Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Angelo

On late night Tuesday, I met a 12-year old boy named Angelo.

We were going out of the office building when we noticed him wandering aimlessly on the corridor. A security guard called his attention, but he did not mind. He exited the building, walked to the ATM and pressed some buttons, and walked some more. He climbed down the stairs and entered a fast food chain. Another security guard escorted him out.

He looked presentable enough not to be mistaken as a beggar, but his actions say otherwise. I approached him and asked him if he's hungry. "Oo, he said." I handed him my friend's sandwich. "San ka nakatira?" He said he lives in Alabang. I asked him where he had been. "Sa Starmall," he answered. The mall is right across our office building. I asked how he would go home. "Sasakay ng bus na hindi aircon. Baka nga lakarin ko na lang kasi kulang na pamasahe ko." He said his name is Angelo. "Eh ikaw anong pangalan mo?" He called me Ate Jam. Then I bade him goodbye.

I walked back to my friend and told her my short chit-chat with Angelo. Little did I know that he was actually following us as we crossed the street. My friend saw him walking behind me and motioned to act like nothing was happening because he would surprise me. Then I saw him.

We walked together with him to the bus stop. We asked him about his family. He said he left home at noontime. "Umalis ako ng bahay. Pinalayas nila ako kasi bakla ako." He was referring to his parents. But he said he is going home to his lola. "Oo, alam niya. Tanggap niya ako," he said.

He said he is celebrating his birthday next week. He jokingly asked what we would give him as a birthday present. "Ito lang ibibigay niyo sa'kin?" he said while holding the sandwich we gave him moments ago. We laughed. "Sige nga titikiman ko nga to kung masarap." He said he will also make one when he gets home. 

We arrived at the bus stop. An Alabang-bound bus loaded some passengers a few meters away. "Ayan na Alabang na bus oh," my friend said. Angelo refused to leave. "Dadaan yan ng Sucat eh," he said. My friend and I waited until another non-airconditioned bus made a stop. "Bye! Ingat kayo!" he said as he sat down  on the bus.

When he left, my friend and I regretted not giving even an additional penny for his fare. He did not beg. He did not ask for anything. He only wanted to talk. And he called me Ate Jam like we had known each other for years.

He left home because he is gay. He is only 12-years old. An adolescent who is just starting to discover himself. 

He left home because he told his parents the truth. He left because he was not accepted in his own home.

May our paths cross again, Angelo. Ate Erika and Ate Jam are praying for you.


Over Milktea

Have you made up your mind?
Yes.

Have you talked about it?
Yes.

To the right people?
Yes.

To the one who will make it happen?
Not yet.

What is keeping you from doing so?
I don't know how to start it. As in a book, the first words are crucial. I don't want to spoil myself.

When will you take action?
Tomorrow.

Are you sure?
I must be.

Meanwhile, here I am, sipping milktea.


Talking to myself.

Either there is still milktea or there's only little left.

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Blabbers

They say write down what stresses you out.

The other day, I read on Time that one good way to cope with stress is to write it down. The article cited a study wherein a group of students were asked to keep a journal of what stressed them out at school. After a few weeks, those who did had a higher average compared with those who did not.

Probably that explains why I had better grades when I was in college. Or not.

Either way, I no longer care about college. I used to think that when you're good at school, success is guaranteed. But the world is an entirely new animal. The real world, I mean. It is not school -- or a class -- wherein you study well, ace the exam, impress in recitation, and get a recognition. It does not work that way in the real world.

In the real world, you work hard, wait for two weeks, check out the payroll, pay the bills. Repeat. 

Or so it happens to adults stuck in a day-long job that is sometimes meaningful, oftentimes gratifying, always stressful, everyday repetitive.

Routine. Yes, that's how you call it.

For the past weeks, I've been having anxiety attacks -- or so I thought. I haven't googled yet what having 'anxiety attack' means clinically. But I have diagnosed myself as having such: worrying about the next months, imagining your fears happening in reality, asking why you are not getting what you want, questioning why it seems very easy for others to get what they want, feeling your dreams are too impossible to achieve. And so on and so forth.

Quite tired of it. In my emotion graph, the line is currently going up -- signalling a budding hope amid hopelessness. Probably I managed to convince myself to love my life a little more -- or try once again, at the very least -- because if I don't embrace it, nobody else will.


And yes, relax. The days go on. Life goes on.

And make a decision to never tire trying.

Blabbers

They say write down what stresses you out.

The other day, I read on Time that one good way to cope with stress is to write it down. The article cited a study wherein a group of students were asked to keep a journal of what stressed them out at school. After a few weeks, those who did had a higher average compared with those who did not.

Probably that explains why I had better grades when I was in college. Or not.

Either way, I no longer care about college. I used to think that when you're good at school, success is guaranteed. But the world is an entirely new animal. The real world, I mean. It is not school -- or a class -- wherein you study well, ace the exam, impress in recitation, and get a recognition. It does not work that way in the real world.

In the real world, you work hard, wait for two weeks, check out the payroll, pay the bills. Repeat. 

Or so it happens to adults stuck in a day-long job that is sometimes meaningful, oftentimes gratifying, always stressful, everyday repetitive.

Routine. Yes, that's how you call it.

For the past weeks, I've been having anxiety attacks -- or so I thought. I haven't googled yet what having 'anxiety attack' means clinically. But I have diagnosed myself as having such: worrying about the next months, imagining your fears happening in reality, asking why you are not getting what you want, questioning why it seems very easy for others to get what they want, feeling your dreams are too impossible to achieve. And so on and so forth.

Quite tired of it. In my emotion graph, the line is currently going up -- signalling a budding hope amid hopelessness. Probably I managed to convince myself to love my life a little more -- or try once again, at the very least -- because if I don't embrace it, nobody else will.


And yes, relax. The days go on. Life goes on.

And make a decision to never tire trying.