Globe and Smart: m/tr/illions of pesos in profit.

Other than the fashion both inside and outside the halls of Congress (which will be topic for another entry), what’s also exciting about the President’s annual SONA are the discussions that lead up to it, where once a year, media actually sort of asks the right questions (finally!). Then again, with a past SONA to diss, and a new one to compare it to, how can any show go wrong?

And so on the new TV show Harapan with Korina Sanchez and Ted Failon last Monday sat Vencer Crisostomo, secretary-general of the League of Filipino Students, and Department of Education Undersecretary Vilma Labrador, face-to-face (kasi nga harapan, hindi ba?) to talk about GMA’s presidential promises on education. Suffice it to say that in this harapan, Crisostomo had the upper hand, primarily because he was faced with a Dep Ed undersecretary who, like her boss GMA, had her way with truth. That is, she had a way of lying by not talking about the full picture of our public schools.

So Labrador says with pride in her voice and a sparkle in her eyes that the teacher to pupil ratio has consistently been kept down to 1:35 or 1:36, thanks to GMA’s administration. Barely able to contain his laughter, Crisostomo responds that this is only so because the classrooms have been cut in half — as in literally in half with makeshift walls! — so instead of 1 teacher to 70 pupils, it can truthfully be said that it’s now 1 teacher to 35 students at any given time.

He also points out that it’s the logic of having three shifts - that is, three different classes - for any given day, any teacher, and every halved classroom, that allows for the 1:35 ratio to be true. In fact Dep Ed Order No. 62, s 2004, speaks of these shifts as a way of solving the problem of classroom shortage, which at that point was at 51,947. In the said order, it’s even recommended that for certain public schools, they must have as many as four shifts, not three, and the maximum number of students for every classroom is set at 65. Wait, is that a whole, or a halved classroom?

But Labrador seemed surprised at Crisostomo’s response, if not flabbergasted. How could she respond? Well, with no answer at all. So she starts talking about statistics on the number of graduates in public schools, and how statistically, the numbers have been consistent. To which of course Crisostomo responds by mentioning the now higher drop out rate, which would technically allow for the number of graduates to be consistent, because you’re not counting the growing number of students who leave school because they can’t afford it.

But public schools are suppose to be free, yes? Failon asks. No, according to Crisostomo, as there are fees that students continue to be required to pay, to which Labrador says, report those schools that still have fees and the Dep Ed will take care of it. To which Crisostomo says, “hindi naman maiiwasan ‘yon.” Because really, if a school has to collect money for a bathroom that students can use, or an electric fan to ease the heat of a classroom with 70 students, who would complain?

Meanwhile, Labrador is left with nothing to say, and nothing to be proud of. Someone should’ve warned her that speaking of truths based merely on gov’t statistics, doesn’t hold in the face of someone like Crisostomo who has a real sense of what it is that actually happens on the ground, in the public schools, that half the time seems to only be a theory to the Dep Ed and GMA.

Of course it helped that Crisostomo was not your grim-and-determined scary activist. For most of Harapan, his charm was difficult to miss, informed as it was with knowing that truth was on his side – the kind that sustains organizations like his, because it is the truth that is lived by the majority who aren’t invited to speak in shows like this one.

LFS: one point. Dep Ed: zero.