WAR STORIES

A healthy dose of war stories from my grandfather, the fun of playing pretend soldiers during my childhood, and a thirst for information – it was a perfect recipe that slowly turned me into someone who is fascinated by World War 2. That historic war had been fought over half a century already but it continues to captivate the passion of people like Tom Hanks, Clint Eastwood, Stephen Ambrose, and most recently, me.

To supplement the oral stories that have been passed down to me by the men of that era, I started watching movies and documentaries about the war. I started acquiring books, a soldier’s memoir if you will, that chronicle everyday life in the battlefield. One does not even have to have a vivid imagination like me to see the horrors that they had gone through in the jungles, fields, waters, and sky.

Whether you are more inclined with the Pacific or the European theater or both, the stories of heroism, courage, and brotherhood is highlighted with every anecdote of the brave soldiers who faced the terrors of war. They themselves do not consider their actions heroic, some even lament that they should had been the one killed in action, and not their buddies. Words alone bring a lot of emotion, sorrow, and anxiety. Despite these feelings, I have come to understand that they learned trust, bravery, and faith. With those as their core weapons, many had willed to survive and win the war.

It’s these stories that humble our generation. In these times, we have slowly learned to be more selfish, more egocentric, and more arrogant with little regard of the sacrifices made by our predecessors. But in these same stories, we find hope. Hope that soon enough, we will be able to patch up differences and use it to progress. Hope that maybe one day, the world will be in a communion toward a certain goal - a goal to move forward and achieve dreams beyond compare.

My personal World War 2 reads are the following: Wild Blue by Stephen Ambrose (flyboys in the European theater), Ghost Soldiers by Hampton Sides (Cabanatuan raid, Pacific theater), Helmet For My Pillow by Robert Leckie (US Marines in the Pacific theater; as featured in the HBO Series The Pacific), and Flags Of Our Fathers by James Bradley (flag raisers of the iconic World War 2 photo, Pacific theater; as featured in a movie of the same name).

LADY GAGA: THE NARRATIVE

This is one of many works from my collection that I will be posting online once again. Lady Gaga: The Narrative was created during my days in University of the Philippines and was submitted as a group output. Ideas were drafted during meetings but the final story was written by Kako Rafael and I. This work exhibits how our ideas can form a unique story while slightly deviating from the public perception of a popular icon chosen by our professor.

Lady Gaga

Their music is very different. Way, way different from what I listen to. Their clothes don’t look flashy and trendy. It’s as if they’re wearing their office clothes. They don’t have all those strobe lights but still, their place is big and equipped with those audio stuff or whatever they call it. And as I enter, some people smiled at me while some didn’t even bother to look.

Of course, it’s Sunday and I am in the church – bored of my normal routine, and wanting to try something different…and maybe something fun! But I don’t think I came to the right place. What the heck? It’s still a new place to me isn’t it? Maybe there’s some hot boy lurking around that I can get hooked up with. MAYBE. Now, it’s getting boring. The minister will be starting his sermon in a few. But damn, he’s a cutie. Wait a sec, that dude looks familiar.

I do recall some new people coming along with my old perks last night. Last night was hot. Those nonstop bass lines, neon lights, flowing alcohol, people coming in and out – those were driving me crazy all night long. I was expecting to see some rainbows any time soon when Selena and the girls crashed into the house.

Oh those girls, our friendship goes back to high school days. Selena was the dominant and cranky one. I blame her being a latina for that, but boy, every guy loves getting the spot with her on the dance floor. Relationships never last for her however. She’s always in a fight with her man, arguing even the smallest of things. Yuki is the type of girl I refer to as the hot import. Why? My Jap friend here has graced the covers of Import Tuner several times already. She gets to ride whatever car she wants. All she needs to do is smile on the lucky driver, then poof! I do think that she even has a cult of men who wanna take a shot of their luck at her. Nobody succeeds. NOBODY. Quite contrary to her wild party girl/agogo dancer appearance, she is a determined university student. Unlike me, yeah. And lastly, Janis. She is my favorite among the girls – my competition. Though we’ve been close for the past years, I consider her a threat when we’re out to meet some boys. She gets the boys every time she does that innocent blond girl thing. They hang out some place else, and she makes boys plead for more. She does everything so she can hook up with someone.

So yesterday night, Janis brought along a shy fellow. Dick, yes, Dick is the only name he gave. It sucks though, being introduced to someone who’s prim and proper hot only to find out he’s a Dick. The girls left just the two of us at the couch. We had a couple of drinks, and I started leaning towards him. He passed out as soon as I kissed him.

Come to think of it, I never knew that going to church would be fun for the likes of me – promiscuous and wild. Just staring at the hottie by the pulpit makes me excited without the malice that the people around might think. Though it still frustrates me that someone so charismatic by the edge of the stage just fainted when I, Lady Gaga, kissed him last night. “All rise,” he said. His provocative voice made everyone stood in an instant while I just took the opportunity of his stare and gave him the look, “You owe me one.” And so the sermon ended and now, I would give my praise to cigarettes outside. I have been looking for my gold plated lighter while holding my cigarette for almost 10 minutes when a provocative voice said, “I believe you need this, and you need to read that,” and he fires up his classic gunmetal lighter while pointing at the no smoking sign. “Come to my office, you can smoke all you want there.”  He gives a sinister smile that stood out on top of his holy outfit. I like it. His office is nice and cozy – even too nice to make me think that fainting was normal for him. “I think you know my name already.” Of course I do! How could I ever forget the NAME, and I follow up an evil chuckle and rugged gesture while I act as if I was bored and needed to go. He suddenly grasps for his coat by the wall and got his calling card with panic. “Here's my card, you know what cards are for right?” I got the card from him while staring at his sharp evil eyes and caressing his cold and trembling hands. “You will call me, right?” I rampaged my way out while leaving a trace of teasers.

Wow, that was a GREAT night. Everything was so fun simply because a minister sneaked at home, and we made out all…night…long. I’m eager to make him breakfast but I couldn’t figure if he likes his eggs scrambled or just cooked sunny side up. I have to check up on him upstairs and ask. He’s not here, nor did he leave a note. The bed was all tidy though he forgot to bring his necklace that has a cross attached. Whatever! I’ll take a stroll near Times Square instead. What a beautiful Monday morning! That’s funny, the newspaper boy dropped by early today. What could the headline be?

LADY GAGA: ONE NIGHT STAND WITH REV. KEITH RICHARDS

ON THE MANGO TREE AND MY CHILDHOOD IN PLARIDEL, BULACAN

I am very sentimental when it comes to icons and items that I associate my childhood with. Contrary to my city life many know, I love going to the farms in my hometown Plaridel, Bulacan to enjoy the country breeze while the sun takes a peak among the clouds during afternoons. (I still hope I could walk beside the flowing river while I see carabaos afar bathe in its cool waters.) I will not forget our childhood mischiefs like silently spotting droppings while waiting for my cousins to unknowingly step on them! It was silly, but it brought out the innocent (or is it?) laughter from us.

But a few moments back, I was saddened when I browsed through an online photo album that featured one of our bayan fiestas in Sipat. The old big lot seemed to be missing something. The old mango tree was missing! The old mango tree that stood there for a long long time was missing! The many childhood memories I had in that place (and perhaps what my father had too) has something to do with the mango tree. During the mid of January’s, it had been a tradition for me to climb that tree. Somehow, it became my goal to reach higher and higher up as years go by. The tree allowed enough space for a big bunch of kids to climb and stay on its ever prominent roots while those who got up first enjoyed a better spot at the bark and sturdier branches. Years go by, but the same kids, though a bit older every year, still managed to claim their respective posts in that tree. Yes, that included me.

A photo of us on the tree in January 2010 (with

me at the peak of the formation.) The photo

was from an album by my cousin Charlene Elio.

By four o’ clock in the afternoon, people start to gather along the narrow street. This marks the start of a fireworks-filled march that accompanies the Santiago Apostol statue to its destination – a small chapel situated at the end of the street. Lots and lots of people fall in an attempted line behind, and the marching band does its best to battle the noise by the fireworks. Despite being bordered by the yard, we are able to catch a glimpse of the whole march by staying on the mango tree. One of the highlights of the march is the lighting of the sinturon ni Hudas (belt of Judas) on an empty lot across the street. It is a very loud belt of firecrackers stretching meters long. The bams and kablams will last for a couple of minutes, and everyone around will smell like gunpowder. After the street festivities have ended, we climb down the old mango tree and grab our last bite on what is left of the lechon.

Such were the days when the farm still had that mango tree. Now, the lot is still filled with grass and some barren soil that marks the spot where the old, majestic mango tree once stood. The farm where we pulled off our pranks is now walled and gated as an airport. Though these things now gone, thinking of them now takes me back to those pleasurable moments I enjoyed during my childhood. 

These memories will continue to live within me.