Somewhere in Makati, I entered the lobby room/waiting area/torture bin/freezer of this company I was applying at with confidence not because I felt smart or like I fit in or something, but rather because nobody else was there. I thought, great, no competition. With such herculean effort, I wore closed-shoes and 6 band aids. Also tried my best to look clever with semi-business/casual attire but my snarky and smug face can never fool anybody. Not even the slow receptionist.
The whole floor was armed with security personnel that it actually looked like another Trillianes attempt of coup’d e tat. I thought, wow, OA, what’s with all the fuss. There were a lot of identification processes I had to go through, security was all over me, that it actually took me quite a while before I could have my tired, sorry ass kiss their elegant veneer.
The HR informed me immediately that I was late but she could still accommodate me in the first batch of applicants to take the exam. When she opened the door of the “testing room,” my mouth almost dropped open as I saw the room filled with corporate asses. I guess I underestimated the number of desperate Filipinos. Great. So much for NO COMPETITION.
The HR assistant announced twirling her tongue with the American twang that her nose were almost flaring, that we’d just have to wait for the Testing guy. And this is the part where I had the itch to grab a pen and paper to jot down all the details my vigilant eyes and painstaking ears could get a hold of. Aahh…blog-material…
As soon as she left the room, applicants started the “bragging marathon.” One particular girl, who reminded me of Kiray-gone-wrong only with a much refined skin that’s most probably drenched in centralized air conditioning for the past 23 years of her bratty life said, OH GOSH THIS PLACE IS SOooo POSH THAT I REALLY THOUGHT I NEVER LEFT THE HOUSE TODAY, MY GOSH! (sunggo!!!!). She said that in so-American accent and so loud that I actually memorized the exact words. And the haughty gay sidekick of hers added, I KNOW GIRL, THIS PLACE IS SOOooo CHIC. Then the girl beside me tagged my coat and asked me, ARE YOU ALSO LASALLISTA?? I said, HINDI. The moment I said that one tagalog word, the people sitting beside me gawked at me like I live in the slums and they live in Beverly Hills. Another girl asked me if I have any work experience, I said FIRST TIME KO, PATI MAG-APPLY. She gave me this concern, semi-empathic semi-plastic smile and said, OH NO, THAT’S TOUGH! GOODLUCK GIRL. I wondered, do I really look dumb? My childhood friend told me so, once.
The bragging continued. A girl wanted to impress this girl with a British twang; a guy kept fidgiting with his iPhone and looking around just to make sure we can see his iPhone; another girl said she just got from Singapore and was buying a Louis Vuitton when she received a call from the HR department “begging” her to take this exam; I also heard a guy with the funny teeth and konyo accent telling a story about his conquest for academic excellence to another guy who looks like a sore loser had it not been for his neck tie; a girl in a well-ironed coat’s stating she’s from Ateneo and a Dean’s lister and all that scholarly crap; and there’s these two silahis guy immersed in a very political conversation or was it about 69, i’m not sure.
And me? I was playing bastonera with my pen. Heck, they won’t even know what bastonera means. Five minutes had gone by, the proctor was still not around so I decided to have a little chat with this super nerd-looking guy sitting behind me who seemed to be the only one not immersed with the whole “battle of the brains” shtick. He’s a little bit Frankensteinish, what great entertainment. He flashed me an awkward smile the moment I faced him and I felt glad when he spoke to me in native tongue. ANG LAMIG ANO? BRRRRR. I said, OO NGA E. DAPAT MAY LIBRENG JACKET DITO TULAD NUNG PINAPAMIGAY SA WOWOWEE PAG MAY NILALAMIG NA AUDIENCE. He laughed with this horrid snort but at least he’s humble enough to not pretend he doesn’t know what Wowowee is. And he whispered to me, PARANG ANG TATALINO NILA ANO? NAKAKA-INTIMIDATE NAMAN. I said, KINAKABAHAN LANG MGA YAN KAYA SA SOBRANG TARANTA, UMINGLES. TIGNAN MO, ANLALAKI NA NG MGA ILONG. We laughed in chorus, snorted in chorus. Our self-righteous, genius-looking seatmates in high-end suits, stared at us like we were the official UNDERDOGS of that room. Pffft. All of a sudden, I started thinking what made Weng hate Makati.
The guy with the test papers finally arrived and apologized for the delay. He said it’s gonna be a challenging exam mostly comprised of grammar and vocabulary, conceptualizing and analytical problem solving. Everybody looked confident and all knowing, just as what I expected. Heads were soaring around the room and complacently held high. They almost reached the ceiling. As for me, I wished myself goodluck before plunging in the sheets of paper piled before me and I almost, ALMOST did the sign of the cross.
After an hour, the papers were collected. The exam was fairly difficult to the extent that the smoggy smugness in the room surprisingly evaporated. No more chins up, no more straight backs and military postures. Hello worried faces and slouchy backs! Ha! I didn’t know it will only take a few sheets of paper to wipe off their shits. Meanwhile, we were asked to stay in the igloo while he checks our paper! Man, my hands were freezing, my lips were turning blue, my stomach’s empty and who knows if I passed or not. I’m tellin’ ya, it was worse than the Chinese Water-drip Tecnhique.
When the testing guy went back, he called out a name, another name, and MY NAME. He asked us to stand up. And there was me, the Frankensteinish nerd guy and another guy in torn jeans and long hair who seemed lost and wondering what’s he doing in Makati. I saw the arrogant faces of those who remain seated lit up and they cheered quietly probably thinking that the three of us were eliminated and good to go. The testing guy led the three of us out the room. I was thinking, sheesh so much for going corporate. But as we were approaching the door, I heard the testing assistant informing the people left on their seats, PLEASE GATHER YOUR THINGS AND PREPARE TO LEAVE BECAUSE YOU DID NOT PASS THE EXAM. YOU MAY RE-APPLY AFTER 6 MONTHS.
Mwahahahahahah!!!
The three of us had these annoying, mocking grins on our oily faces. We waved buh-bye to them. I couldn’t believe there were only three of us who passed the exam in that room full of smart-asses. I thought, wow. Thank God I’m stuck with the nerd and the dirty. My kinda boys. Haha!
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Rebel without a clue: Rage (11.23.08)
By Patricia Evangelista
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 02:06:00 11/23/2008
THIS is the story of one Raymond Manalo, farmer, who disappeared on Feb. 14, 2006 with his older brother from their farm in San Ildefonso, Bulacan. Manalo was neither activist nor rebel when he disappeared. He escaped more than two years later. He says there are many, many more like him.
* * *
They put you in a cage four feet by one foot small, the height of an average man. There are hollow blocks to the side and iron grills in front. You sit with three other men, crouched in a line. There is no other way to fit.
Your brother is in the same cell. The door opens, more of them come in. More of them like you—beaten, bruised, helpless. They are put inside the next cell. This time there are two men and a married couple. The woman has burns all over her body. She was raped, they tell you. She was raped and beaten until she soiled herself. They say she has gone mad. They take her away.
This is where you shit, where you piss, where you wash if you still care. You do not feel the wind; you do not see the sun. Your food comes rarely, and what comes is rotten, leftover pig feed. Three men arrive, from Nueva Ecija. They are tortured. One of them has both arms broken. Bleeding.
Sometimes, when the soldiers are drinking, they take you out of your cage and play with you. The game varies, but it is usually the same. Two by fours, chains, an open gardening hose shoved down your nose. You crawl back to your cage, on your hands and knees. You wake up to screaming, to the sound of grown men begging, and you wonder which one it is this time. Sometimes, one of your cellmates will disappear. Sometimes, they don’t come back.
Then they take you away, and there is a doctor, pills, antibiotics, a bed. They tell you they are taking you home to see your parents. You meet the man they call The Butcher, and he tells you to tell your parents not to join the rallies, to stay away from human rights groups, that they would ruin your life and your brother’s. He tells you, this small man in shorts, that if you can only prove you’re on his side now, he would let you and your brother live. He gives you a box of vitamins, and tells you that they are expensive: P35 per pill.
They put a chain around your waist. The military surround your farm. Your mother opens the front door crying, and hugs you. You tell them what you were told to say. You hand them the money Palparan told you to give. Then you are told you must go.
Always, you keep thinking of escape. You make yourself useful, to make them trust you. You cook. You wash cars. You clean. You shop. No task is too menial. And one day, while you sweep the floor, you see a young woman, chained to the foot of a bed. Her name is Sherlyn Cadapan, she tells you, Sports Science, University of the Philippines Diliman, the same Sherlyn who disappeared from Hagonoy, Bulacan on June 26, 2006. She says she has been raped.
Later, you meet Karen Empeño, also from UP, and Manuel Merino, the farmer who rushed to save the two girls when they were abducted. Karen and Sherlyn are in charge of washing the soldiers’ clothes, you and Manuel and your brother Reynaldo wash the car and carry water and cook.
The five of you are taken from camp to camp. You see the soldiers stealing from villagers. You see them bringing in blindfolded captives. You see them digging graves. You see them burning bodies, pouring gasoline as the fire rose. You see them shoot old men sitting on carabaos and see them push bodies into ravines. And in April 2007, you hear a woman begging, and when you are ordered to fix dinner, you see Sherlyn, lying naked on a chair that had fallen on the floor, both wrists and one tied leg propped up.
You see them hit her with wooden planks, see her electrocuted, beaten, half-drowned. You see them amuse themselves with her body, poke sticks into her vagina, shove a water hose into her nose and mouth. And you see the soldiers wives’ watch. You hear the soldiers forcing Sherlyn to admit who it was with plans to “write a letter.” You hear her admit, after intense torture, that it was Karen’s idea. And you see Karen, dragged out of her cell, tied at the wrists and ankles, stripped of her clothing, then beaten, water-tortured, and burned with cigarettes and raped with pieces of wood. And it is you who are ordered to wash their clothes the next day, and who finds blood in their panties.
And you are there, on the night they take away Manuel Merino, when you hear an old man moaning, a gunshot and the red light of a sudden fire.
* * *
The day Raymond Manalo and his brother Reynaldo escaped was the day he promised himself they would pay, all of them who tortured Karen and Sherlyn, who killed so many, who tortured him and his brother until they begged and pleaded. They were pigs, he says, those men were pigs. If he escaped, they told him, and if they couldn’t find him, they would massacre his family. And if they do not answer to the courts here, they will answer to God.
They can still kill him, he says. But even if they do, it is too late. He’s told his story.
* * *
Email: pat.evangelista@gmail.com
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 02:06:00 11/23/2008
THIS is the story of one Raymond Manalo, farmer, who disappeared on Feb. 14, 2006 with his older brother from their farm in San Ildefonso, Bulacan. Manalo was neither activist nor rebel when he disappeared. He escaped more than two years later. He says there are many, many more like him.
* * *
They put you in a cage four feet by one foot small, the height of an average man. There are hollow blocks to the side and iron grills in front. You sit with three other men, crouched in a line. There is no other way to fit.
Your brother is in the same cell. The door opens, more of them come in. More of them like you—beaten, bruised, helpless. They are put inside the next cell. This time there are two men and a married couple. The woman has burns all over her body. She was raped, they tell you. She was raped and beaten until she soiled herself. They say she has gone mad. They take her away.
This is where you shit, where you piss, where you wash if you still care. You do not feel the wind; you do not see the sun. Your food comes rarely, and what comes is rotten, leftover pig feed. Three men arrive, from Nueva Ecija. They are tortured. One of them has both arms broken. Bleeding.
Sometimes, when the soldiers are drinking, they take you out of your cage and play with you. The game varies, but it is usually the same. Two by fours, chains, an open gardening hose shoved down your nose. You crawl back to your cage, on your hands and knees. You wake up to screaming, to the sound of grown men begging, and you wonder which one it is this time. Sometimes, one of your cellmates will disappear. Sometimes, they don’t come back.
Then they take you away, and there is a doctor, pills, antibiotics, a bed. They tell you they are taking you home to see your parents. You meet the man they call The Butcher, and he tells you to tell your parents not to join the rallies, to stay away from human rights groups, that they would ruin your life and your brother’s. He tells you, this small man in shorts, that if you can only prove you’re on his side now, he would let you and your brother live. He gives you a box of vitamins, and tells you that they are expensive: P35 per pill.
They put a chain around your waist. The military surround your farm. Your mother opens the front door crying, and hugs you. You tell them what you were told to say. You hand them the money Palparan told you to give. Then you are told you must go.
Always, you keep thinking of escape. You make yourself useful, to make them trust you. You cook. You wash cars. You clean. You shop. No task is too menial. And one day, while you sweep the floor, you see a young woman, chained to the foot of a bed. Her name is Sherlyn Cadapan, she tells you, Sports Science, University of the Philippines Diliman, the same Sherlyn who disappeared from Hagonoy, Bulacan on June 26, 2006. She says she has been raped.
Later, you meet Karen Empeño, also from UP, and Manuel Merino, the farmer who rushed to save the two girls when they were abducted. Karen and Sherlyn are in charge of washing the soldiers’ clothes, you and Manuel and your brother Reynaldo wash the car and carry water and cook.
The five of you are taken from camp to camp. You see the soldiers stealing from villagers. You see them bringing in blindfolded captives. You see them digging graves. You see them burning bodies, pouring gasoline as the fire rose. You see them shoot old men sitting on carabaos and see them push bodies into ravines. And in April 2007, you hear a woman begging, and when you are ordered to fix dinner, you see Sherlyn, lying naked on a chair that had fallen on the floor, both wrists and one tied leg propped up.
You see them hit her with wooden planks, see her electrocuted, beaten, half-drowned. You see them amuse themselves with her body, poke sticks into her vagina, shove a water hose into her nose and mouth. And you see the soldiers wives’ watch. You hear the soldiers forcing Sherlyn to admit who it was with plans to “write a letter.” You hear her admit, after intense torture, that it was Karen’s idea. And you see Karen, dragged out of her cell, tied at the wrists and ankles, stripped of her clothing, then beaten, water-tortured, and burned with cigarettes and raped with pieces of wood. And it is you who are ordered to wash their clothes the next day, and who finds blood in their panties.
And you are there, on the night they take away Manuel Merino, when you hear an old man moaning, a gunshot and the red light of a sudden fire.
* * *
The day Raymond Manalo and his brother Reynaldo escaped was the day he promised himself they would pay, all of them who tortured Karen and Sherlyn, who killed so many, who tortured him and his brother until they begged and pleaded. They were pigs, he says, those men were pigs. If he escaped, they told him, and if they couldn’t find him, they would massacre his family. And if they do not answer to the courts here, they will answer to God.
They can still kill him, he says. But even if they do, it is too late. He’s told his story.
* * *
Email: pat.evangelista@gmail.com
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