At the Heel of Corona’s Conviction

The thunder storm is moving in from the north while Israel and London fade into memory. As dawn breaks in the Far East, Chief Justice Corona’s conviction heralds the day. The memorials for fallen heroes are done and back to work is just another day. So, what comes after?

Corona was convicted for not being truthful on his SALN. That he misstated what he owned regardless of the source. 20 of the 23 Senators voted to convict. Only Santiago, Arroyo and Marcos voted for acquittal. Are they the ones who can not live in glass houses?

Lead Prosecutor Congressman Neil Tupas said he is willing to sign a waiver for his bank accounts. The rest of the House should follow. The senators, too. P-noy and the rest of the executive branch. And the remaining Justices, Judges, Governors, Mayors, all the way to the Barangay Tanod. And the AFP and PNP personnel?

Corona’s conviction must not end with Corona. It must be the start. Lest the anti-corruption crusade ends like a cogon fire and the nation loses another chance for redemption.

The thunderstorm packs ferocious winds and murderous lightning. Still, like the grass, I am thankful for the rain. In the cool of the night that will follow, sleep will be a bliss.

A low life named Marion Barry

He started out as a civil rights activist, was an “accidental hero” in the 1977 Hanafi Muslim Siege of the District Building, became a “mayor-for-life” of the District in consideration of his four terms and now represents Ward 8 in the City Council.

He started doing well for the district but by his third term, power and drugs must have gone to his head. The District became a haven for drug gangs and established itself as the Murder Capital of the US. Barry, just like the District was sucked by the high of cocaine. On December 1988, after several months of FBI surveillance, Barry was caught and videotaped doing crack with girlfriend Rasheeda Moore in a DC hotel room. He was incarcerated in a Federal prison for six months and lost his run for a fourth term.

He personified redemption when he ran and won as Mayor in 1994 for the 4th time and admonished his opponents to “get over it”. This term though was saddled with Financial crises resulting in the creation of the Financial Control Board by the US Congress thereby virtually making Barry a Mayor of no consequence. He declined to run for a fifth term.

Sadly, his political life did not end there. He went back to Ward 8, his bailiwick, and was elected its Representative. And it thus looks, that he would be Ward 8′s representative for life.

Then his mouth became bigger and his mind perhaps had liquified with all the drugs he had induced. Consider his recent pronouncements:

“We’ve got to do something about these Asians coming in, opening up businesses, those dirty shops. They ought to go, I’ll just say that right now, you know. But we need African-American businesspeople to be able to take their places, too.” April 3, 2012.

“In fact, it’s so bad, that if you go to the hospital now, you find a number of immigrants who are nurses, particularly from the Philippines,” Barry said. “And no offense, but let’s grow our own teachers, let’s grow our own nurses — and so that we don’t have to be scrounging around in our community clinics and other kinds of places — having to hire people from somewhere else.” April 23, 2012.

The main question in Barry’s pronouncements is the unstated: Is Washington, DC, the Capital of the United States, a nation built by immigrants, a nation whose citizens from all over the world made this country the greatest on the planet, belong solely to the black people who Barry represents? That any other person of different race does not deserve to do business, get employed or simply exist in DC? Who died and made Barry king? Cocaine must give one that high.

The American way has always been the search for excellence. He who is most qualified gets hired, the most talented wins, the hardest worker gets compensated. The Asians come in to do business and excel because they work hard. The Filipinos get employed because they are the best qualified. Competition is the key. Not some kind of protectionism nor black-for-black commerce. Will Marion Barry accept services from a nurse regardless of color who is unqualified?

The tragedy of such statements especially coming from a public official, is the undue influence they would make on those whose minds tend to blame others for their misfortune. Those who always believe they deserve better and more just because of who they are and the color of their skin. They are the ignorant, the dumb, the arrogant, the misinformed, the free loader and especially the entitled. Public pronouncements like Barry’s tend to form the sympathizing citizen’s attitude. Hatred and bigotry exist because they are given a reason to exist. Hitler and Nazi Germany did not start with the extermination Camps. There were speeches first before the murders.

Hopefully, the black citizenry of Washington, DC can distinguish bigotry regardless of what color it is coming from. Having such a history of discrimination and the bitter toll that accompanied emancipation and civil rights, each black person must not only sympathize with those who are discriminated, he must be their champion. Barry and his cohorts, notwithstanding.

The Politics of Hypocrisy

1. I must acknowledge Sen. Gringo Honasan as the source of the subject of this post. He said last week that “organized hypocrites” were meddling with the Corona impeachment. A sign perhaps that the Senator-Judge was a little bit exasperated with the out-of-ring pronouncements and prognostications of anybody and everybody. Was the Senator-Judge showing some sign of surrender and inability to do what is right? Don’t bet on it. Not with the name Gringo(sir P-2 hopes).

2. Ex-President Erap(he who must be credited to have put the word Impeachment in every Filipino’s vocabulary) formed with Vice-President Binay a new umbrella political organization called UNA(the first?). The connivance was in preparation for fielding senatorial candidates in the next year’s midterm elections and in Binay’s run for the presidency in 2016. Erap said he was willing to accept former Gloria Arroyo associates so long as they had not been implicated in any wrongdoing and shenanigan. From a convicted plunderer, I am bewildered as to what, which or who this statement of policy mocked the most: the policy, Erap or the would-be party members?

3. One significant Senatorial candidate of UNA is Sen Pimentel. Why significant? Because Zubiri, the non-winning senator candidate who took a seat as senator for 4 years due to massive electoral cheating and robbed Pimentel of those 4 years, maybe running also under UNA. Zubiri it must be recalled, resigned right away when the fraud was exposed claiming it was never perpetrated by his camp nor did he know anything about such. That it was like manna, although not from heaven. No comment yet on this brewing controversy from UNA’s top honchos. Perhaps they can come up with UNA’s slogan based on this incident: UNA-unahan lang ‘yan!

4. Sen Trillanes, warned the LP hierarchy of an “opposition Senate” next year if and when UNA’s candidates succeed. Trillanes said that the Administration has already been beaten by UNA in rounding up the top senatorial candidates. Oh! NO! LP Noynoying?

5. If P-Noy will have a coalition party, will U-NOY be appropriate and catchable enough? Or will the old women of ‘kutohan” blues judge so as “ang bantot naman!”

6. This post started with Gringo, it must end with Gringo. A re-electionist senator, Gringo accepted the invitation of Binay to be part of UNA’s senatorial slate. It was a reunion of sorts with Erap and the unopened envelop. Another impeachment is on the table on which Gringo must take a stand and render judgment. A judgment that perhaps will be the primary basis of the people’s vote next year. Should the “organized hypocrites” then, a voice he should listen to? Ah! Politics, politics, politics. The more you say it, the more it sounds bad.

Another Good Friday

In the blue of the sky
In the freshness of spring
In the sun’s warmth and light
I seek the reason of winter’s cold.

In yesterday’s visions
In memories lost and forgotten
In discarded love letters
I seek tomorrow’s promise.

In seedy bars and brothels
In empty wombs and cold lips
In tear-streaked cheeks and unseeing eyes
I seek purity and love.

In filth and degradation
In poverty and suffering
In despair and disease
I seek rebirth and redemption.

In lost times and twisted fates
In deafening confusion
In doubt and self-mutilation
I seek peace .

In lies and betrayals
In disemboweled testimonies
In fake miracles and drug induced serenity
I seek faith.

I doubt the essence of my being
I despise the piety of sacrifice
I laugh at the righteousness of kindness
I mock the nobility of life.

I am a sinner.

Yet I am why He died
I am who He will love
I am who He will forgive and bless
I am who He will always claim as His own.

I am a sinner.

Only through Him will I be saved.

Masikap Story III

Cows with Class

The parting shadows distinguished not the dawn from the night. Neither did farewell clear the extent of power and influence. As the Class of 1975 threw their dress caps into the air in a thunderous roar, another stripe was to added to our dress coat sleeves. We were the Secondclass men. The Cows. The would be leaders of The Corps. The able assistants who would help, learn and mature with mettle and wisdom. Yes, the would be Kings.

1. The challenge in Cow Year was challenging ourselves. No more plebe-crazy yearlings, the focus was shouldering more responsibilities in running the Corps. We were Assistant Squad leaders, Assistant Team Coaches, Assistant Mess Officers, Officer of the Guards and other miscellaneous second-in-commands. We observed and percolated our ideas with the vision projected towards the future. We honed our leadership skills and rated each other’s service aptitude. The outstanding among us shone, destined to be Cadet Officers. The rest would remain tied to their rifles and the rank of Sergeant. Glamor would explode with sash and plumes with each parade an event to look forward to. Still, each element would comprise the Masikap Corps. Without one, we would never be complete.

2. As Cows, our biggest undertaking was being designated as the Plebe Details of Class 1979. In only two years, the reversal of roles would be complete. We imagined the roar, the shock and awe that we would inflict on the very lax civilians as we transformed them to military men overnight. We remembered the sweat, the almost unending line of exercises, the shouts, the threats, the exhaustion we never felt before. We said, now it would be our time! Borromeo Field would witness the fracas that would turn the new plebes in a way never seen before. Until we were told that there would be no shouting, no exercising, no threats. The new plebes will be taught parade drills. They would be taught as a squad of soldiers without arms. They would be taught how to salute, how to do the faces, how to march. The shock and awe we envisioned to impose were directed towards us after all. Still, as good soldiers, we followed the directive. All through summer camp, the reasonable approach was implemented. The pressure was still applied not break but to strengthen, not to overwhelm but to transform. We were the Big Brothers who must guide and help. The Class of 1979 finished summer camp without any AWOLs and just one resignation. A feat almost perfect. A feat worthy of the Masikap name.

3. Southern Cruise beckoned like a mist in the middle of a parade under the Manila sun. The respite was welcomed, more, it was heaven-sent. Datu Kalantiaw, BRP 76 was to be our home for about a month. The has-been guided missile destroyer of the US Navy would take us to where our people lived and the beautiful places they call home. They were places most of us had never been. Places we would always remember. Cebu. Dumaguete. Cagayan de Oro. Zamboanga. Leyte. Surigao. In each of these places, our Silent Drill Company always wowed the crowd. The oohs and aahs went from beginning to end. We wallowed in attention and praise. Especially from beautiful maidens whose knowledge of Cadets begun and ended with our uniforms. We admired from a distance knowing that our mission was to bring the Academy closer to the people. A mission most of us accomplished during hops. Yes, those were the times when we superficially embodied the shiny 34 buttons. That we became just like any guy whose intent was to make a maiden fall. A girl in every port, the sailors would mythically propagate. To some of us, such was not only the case, it was even surpassed. As Datu Kalantiaw sailed back to Manila, we stayed out late on the deck looking for shooting stars and enjoyed being lulled by the sea. The sound of splashing waves etched priceless memories in our minds, their significance fathomed only in the naked honesty of one’s thoughts. We wished we could have stayed longer or that the cruise was just a start. And as we sorted through names and faces, we marked that which was special. If only in memory, we would go back.

4. We always missed the Academy after each sojourn. There always was the guaranteed certainty of time and schedule, the undeniable peace and quiet. The mountain breeze always blew with the serenity and the scent of the pines. The kept gardens with all their flowers were always beautiful to behold. As we settled for what would turn out as the hardest Academic grind of our Cadethood, we paused looking at the flag waving in the wind. All of we would do, all of who we were and would be, were to make sure the Flag would always fly free. It would be our reason for being.

5. The harder the grind, the faster time flew. It was December before we knew it. Another break. Another exposure to the world we would live in, in a year and a half. The dictates of idealism, the uncompromising delineation of right and wrong, the purity of Integrity somehow repulsed the reality of day-to-day existence. We would live with poverty, hunger, deprivation, corruption, exploitation, despair. Somehow we questioned the rationale of a Utopian existence protected by walls of denial and pursuit of perfection. How could we live with the people while perched in our pedestals? To effect change, we must change first. In our search that started when we took the entrance exam, the prize must remain the ultimate. To deviate would just be an excuse if not an utter tragedy.

6. The Turn Over of Command ceremony from the Class of 1976 to us was a noble display of relinquishing power, a lesson each power wielder should learn. With a good luck and a salute, we were handed down the responsibility of running the Corps. There were no more upperclassmen to look up to. The helm belonged to us. The Corps would move to the direction we would lead it to. Did our shoulders stoop because of the weight? Was the challenge too great? Those before us wilted not, complained not and accepted what they were handed down without any reservation nor doubt. They were ready, they were prepared. And so they moved on to join the Long Grey Line. The one we always aspired to be a part of. The line that must not break. Damn, if we would fail our link.

Next: First Class and Foremost

Injustice for all

The sun continues its sleep under a blanket of clouds while early spring is haunted by winter’s past. Summer is still temperatures away. As Friday grudgingly moves to the weekend, the sprouting leaves and the blooming flowers are put on hold. I water the tropical plants now outside suffering in the cold with the admonition that they be tough and resilient. That they should find warmth and solace even if such entails only the memory of the sun, that the cold spell will pass. And just like Lapu-lapu’s descendants, they will overcome and rise and persevere and thrive. Even laugh.

1. Pacman vs. Taxman. Pacquiao should pay. For him, the amount will be loose change. The damage to his reputation will be worth a lot more. Moving to another tax jurisdiction is a spoiled brat’s tantrum. He can not clear his name by brandishing his pound for pound ranking nor his 8 boxing crowns. Popularity is as tentative as a referee’s count. If he is aspiring to be more than Saranggani’s Representative, the sooner he knock this out, the better his prospects will be. Plus, if he fights this in court and loses, like Ms. Gayweather, he will end up in jail. Bye-bye Malacanang.

2. First, the girls who were in bikinis were barred from graduation ceremonies. Then some boys who simulated kissing(each other?) and posted such on Facebook were also barred. Both cases involved Catholic schools which adhere to strict codes of behaviour. If such displays of alleged improprieties were posted as individuals and not as students of the concerned schools, the individual’s liberty must be upheld. If the postings made reference to the school, whether intentional or not, then the youths must suffer the consequences. Accountability could be one of the most important lessons the school could impart and that the students must learn. Erap’s example notwithstanding.

3. A former Palawan governor and his brother who were charged with the killing of a Radio Broadcaster had refused to surrender and were now declared fugitives to be hunted down with the full force of the law. Joel and Mario Reyes were the primary suspects in the killing of Gerry Ortega who was very critical of Joel’s mining policies with regards to the environment when the latter was still Palawan’s governor. Joel even sent a voice message to a local radio station that said he and his brother would not surrender because they are innocent. Did we not hear this before from the mouths of the powerful and the mighty? Is justice really only for those who can not afford? As always, in the land of kings and “sigas”, rule of law is non existent. Too bad, Totoy Bato is dead.

4. Justice by survey. If it comes to that, Corona will be adjudged guilty by 73%. But the senator-judges should take heart. 60% of those surveyed will accept whatever verdict the Impeachment Court will render. Which should compel them to be fair, impartial and judicious. Would they? Please see land of Kings and “sigas”.

5. It turns out that GMA is a model detainee. She follows the rules and regulations and has taken gardening as well. Wish she was a model President instead. Too late for wishes, too late for regrets, too late for remorse. Too late for justice, too?

6. Blogger Raissa Robles exposed Corona’s supposedly US real state properties, one in Florida and the other in California. Corona’s lawyers reportedly just laughed the report off. Laughter as best defense? Or desperation’s last straw? Laughter nonetheless.

Corona’s Thorns

The Impeachment Trial of Chief Justice Corona is on recess until after the holy week. That does not mean the public trial is on hold. The attacks, the charges, the blogs, the twits, the social networks, the media and whoever has an opinion on the matter will have their voices heard as to Corona’s innocence or guilt. Whether all these opposing views and noises will affect the Senator-Judges will be answered in due time.

This is not to weigh the pros and the cons of the arguments so far presented. This is to present what will happen regardless. It is my desire that I will miss the mark by a mile and be proven 100% wrong. Always a cynic and a pessimist, there is no win in this situation.

1. Corona is guilty yet he will not be convicted. He will re-assume his position as Chief Justice. As such, he will rule in favor of letting GMA seek “medical treatment” abroad.

2. GMA flies out with her entire family with P-Noy and his allies watching helplessly.

3. Option 2 is activated calling for the people(who are now fraught with disdain and disbelief) to EDSA III in an effort to dislodge Corona.

4. Unlike Marcos and Erap who dilly dallied to leave, Corona is out of the country on day 1.

5. Still in a fiesta atmosphere, the throng party until dawn only to be told Corona is long gone.

6. Like a trash filled street after New Year’s eve, EDSA is reopened to the usual unmoving bumper to bumper traffic.

7. Meanwhile in Malacanang, P-Noy’s legal team wonders what happened. Noynoying with Josh, the President is not to be disturbed.

8. In the hinterlands, the criminal gang called CPP/NDF/NPA, is kicking itself for missing out again in what is an opportune time to grab power.

9. Joining the line that snakes 5 blocks long, Juan Would-Be OFW, waits patiently to be able to leave.

10. No, the thorns are not for Corona. Always the victim, whether willing or unwilling, the people like penitents can only be blessed with gaping wounds and oozing blood, self flagellation notwithstanding. Tomorrow, the wounds will heal and no one will remember. As the seasons change, wishful thinking remains the only salvation. That and another EDSA.

Fun Forgotten, Remorse Remembered

In the scheme of things, we would rather laugh than cry, make fun than make sad. All our lives we would search that which makes us feel good, satisfied and gratified. What causes pain and suffering is detested and despised. Wonder why at life’s closing stages, those fun days are forgotten while tears are never allowed to dry. Wonder why we wallow in despair and self pity long after the bitter remains have turned to dust. Here’s to laughters that empty the mind yet fill the heart. Here’s to venom’s and sting’s short memories and vanishing footprints. Here’s to what should always be.

1. Dennis Rodman is broke and sick. He owes $800K plus in child support and over $50K in alimony. Sick of what? Punchline: I thought he was sick a long time ago.

2. Women beach volleyballers will no longer be required to wear bikinis. Punchline: So with the men.

3. Open mike usually refers to Amateur night when wannabes showcase their talents. Punchline: Is Obama an amateur or a wannabe? Neither. A soon has been.

4. Before it was “tambayan”. Or “kutohan”. Then it was “inuman” or plain “bolahan”. Punchline: Now it’s “noynoyan”.

5. Corona has lost his jewels. Punchline: Worst if they were his balls.

6. Gingrich charges $50 per photo to shore up his dwindling campaign funds. Punchline: And he is not even wearing a bikini.

7. A 462 pound British woman wants taxpayers to fund her weight loss surgery. She can not do dieting because it is too hard and that exercise hurts. Eating take out meals, though is easy. Punch line: Let’s see if the Brits will bite.

8. Miriam Santiago bypassed oath taking ceremony as new ICJ Justice to sit uninterrupted as Senator-Judge in the on-going Corona Impeachment trial. Will that mean she does not go to The Hague? The punchline: Martin Luther King is not the only one who has a dream.

The Masikap Story II

Yo! Yearling!

No longer the beasts, the smelly and “animal” Plebes, like a butterfly from a cocoon, we emerged as the personification of the shiny 34 buttons. We were snappy, we were handsome, we were strong. We were the newly minted Yearlings. We were the models of the Corps in attitude, in character, in uniform. No other Cadet could be snappier than us. Nor tougher. Nor more “magan”. As such we were ordered to lead by example. Not to scold, not to haze, not to impose. In effect, to be silent. To be seen, not to be heard. No, not yet.

1. The first break after Plebe year was both a triumph and a lost. We went home to friends and relatives who showered us with praises and congratulations. On their faces and demeanor we saw change. Or was it us who changed? We no longer desired the usual haunts. We found some old antics irritating. Passing time idly appealed no more. We sought a purpose to the time on hand be such playing a game, watching a movie or reading a book. We spoke of the Academy with awe and reverence, our plebehood alluded to in snippets and riddles. We did not expect them to understand even if they could. Plus, would they have appreciated trotting, chinning up, bracing up, sucking guts, clipping your knees, holding your feet together at 45 degree angle and never ever standing on one leg? We were different from the care free days of a year ago. Whether we realized it or not, the Academy changed us. Was not that the message of Plebe Song?

2. We missed the mountains like home. We missed reveille and taps and all the calls in between. We missed the uniforms, the duties, the parades. We missed the Spartan regimen as dictated by rules and regulations. We missed the daily grind with Tactics and Academics. We missed the Corps. We missed the camaraderie. Entering Fort del Pilar as a Yearling felt a lot more reassuring as a Plebe. We appreciated more the beauty and the majesty of the place. We felt, our right to belong, to call PMA our home. And with that tiger-look on our faces, we went looking for Plebes.

3. We were off-limits from the “dumbguards”. The very lax Plebes had to be taken cared of by the Cows. Those babies must be crying for their Mommies. Funny how the attitude and the perspective changed. One stripe on our Dress Coats lined a world of difference. Having gone through “hell”, it was our right to curse the devil. But the Plebes would be our concern not soon enough. Might as well. Youthful arrogance and justified vengeance were recipes for disaster.

4. So off we went to Laur, Nueva Ecija to experience the life of a Filipino soldier. That which thrived on deprivation, dirt and dust. The Filipino soldier whose claim to fame was being poor and being a sacrificial lamb. We met them in their simple yet determined existence. Those were the men we were destined to lead to battle, to victory, to death. Like them, we chose the profession of arms as a way to make a living. Did that make our lives cheap or noble?

5. There were socials with the barrio lasses which we took advantage of. The luster of a PMA Cadet exuded most brilliant in the opposite sex’s eyes. And boy, did we make mountains of mole hills! We forayed the forest hungrily with total disregard for emotions and commitments. The hormones that were suppressed for a year had taken over without restraint. The summer’s heat was cold compared to what was raging within. In retrospect, did we care about broken hearts? Did we find meanings in such fleeting relationships? Or did we just move on from one phase to the next and counted those dalliances as part of growing up? In a carousel of ups and downs, sad songs would never echo in fulfilled lives. Neither would tears remain bitter.

6. Out of the summer’s heat into the coolness of the mountain breeze. Academic grind, Yearling year. We marched off to our classrooms determined to conquer the challenges. This time around, there were no more Upperclassmen to worry about. In effect, we were ordinary college kids with uniforms and parades. If we stuck by what we were capable of, it would have been smooth sailing until graduation. But time and destiny did not march with our drummer. Our number reduced during Plebe year was reduced even more. The end of the Academic term saw more classmates clearing out. Turned back or dismissed, their paths diverged from ours. Our fervent hope was, may such be for the better.

7. Our class’ replenishment came from our tormentors before. For whatever reason, they were turned back and were ordered to join our class. At first, these new “Masikaps” were ignored, even disdained. We were their Plebes, they were our yearlings. The memory of what was done in the name of training and tradition could not be easily erased. Gradually, the meshing up took hold. Yesterday must be put to rest like a decaying corpse. The living could not live with the dead.

8. As Yearlings, it was mandated that our intramural sports involvement would be the combative kind. It was boxing, Karate or wrestling. As boxers, wrestlers or Karatekas, we nursed our shares of broken bones, black eyes, dislocated joints, cuts, bruises and other unseen injuries, all for the “love of the game”. Those setbacks though only increased our commitment to our sport. Must be the masochist within that desired meaningful pain. Or the credo that says “never say die”. Just drop dead if you must.

9. The victims could not be faulted. The Plebes could never be blamed for an Upperclassman’s dismissal, laxities and all. When an Upperclassman hazed a Plebe, the risk was either the plebe or the upperclassman could be dismissed. The Upperclassman though must shoulder all the responsibilities and all the consequences. Such was the verdict to most who were caught engaging in the malpractice. We protested to high heavens reasoning that we, too, were victims. Reality and fairness dictated that tyrants be judged not as yesterday’s slaves.

10. Seasons moved fast when one marched forward. Up in the mountains, when sunsets came earlier and the evening mess formation was bathed in darkness, no one was needed to be told of the forthcoming holidays. Christmas meant break. Going home. In a matter of days, we packed our bags and said our admonitions to the plebes. There was hesitation in leaving the pine trees and the mountains which held the sacred message of Christ’s birth in silent reverence. Although the bustling cities offered more merry-making and activities, they presented the Child in the manger wrapped in designer clothes. The message lost in billboards and neon lights. As the bus pulled out of the main gate, we wished the Academy’s message would always remain clear: Courage. Integrity. Loyalty.

11. We came back from our Christmas break packing a lot of maturity and willingness to shoulder more responsibilities. The desire to prove something was replaced by “what have we done?” Academics remained a challenge to surmount. To be better meant to excel, to work hard, to give one’s best. Plebes’ laxities did not make us snappier. We were snappy regardless. Standards must be kept not because that was what the Academy required. Pursuit of excellence must be lived and internalized. We were sons of PMA. We were the curators of a gloried past. Those who came before us had proven themselves and were worthy to be called PMAyers. Shame and repulsion awaited mediocrity and indolence. We were not Masikaps by name alone. Damn, if we would be.

12. In life’s game of circles, we found ourselves on the the giving end of Recognition Day. With firm handshakes and warm congratulations, we welcomed the class of 1978 to the Immaculate Corps. Like us, they earned the right to ascend the ladder. Like us, they deserved the pat on the back, the congratulations for hurdling the seemingly insurmountable. They deserved the good cry for everything that they gave up and everything that they gained. As we went around to recognize each of the plebes, we realized the continuing march of the Long Gray Line trusting that time and tradition would perpetuate what we held so dear. Yes, the Academy would be forever! Like the mountains, like the sun. This, we believed.

Next: Cows with Class

The Masikap Story

The time to look back is when there is still sufficient light to see the past. Soon enough that we can still remember and the mind can still distinguish what was and what was not. Long enough that pain and bitterness have turned to “sweet sorrows” and that laughters have aged to fine wines. This is for those who will remember and for those who may forget. It is my tribute to those whose presence in my life made the journey I have to be thankful for. As the one way train goes around the bend, through cob webs and dust, I write what I can afford to recall. May I do justice to history’s truth.

In Praise of Plebes

1. April 1st, 1973, Fool’s Day was when the Masikap story started. Marcos’ Martial Law was almost 7 months old. The idealistic, the activists, the brats, the bewildered, the uninspired, the cornered, the genuinely committed and even the leftists saw Martial Law’s opportunities and promises and took the PMA entrance Exam in December of 1972. Over 12,000 young men from all over the Archipelago stepped forward. Making the grade was just the first step. After a series of neuropsychological Exams, Physical Fitness Tests, background investigations and interviews, we, the arguably cream of our generation, made the irrevocable move. PMA, here we come!

2. We took the buses from Camp Aguinaldo in the early morning. We barely heard the goodbyes. Our ears were deaf with anticipation. To most, PMA was an unknown. It was where toughness was king and that only the brave lasted. It was where glory lived and that each was a knight in shining armour. The thunderous roar from the Plebe Details that afternoon not only shocked those fantasies, Plebehood reality settled in like a cloak of darkness in the sun’s fading light. We have never wanted home nor water more than that night. As our shaven heads hit the mattress (as Plebes we did not deserve pillows), we wished all was a dream. The bugler’s Reveille as the majestic pine decorated sun rose, sounded it was not.

3. Plebe year was measured in Saturdays. Yes, the parades and inspections and the mass punishments afterwards. We learned how to produce perspiration not in trickles but spoonfuls. We were told that such was for strengthening the sinews, the muscles and the heart. And that the will and the resolve would grow strong, too, in the process. Slowly, our number was whittled down. “You’re in the Army, now”, was not a song everybody was meant to sing. We looked at our departing classmates in the privacy of our rooms wondering how the die would roll next. Back then they were just the casualties of Darwin’s survival of the fittest. We realized later they were the casualties of fate. We might have known them for days or months. Still we would be classmates forever.

4. Incorporation Day was when the Plebe Corps got to join the rest of the “Immaculates”. Three months of summer camp, of breaking down the civilian laxities, of instilling military discipline, of making sure we as dumbguards were worthy of wearing the “Dress Gray”, the “Full Dress Coat” and would be the embodiment of the shiny 34 buttons. Were everything just for show? Would the spanky uniforms reflect the character within? Each one of us answered but to oneself.

5. In addition to the Upperclasmen and the Officers of the Tactics Group, the Academic year ushered in the teachers and professors we must deal with. The parades and inspections continued like clockwork while we trotted and rotted knowing no difference between the two. Respites were given in cross country runs and so many rounds around the parade ground. Borromeo Field in the very early morning without the “Uppies” was the closest to being in heaven. That and Manansala’s basement, poignantly referred to as Fourthclass Club. We slept when and where we could, body position notwithstanding. We ate when and where we could, circumstance notwithstanding. Sunday after lunch at the Fourthclass Club, a 2 liter of Coke, a loaf of bread and a couple of slices of beloved Cinnamon bread were devoured in minutes. We met no calories we did not eat.

6. Plebe scents consisted of dried sweat, “pan de sal” in Dress Caps, “bukayo” in hidden Dress Coat pockets and the ever effervescent week old black socks. No, it was not for lack of hygiene. Plebes were ordered to take a bath before each meal and must comply or be asked to do so every hour on the hour. So why then was the repugnant odor? To understand and to tolerate Plebe smells, one only had to be a Plebe.

7. Hazing could be anything that would inflict pain, suffering, debasement and degradation. As Plebes, we were supposed to be subhuman whose sole purpose for existence was to cater to whatever an upperclassman desired. There was the noble notion that the lesson of hazing was to never forget the mistakes committed and to prepare the sinews, the brain, the muscles, the character and the spirit to life as a soldier. A life dedicated to mission accomplishment above everything else. Did we feel good after hazing? Were we more resolute and tougher? Did manliness really showed? As Plebes, we did not have the right to answer. We did what must be done. The thought of squealing was thought of as taboo. The code of Omerta lived within regardless of righteousness nor morals. Looking forward, we, too would be hazers.

8. Our original Class Motto was “Makabago” reflecting Martial Law’s New Society. Second thoughts and several reconsiderations after, we changed it to “Masikap”, the indefatigable, the industrious, the ever aspiring, the one who never gave up and who always believed that “the greatest failure is that never attempted”. “Makabago” regardless of meaning and implications was old right after its adoption.

9. The grind of Academics and Tactics plus the 24/7 pressure of upperclassmen took their toll. Dismissals and resignations spelled our reveilles and taps. We were told that the retrenchment was as definite as death. Still, the departures of those we knew and shared what would be our best and our worst could not just be ascribed to fortune’s heartless whims. We missed them like the fleeting shadows of Mount Sto. Thomas in the the day’s vain attempt to cling to the sun. Once a Masikap, always a Masikap.

10. Thanksgiving day was more than an attempt to ape the American’s Turkey Day. The significance was Martial Law’s aspirations and hope and that the New Society was for everyone to be thankful for. We decorated the Mess Hall as ordered by the Upperclassmen, spending sleepless nights in search of the artist in each Plebe. The grandiosity of the Upperclassmen’s vision was doomed to fail. Still, an attempt must be made. An attempt that ended being torn apart and eaten afterwards. But then, the Day came and each one smoked and ate like the Romans of yore. We never realized the potency of Ilocano Tobacco until the earth spun and we were throwing up. Apparently that was what we should be thankful for. In retrospect, that night was a milestone. Our days as Plebes were getting shorter. We were halfway to Recognition Day.

11. The 100th night Show was a tribute to the graduating class. It was a show presented by the whole Corps not only for themselves but for the public as well. In the coldness of two December nights, the actors known as Cadets proved there was no limit to the Academy’s push for excellence. There was no field of endeavor that a Cadet could not excel. Or at least, attempt to excel. No acting award was awarded. No statuette was handed down. For a couple of nights, though, no thespian, living or dead, had given more. As a reward, we were ordered to load and load while Christmas break waited in the wings. Up in the mountains as the cool air got colder, we realized that Christmas would be different.

12. The upperclassmen left with an admonition for us to behave and not be very lax. As the last of them exited Fort del Pilar, we were Kings of Barracks with nothing to fear. And Kings we were! Reveille sounded with only one message. Eat, relax, enjoy. Did we go back to civilian antics of laxity and carefree ways of youth? Surprisingly, we cautioned each other and behaved like we must, as Cadets. There must be truth in what our Upperclassmen preached.

13. Christmas away from home. To most that was the first time. There was the longing for the traditional and the familiar. Of being with family and friends. As we heard mass on Christmas morning, we realized that we were among our “family” and friends. That our classmates were the brothers we adopted regardless of wombs. That the Academy was the womb we all belonged to. And yes, such was destiny embraced by each one. Beyond blood, parentage and origin, we were brothers.

14. The Class of 1974, our Firsties, graduated on January instead of the usual March. The acceleration was due to the intensified fighting in Mindanao. We were recognized by them but the Cow and the Yearling Corps deemed it necessary for us to finish Plebe Year. And April 1973 to January 1974 did not equate to one year. But by then, our attitudes were focused on the finish line. There was no way we would lose sight of the prize. We could take whatever the Upperclassmen could dish out. Resignation? Quitting? “Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!”

15. It was not long after Class 74′s graduation that we heard the sad news. Four of them had perished in an ambush. In eerie quiet, the Corps stood still in a One Minute Prayer tribute that took a lot longer. Such was the profession we had chosen. Those were the men we have broken bread with. Those were the men we had known. We prayed for the peace of their souls and that God receive them in His kingdom. In the privacy of our hearts, we prayed for strength, for the courage to face whatever challenge, for the right to march with them who have given their all and be a part of the long Gray Line. Plebe year was the start. Just the start.

16. The sun shone it all its majesty on our Recognition Day. As “Strong Hearts” filled the expanse of Borromeo Field, tears gave way to feelings of relief, of self-congratulation. We made it! Congratulations and embraces from our Upperclassmen cum tormentors meant “no more hunger and thirst”. That we hurdled Plebe year. That we belonged to the “Immaculates”. In triumph, we bowed our heads in reverence and gratitude to Him Who made such a possibility. Victory could only be savored because one was humble. There could only be emptiness in beating one’s chest and self-proclaimed accomplishment. Plebe year’s lesson would always be silent humility. We should never forget, would never forget.

Next: Yo! Yearling!