Shooting the Breeze Micheal Gotamco

Ramon Vincent Javier

Piel Marie Olayta Mendoza

Isabel Santos Roces

Eric Roxas

Carmela Dominique Uson

The day was glaring and cloudless, the heat magnified by the

layers of his officer's uniform. At least there will be air conditioning

inside, he thought. He had been called multiple times to the Principal's

Office in years past, all of them due to ailing academics. But it's different

this time. This time it isn't about grades, it's about-- “The Assistant

Principal will see you now.” A secretary interrupted him.

Opening the door rewarded him with a blast of cold air, and

moving forward felt like walking into a different world as the cold

surrounded him. The room was lined with posters along the walls, from

“You can do anything” to the posters of various colleges, many he has

never heard of. Across the room was a long desk, with a computer at one

end and a plaque with the Assistant Principal's name on the other. Behind

the desk was a stocky man around his 40s, his skin was vibrant white, and

his hair was matted and brown. “Come in, come in, sit, sit!” His voice was

deep, yet he managed a cheerful tone. “Morning, sir.” Said the boy who

looked like a soldier as he pulled up the chair in front of the plaque. “How

are we today, Michael?” “I'm okay, sir,” the boy replied nonchalantly. He

was too busy reading the certificate underneath the glass that covered the

table, “Doctor of Psychology,” it read. Shit. He's going to read me like a

book.

The conversation started the same way all conversations with

faculty in Xavier started, with

“How's your family?” “We're fine.”

“No problems or things you want to talk about? No arguments?” “None”

“Well, who do you like most in your family?” “My mom.”

“Who do you hate most?” “My sister.”

“Why?” “Well, there's only three of us, so I'd have to choose one or the

other, right?” Feigned outbursts of laughter erupted from both players in

the game.

The Assistant Principal looked to his computer and started typing,

slouching in his chair, and kept up a cheerful smile. “Do you know why

you're here?” He's baiting me. He's acting casual so I'll be at ease and

naïve or something. Baiting me. “I don't know.”

“It's about the rumours spreading in the school, about you and your

Chinese teacher.” Your chinese teacher. “Do you know these rumours?” “I

know of them, I think.” My throat feels knotted. “I'm here to find out about

the truth of them.” It isn't fair. He's a doctor.

“They say you and your teacher are in a relationship.” Your teacher. He's

trying to distance her by not saying her name, is he baiting me to say it? If

I say her name, what does it mean? On the other hand, does it mean

something if I don't say it? “I'm here to protect you, Michael, from all

these rumours, but I have to know which of these are truth and not truth.”

Lies. But I'm here to protect her. I have to. Maybe lies won't get me out of

here, but half-truths might be enough.

“Did you like your teacher? I mean, when I was your age, I had

my own share of crushes on my teachers as well,” he asked, chuckling

through the question. No use lying about this one. “Well, yeah, but she

always turned me down, hahahaha.” “I'll have to commend you for the

effort anyway, I never had the guts to actively pursue a teacher,

hahahahaha.”

“Did you text your teacher?” “Well, yeah, but we stopped.” “Did

you know that teachers aren't allowed to give their students their personal

cellphone numbers?” “That's actually why we stopped, though.” “But it

shouldn't have started in the first place.” “The teachers that came from

China weren't given a copy of the handbook until recently.” The Assistant

Principal's brow furrowed. I got him. And I blamed the school. That has

got to be some extra points for me, right?

“Did the two of you ever go out together?” “Once, but it was

entirely my fault. I gave her no choice.” “Tell me about it.” It's the same

smile, but it looks more like an imp's to me now rather than a friend's. The

boy-sergeant smiled ear-to-ear. “Well, it was on the rainy days of July, just

after my birthday, if I remember right. I stood outside of the dormitories of

the teachers in the middle of a storm, I called her, but she refused to come

out and meet me. I waited in the middle of the rain, while the road turned

into a river around me.” Shit. Shitshitshit. They're going to think it's her

fault I stood in the rain. “She really didn't want to see me, and she herself

said that we shouldn't see each other outside of school,” he added quickly.

“But I just stood there and waited for three hours, until she finally cracked

up, met me outside with an umbrella, and we ate at North Park.” There.

See? It was my fault. She never forced me to wait in the rain, I did it

willingly. But you people will try your best to put the blame on her, to say

that she caused a student to stand in the rain. Fuck this. “Funny, isn't it?”

The Assistant Principal picked up a piece of paper and chuckled

loudly, “Well-- I know this is a bit personal, but-- have you two had sex?”

“WHAAAAAAAAAT?! No way, are you really asking that?

HAHAHAH!” “Well, it's here on the list of rumours, hahaha.” “I

think it's just the students, being in an all-boys school and thinking that a

relationship like this happening, you know? They'll do anything to add sex

into the equation, hahahahaha.” “You're probably right.” Probably. He

doesn't believe me. “And that's the last of the rumours, you're free to go,

sir.” The Assistant Principal salutes the student. He stands up, the combat

boots do what they can to hold him up. I did it. My knees feel like jelly, but

I did it.

He opens the door. I won this, right? I took all the blame, and kept

her out of it, that's enough. He is half a step outside, when the Assistant

Principal calls to him from behind, “Remember, Michael, we're on your

side.” His stomach sunk. He knew what that meant. If he's on my side.

That means he's not on hers.

"How do we educate our children to take their place in the

economy of the 21st century given that we can't anticipate what the

economy will look like at the end of next week? How do we do that?" That

was a quote from Sir Ken Robinson from his talk about how our present

education system is not fit for the present generation. I am convinced that

our present education, specifically in that of the Ateneo, is flawed in

several ways but three of them which I consider need the most attention

are that education teaches us more things we don't need rather than what

we do need. Education no longer promises a bright future nor is it needed

to achieve it, and it deteriorates creativity.

The other day I was a watching the television and there was a

game show called “Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader?” If you are

unfamiliar with the program, basically it’s a game show wherein the

contestants are adults and they are bombarded with the simplest of

questions that are asked in primary and middle school levels and if they

get them right, they could go home with thousands of dollars. Naturally,

one would think an adult, having gone through the whole system of

education, is already working, and has a whole lot of life experience would

be able to answer such basic questions such as “Which planet takes the

least amount of time to orbit the sun?” but surprisingly, many contestants

have failed to give the correct answer to these simple questions that most

kids in grade school can answer. Also, if you didn’t know, the answer to

the question is Mercury. This show got me thinking about how these

educated adults with decent homes, families and jobs manage to go on

with their lives without easily being able to answer what most kids are

expected to know and learn in grade school. While watching the show I

also realized that I couldn’t answer some of the questions myself but these

kids on the show could. The problem was most of the questions asked

struck me as trivial. Does that mean most of the time and effort we gave in

school, which took years of our lives, was spent to learn trivial things that

might only prove useful to us in case we wind up on some game show

many years later?

This brings me to my first point, we are often taught things we do

not need rather than things we do need. As a student of the Ateneo, I still

remember what I've learned back in grade school and high school or

rather, I don't. I remember I have taken up a lot of history and science and

other subjects but I do not specifically remember each and every detail

asked in tests which have made up my grades which got me here in the

Ateneo college. This isn't just me of course. Other students here also agree

that they cannot recall half the important names and dates taught in

history. They cannot recall equations and terms from physics and

chemistry yet my generation is expected to take their places in the

economy in a few years to come. The present education system requires

you to complete years of levels of education. People in my batch of

students have spent the last 13-14 years in school yet in some of these

years, we were taught lessons which we will never apply in our lives and

eventually forget though we were instructed to learn them and study in

school and at home so that we may pass dreaded tests on these matters.

Does that mean many years of a student's life goes to waste learning

lessons he or she will soon forget and never apply? There are bound to be

people who will find physics or chemistry useful to their lives but compare

it to the number who won't. Will it still be a necessity to educate every

child about it just because a few of them will use it much later on? In 13-

14 years, people can learn and achieve so much but our education system

insists that students learn all these assorted bits of information which

might only prove useful to pass a test certifying that they have learned that

particular lesson. Is it important for a fifth grader to know that the planet

in our solar system that takes the least amount of time to orbit the sun is

Mercury? How many people on earth have found that information useful

other than being asked in a game show or a test? If there are, is it

absolutely necessary to teach it to thousands of students year after year? If

not, then there should be no point in exerting the effort, time, and money

into teaching our generation something that will only serve them as trivial.

Often students complain, "I'll never need to know this in life," and

the question is, will they really? Sir Ken Robinson said in one of his talks

that back then, if a student works hard and does well, he or she would have

a job but today's generation does not believe in that and they are most

certainly right not to. You are better off having a degree than not but it is

no longer a guarantee of a good job anymore and especially if the route

you take to it marginalizes most of the things you think are most important

about yourself. According to Anthony P. Carnevale, director at the

National Center on Education and the Economy, "We live in a society

where you don't go anywhere unless you don't go to college." 70% get into

college. One fourth of those get a four year degree and only about 35% of

them graduate. The rest never get into college or never finish. However

even those with a degree are not assured of a good job. This is because

every year, less and less jobs are offered, the demand of jobs outweigh the

availability of job openings and the standards and requirements of jobs

become tougher. Many graduates end up getting a job if they're lucky but

they're not doing what they love to do and that's because there's no other

choice left.

Many individuals have become successful without finishing

school. Tom Cruise is one of the most highest paid actors and did not go to

college. Bill Gates is the former CEO of Microsoft and is considered to be

one of the world's wealthiest people and he is a college drop out. Mark

Zuckerburg, the founder of the social networking site, Facebook, is one of

the youngest billionaires and is a Harvard drop out. These are only some

of the many examples wherein individuals pursue what they are good at

despite not going to or dropping out of school. This paper does not aim to

advise every individual to drop their books and go out and do whatever

they want. This just goes to prove that school isn't as important and

necessary as it is viewed to be. Many of those who have changed the

world did not finish school.

The last point is that education deteriorates creativity. Any school

system will teach you a hierarchy of subjects. There is math and science at

the top. Then there is Language and Literature. After that are humanities

and at the bottom are the arts. There is no school system that will teach

arts as often and as thorough as math and science. We do not teach

students arts with the same importance and way we require them to learn

their Math and Science. Math and Science have great value but so do the

arts but why are some subjects treated as more important than the other?

Sir Ken Robinson says that one of the reasons for this is that people do not

see the economic value in the arts. It is often that a student is driven away

from what he or she finds passion and importance in and then driven

towards what adults claim to have more value later on such as becoming

an engineer, doctor or lawyer. This mentality of our school system

consequently divides subjects into necessary and unnecessary subjects.

The problem is that our current education system was designed and

modeled in the age of the enlightenment. We are taught a standard set of

different subjects and lessons. We also separate students by batches. There

are students who excel far more than other students in different disciplines

but our education system is standardized as if we are trying to bring up

only one model of student by the time they reach college. If we are to

maximize the potential of each individual, we shouldn't educate our

generation with a standard production line mentality. This links to the first

point where in so many lessons of which education claims to be important

to teach yet later on becomes of no value to most. Many people end up

unsatisfied with their lives because what they had passion for and what

they excelled at was not valued in school. This would have been the case

of Gillian Barbara Lynne, a dancer. She claims that as a child she did

horrible in school. She would always fidget and she could not concentrate

on her studies. It was later on discovered by a specialist that there was

nothing wrong with Gillian. She was a dancer. So her parents took her to a

dance school and there her passion was nurtured. She excelled and had a

career in ballet. She was a choreographer of the play CATS. She

eventually graduated from the dance school and founded her own dance

company. She has entertained millions of people with her passion and is

now a multi-millionaire. The education system would have wanted to tame

her and study math.

Education is valuable but our current system might not prove fit

for our current generation anymore. We unconsciously brainwash our

children to move towards a goal many others are striving for because the

future of that path looks to have promising economic value. Unfortunately

in this process, we might also be shunning away their talents and fortes

and end up not maximizing the amazing potentials of individuals.

I was still in the throes of sleep – I had just arrived from a five-day

educational tour when my mother woke me up with such urgency. I tried

shaking her off so that I can catch up with more zzz’s but to no avail. She

again tried to rouse me with every trick she had tried all throughout my

grade school and high school days. Just when I thought she’d give up, she

uttered those words: “ACET results are out”. With that I bolted right out of

bed and went straight to the computer and logged into the official Ateneo

website. My hands were cold and clammy and my legs were shaking as I

waited for the screen to show me the results. It wasn’t that I didn’t think I

passed – I knew I did – but it was because I was anticipating the status of

my scholarship. As the page slowly loaded, the feeling of breathlessness

overcame me. My name and status (accepted) along with my first course

choice were already shown – my scholarship status was the only thing that

still needed to load. I was shaking my legs more this time already and I

was nervously clawing at the old ratty shirt I was wearing to wipe off the

sweat off my palms. Suddenly, my stomach dropped and my palms were

wetter and clammier and my legs stopped shaking altogether. I was

waitlisted. I tried to lift the corners of my mouth to show my parents that I

wasn’t that much affected but in truth it was difficult to do so. The

scholarship was the only way my parents would allow me to study in

Manila – not because we needed the financial assistance but because the

scholarship guarantees them that I am dead serious in studying here, that I

am here for a reason other than to be close to my boyfriend who would

eventually study in that school in Taft. My parents then noticed that I was

fixed on the computer screen, as if staring there unblinkingly would

magically change the outcome of the results. My father, who is more

perceptive than I’d give him credit for, told me that being waitlisted isn’t

permanent; he told me that I could still be accepted if I were to write a

Letter of Appeal to the Office of Admission and Aid. I did write a letter

only because my father told me to and not because I believed that I’d be

given a shot to study in one of the Philippines’ prestigious universities.

Days and weeks passed and I still couldn’t get the thought of

being waitlisted off my mind. For years my parents paid for my tuition

fees (along with my younger siblings’) to one of my province’s elite

schools and I wanted to give them a break from it. I would show people

that I wasn’t that hung-up about being waitlisted but in truth I spent every

night praying the rosary and saying the novena to our Mother of Perpetual

Help. Every Sunday after Mass, I would go light a candle and say a prayer

or two at the Pea. One could say that Heaven might have drowned from

my constant pleas. So that I wouldn’t come off as someone who wants

everything in life, I made a pact with God – if I didn’t get the scholarship,

I would willingly study in Legazpi City, my hometown. But if I were to

get the scholarship, I would pack up my bags and prepare myself for the

Big City. That being said, the die was cast. I told my parents this and they

told me that they’d be willing to send me to Manila either way because

they’ve seen how hung up I’ve been over the whole matter. I politely

turned down their offer and decided to stick with my guns.

As the time for reconsidered scholarships came nearer and nearer,

I began having doubts whether I made the right decision of turning down

my parents’ offer to send me to Ateneo minus the scholarship. I prayed

harder for that was the only thing I could do – I felt helpless over the

situation. That was the only time that I realized that I had gambled a major

decision that could influence the entire course of my life but what could I

do? I couldn't go and take back what I said to my parents! They would see

that as a sign of immaturity so I stood my ground in fear for the outcome.

Time passed and I’d let chances to go to other colleges go by and that was

the time I truly felt afraid. I didn’t send any form of my confirmation of

my slot to other universities. This pissed off my parents saying that I’ve

gambled a lot for just one school which wasn’t my dream school at all. At

this rate, they said, I should get that scholarship or else I was going to end

up in my hometown. That didn’t help at all.

It was just like any other day on the fifth of April 2011 so I

decided to go out with my best friend. In one way, I viewed it as a

consolation in case I didn’t receive a scholarship and so I vowed to tire

myself out so that I’d be too tired to cry when I got home. We were about

to enter the KTV room when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket.

Thinking that it was just another group message, I didn’t expect anything

out of the ordinary. Being nonchalant didn’t help at all for as soon as I

read my father’s message saying that I got a full scholarship, I shrieked at

the top of my lungs causing people to throw irritated glances our way. My

best friend didn’t even have to ask– it was that apparent to me that I, Piel

Marie Aguilar, a plain promdi was on my way to studying in the Ateneo

de Manila University.

My case isn’t an unusual one – plenty of people get in the Ateneo

because of scholarship grants. As of Academic Year 2008-2009, fourteen

percent (14%) of the total college population enjoyed financial assistance.

Around seventy percent (70%) of them received full scholarship grants,

twenty percent (20%) were given dorm support while the other twenty-

eight percent (28%) received book and transportation allowance. Over the

years, those figures increased making fifteen percent (15%) of the total

college population scholarship grantees. One would think that scholarships

in the Ateneo aren’t given freely but in truth, the Ateneo is one of the

schools in the Philippines that do. The University offers a variety of

scholarship grants like the Ateneo Freshman Merit Scholarship (awarded

to the Top 30 students who did well in the ACET), San Ignacio de Loyola

Scholarship (awarded to public high school students who got in the Top 10

of the ACET), Academic Scholarship (awarded to Valedictorians and

Salutatorians of Jesuit and Science High Schools), Athletic Scholarship

(awarded to student-athletes who are good in both athletics and

academics), Financial Aid Grants (the most common scholarship grant

awarded to financially-challenged students and also the grant with the

most number of scholars. It offers hundred percent, seventy-five percent,

fifty percent, dorm, book and transportation scholarship grants) and the

University also accepts Government and Private Scholarships.

Although the university offers a wide array of scholarship grants,

it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t have any standards – in fact, if you read up

on scholarship grants given by the Ateneo, one common phrase you’ll

encounter in all of the available grants is “potential and greater service in

the future”. The Ateneo doesn’t only look at the present academic standing

of the student but it looks deeper and assesses whether the student would

prove to be an asset or a liability to the University.

But, what happens now that you’re a scholar? Once you get pass

the ACET, which by the way, is the easiest test you’ll go through under

the Ateneo, and get your scholarship request granted, you are indebted to

the University just like any scholar in just about any school both here and

abroad. But unlike other schools, the Ateneo only imposes ten (10) service

hours to Financial Aid Scholars per semester which is a lot lighter than an

average of a hundred-twenty hours of work per year required by other

universities. Ten hours of service hours per semester is light enough for

scholars to still focus on their academics but enough to make them

remember that nothing is for free.

The high percentage of scholars from all walks of life with diverse

backgrounds and personalities who were hand-picked especially by the

Office of Admission and Aid prove that the Ateneo is an elite school

which is not necessarily elitist. This also proves that anybody who is

willing to give their best and set on competing with the best may just be

given the chance to reach their dreams provided they work hard enough to

achieve these – oh, and also, a little prayer wouldn’t hurt.

It was the 19th of November, 2011. A Saturday like any other.

Well, except for the fact that my aunt and uncle from the States were in

town. But anyway, I woke up at my usual time of about 8 am. Headed

downstairs for breakfast, where I found myself eating by my lonesome

self. This is not unusual either, though. My dad goes up to Baguio

practically every weekend to check up on a little inn my family owns up

there. This weekend was no exception. My mom and my aunt Karla had

gone out to drop off my sister to school. She had an outreach she was

required to participate in. Then, my mom left Aunt Karla in the parlor to

get her hair and eyelashes done. Yes, you read that right, eyelashes. She

wanted to place extensions on them. After finishing my breakfast, I took a

bath and got dressed. My mom called me on my cellphone to get ready.

She was picking me up so I could go to the parlor too. I, apparently, was in

desperate need of a haircut. As much as I did not feel like getting one, I

had to agree with her. My hair was getting far too long and out of hand.

Not to mention, the horrible split-ends I had developed from not getting a

trim every 3 or so months, just as the hairstylists had advised.

The hair salon we regularly go to is called Aura Salon in

Katipunan. Though it takes us around 20 minutes to get there, we have

been going to Aura for years. This is the very same salon I had my hair,

make-up, and nails done for my uncle's wedding in 2008, my grade school

(2007) and high school (2011) graduation. When I get there, I have my

hair washed. Then, I sit down on one of their extremely comfortable chairs

and wait until Jessica, the hairstylist who usually cuts my hair, comes

over. When she arrives, I mention to her that I just want a trim to get rid of

the nasty split ends. She suggested, however, that she cut my hair 2-3

inches shorter. I agreed. After all, she knows best.

It does not take long until Jessica is finished with me. By

this time, my mom had come back with my sister. My sister insisted on

getting a haircut too. Since, my aunt was not done – they were still

applying her false eyelashes (man, is that a long process). My sister had

time to get her hair done. So I sat back down and relaxed, waiting for all of

them to finish. Thankfully, I was not going out of my mind with boredom.

I had brought my copy of “How to Read a Page” by I.A. Richards in

preparation for English class the following Monday. I looked up from the

page I was reading from, for no apparent reason, when bam!

This drop-dead gorgeous guy plops himself in the seat directly

across mine. My eyes became giant saucers. I could not stop staring at this

guy. I was speechless, gobsmacked. At the same time, I had never felt so

shallow in my life. Here I was, utterly bewildered, over some guy's looks. I

cannot explain it. I do not know why he brought out such strong emotions

from me. He somehow had a hold on me.

To avoid looking like a complete bimbo, I decided not to look at

him at all. This may sound silly but I knew that if I looked at him again, I

would not be able to take my eyes off of him. So I tried keeping myself

busy. But the moment he stood and turned his back on me to have his hair

washed, I had to look at him. I turned to my mom, pointed at his direction

using my eyes, and mouthed to her that that guy over there, getting his hair

washed was really, really good looking. This was something I had never

done before. I do not share anything boy-related to my mom – until now.

This guy was just too handsome not to mention to anyone. I had to tell

someone.

After a while, I could not stand it anymore. I had to look at him.

Discreetly, of course. It was frustrating, though, because all I wanted to do

was memorize every detail of him. But how could I do that without

coming off as a creep? So, I chose to focus on what he was wearing, and

his movements. Not his face, obviously, in case we made eye contact. I

was searching for something that would give away his age or the school he

attends. All I saw, though, was this dark blue baller on his wrist. As if that

told me anything helpful. I could not even make out what the print said. I

moved on to his hands. He was carrying an iPhone. He would always be

texting on it or glancing at it every 5 minutes. I had a sinking feeling then,

that he had a girlfriend. After all, a guy like him, it was impossible not to

have one.

An hour passed, we were all set and ready to go. By this time the

guy had already left and I was ready to just about forget him, when my

sister comes over and tells me that there was this guy who kept glancing at

me. What?! Could it be that guy – that guy I was hoping so much it would

be? She said yes! Inside, I was brimming with kilig-ness.

I guess you can understand why I find this whole situation poetic.

Anything concerning attraction, desire, admiration, infatuation, and I dare

say, love –though, I highly doubt that is what is coming into play here, in

this situation. One of the most powerful poems ever written are about

people and the emotions they awaken inside a poet. A person is enough to

fuel a blaze within a poet. It is enough for a poet to keep on writing poems

that will remain timeless.

Aside from what I think is an obvious reason I chose this moment,

what I find poetic is the fact that this moment was unexpected. It caught

me off guard. It is true that in each day something that was not anticipated,

happens, but how many of them have caught you off guard? How many of

these unexpected moments really shook you to your core, that years down

the road you will still remember these occurrences. You will still

remember how it feels like. Those moments do not happen every day.

This situation is poetic in the sense that the day started out so

ordinary and even, not so promising. What I mean by “not so promising”

is that it felt like any other day, where I go through life not truly

remembering any of it; having no impact on me. Yet, this one small

instance changed all of that. Now, that day turned out to be worth

reminiscing to me. Though, it was just a few moments of my life. Sad to

say, the odds of me seeing him again are against me.

Something magical happens at the most surprising of times. When

we least expect it and whether we know it or not, when we need it most. It

is true that awful things, also, take place in an unanticipated time of our

lives. But, we learn from those moments most. That is what I think is

poetic. When life can change its course at any second. Where, in a

seemingly ordinary day, something extraordinary can be in store for us.

The “un-expectancy” of it all makes it all the more poetic. I can go hours,

days, weeks, months going through the routines of my daily life and not a

single thing stands out; touches me. Out of the 365 days in a year how

many do I remember? I read once, that “we remember moments, not

days.” I cannot even pinpoint, sometimes, what makes a moment so

special that it is burned in my mind, destined to be remembered until the

day I die. The thing is we do not know why but is not that the point? It

may be nerve-wracking but the important thing here is, it happened and we

remember it did.

John Marston rides across the Wild West in his ever-trusty

stallion, a ten-year old black War Horse. He’s a bounty hunter. That means

he ties criminals up and brings them to the sheriff’s precinct in the town he

got the bounty order from – or if necessary, he kills them. That’s how he

makes a living. As he rides on his horse across the vast deserts, prairies,

mountains, valleys, glades, forests, defiles, ravines, and all other terrain

found in the United States during that era, where the first cars were just

being invented. He occasionally finds beavers, squirrels, coyotes, rabbits,

foxes, cougars, buffalos, bears, and other animals he hunts down – and

skins for valuable meat and fur he can sell to general stores.

The above paragraph is a brief description of a video game I have

at home on my Microsoft Xbox 360, a gaming console. In the video game,

Red Dead Redemption, you play John Marston. It has a story of pretty

much killing people who did bad things to you and those you love, in

order for you to be reunited once again with your wife and child. You

might now be wondering why I picked this video game as the (changed 'a'

to 'the') topic of my personal essay of what I found poetic. There are

several reasons. The first is that playing this video game has brought me to

the realization that institutionalization can make zombies of people.

There is a side story in the game where John Marston has to kill

zombies because an insidious zombie disease has spread out in the whole

country. I can quaintly and humorously parallel that supposed “disease” in

our modern lives - institutionalization. Because of the daily grind of Math

long tests to study for, Accounting quizzes to burn the midnight oil for,

English papers to labour on, Lit stories to read, and all other labours of

school, to see life beyond the next school requirement can be difficult

sometimes. Playing this video game as John, in a way, kills or at least tries

to kill the “zombie consciousness” that is taking over me when I fail to see

the big picture when I am absorbed into the tiny pinhole of school

requirements.

In the game, you can do whatever you like and no one tells you

what to do. Now, I am not saying that we should kill people, because you

can do anything at all, even kill people. What I am saying is, because of a

fast-paced life in the modern era, and especially because of the

institutionalization of our way of life through school and other similar,

repetitive, and mechanistic activities, we tend to take for granted our

freedom. I mean, take a look at our lives in school. We spend each day

taking up the same classes we took yesterday, talking to the same people at

the same time each day, in the same place. Sure, this approach to learning

may make us memorize things quickly, but we also forget them quickly,

and the sameness is simply boring.

I’m not saying that institutionalization is all bad though. It has

given us a rigid and reliable system to produce experts in different fields

with a minimum standard of know-how. With it, we can be sure that we

have fairly the same curriculum as other lawyers/doctors/engineers/(insert

occupation here).

What struck me in the video game is that John Marston does not

have the word, “institutionalized” in his dictionary. He lives life the way

he pleases, going where ever in the United States, even if it is several

hundred miles away. He sleeps on the sand, under the stars, having no

qualms about sleeping beside a horse and a thousand other species of wild

animals. He kills the criminals or catches them because he wants to earn a

living, and because that is his understanding of justice. Every day, the life

he leads is not like any other. At least, that is what I made his life to be.

This experience of living the life of another person; making him

walk, talk, see, feel, touch, hear, and do whatI tell him to do using the

controller , it makes me wonder whether I really am free too . How would

we know if we are not just brains floating in a nutrient-rich vat of

chemicals, being sent electrical impulses from a computer through

electrodes attached to the neurocortex which make our brain have

sensations, experiences, and memories? How would we know if our lives

are not just video games for people or people-like things in a higher realm

of consciousness? Maybe we are just zombies that think that we can walk,

talk, see, feel, touch, hear, and do what we want, but in truth someone on

the other end of a TV screen has a controller making us do those things?

This query is epically poetic, no doubt. Well, if so, at least I control this

guy, John Marston, in this realm of consciousness.

Does John Marston know that he is just a character in a video

game, wandering about and living out a story which game developers

wrote for him? It kind of makes me wonder if our lives are predetermined

long before we even existed. Are we just actors in a game whose story is

final and unchangeable?

The second reason I think this game is poetic, is that it has

reminded me that the world is bigger than the few square kilometres I

inhabit in my daily life. As I have mentioned, John Marston travels the

world as he pleases on his trusty and agile stallion across all kinds of

terrain, encountering all kinds of people and animals, and experiencing a

whole gamut of things. I have travelled a bit in the past, myself.

Traversing some parts of Asia, Australia, and the United States, but

because of how school can sometimes make us busy, unable to travel, I

forget how big the world is.

This gives rise to a new musing: Where does John Marston live?

Is it within the machine which we call the Xbox 360? Is it in the minds of

the game developers and players who cannot get enough of him? Or is it in

some other place entirely, where John can live in peace without human,

divine, or whatever kind of intervention ? Now, you might be thinking that

this is a simple question about technology and that once the Xbox 360’s

memory unit is destroyed, John Marston and all he stands for would

already be dead and forgotten.

How are we so sure of that, though? If you are familiar with the

story, “Sophie’s World,” by Jostein Gaarder the protagonist , Sophie, said

that she will live on even if the story is finished and the book is put down.

Increasing evidence has been found by quantum physicists that millions of

parallel universes or dimensions exist in the same space which we inhabit

right now. That means at the same time, at the same place, but in a

different parallel universe or dimension, some other thing is happening.

Maybe in one of those parallel universes, John Marston lives on - or

maybe he lives in a higher or lower dimension.

Maybe we are just thoughts in the mind of another consciousness,

and that consciousness is what we call, “God”. Now, we can see this

clearly because we have played “God” in the life of John Marston and

countless other characters which we have made from the creativity of our

minds, developing these characters, emplotting their life stories, and

making them live through the hands of eager video game players. If we

really are just being “controlled” by a higher consciousness, I do not think

we should be angry because we ourselves our doing it to these virtual

people we create.

This meta-analysis of life afforded me by this video game has

worked wonders to my grasping the fact of my smallness and my

ignorance of how little I really know about life. I do not know how my

consciousness was created, just like John. I do not know for certain the

composition of my maker/s, just as John does not know the faces of his

game developers. I also do not know what befalls me in the future, just as

John does not know what awaits him in his predetermined life.

The third poetic thing I saw in this video game is the resurrection

that takes place each time the character is killed. As we all accept and have

come to believe, once we die, we go someplace else than this physical

realm. For some people, it is hell; some, heaven; some in a place full of

light or darkness, etc. The bottom line is a lot of people believe it is some

other place than here, and we are going to be without a physical body. In

the game, when John dies, he comes back to life at the last save point or

the last time you save the game.

However, this makes me ask, “How are we certain that we do not

come back to life once we die?” Now that I have introduced the concept of

parallel universes, we can imagine that when one dies an untimely death in

Universe A, s/he can be resurrected in Universe B – which is similar to

Universe A, so that her/his life is basically the same entity as in Universe

A - sometime before s/he died, so that s/he can live and have that

possibility of surviving the death when the point in time of her/his

untimely death in Universe A comes again. This reminds me of that movie

where Jake Gyllenhaal, using a machine called the Source Code, relives

over and over the life of a passenger in a train which exploded in order to

find out who the bomber was.

If the aforementioned definition of resurrection were real (and we

have no way of finding out but for us to die ourselves), then we are

doomed to relive our lives until we achieve the purpose or storyline which

our “game developers” have set out for us. The lives we live now maybe

resurrected ones, after we accidentally stepped into a vat of boiling oil,

forgot to turn off the gas, looked down from the car which hit us while we

were crossing the street, etc.

If resurrection were real, I would live my life to the fullest every

single day. I would confess my immense love to my crush, try to capture

the world’s most wanted criminals, engage in deep sea diving, embark on

a dangerous naval journey across the world, skydive daily, run blindly into

the streets just for the fun of it, etc. If I do not like the outcome of my

actions, I can just sleep in a car turned on and poof. I can do all of those

things again.

As unsettling as these ideas sound, we never really know what

comes after death, unless someone from the other side comes back and

tells us Maybe we get resurrected to the same save point that our Maker/s

or Player/s determine for us. Maybe we are living in one of the many

multitudes of parallel universes in reality. Maybe we are just brains

submerged in a vat. Maybe we are just zombies. Maybe.

It is funny how much a simple video game can make one think

about life.

For the first few months of the year 2010, St. Luke’s Hospital was

my home. It was in those stark white halls, the scent of disinfectant

permeating the air, that I did my homework, had my meals and spent most

of my time after school. I was such a frequent visitor that I could name

every dog on the canine unit by the entrance, and nurses and members of

the staff welcomed me like family.

My grandfather was always in and out of the hospital it was

practically routine. We were used to him asking us to take him to the

hospital for an overnight stay. St. Luke’s to him was what a day spa is to a

normal person. He would go there to reenergize, rejuvenate and revitalize

himself. So on the morning of the 30th of March, no one thought it peculiar

when he once again asked to be admitted… although this was far from his

usual hospital visits.

At first my sister and I were oblivious to the seriousness of his

situation. We knew that he had to stay longer than his usual one to two

nights visits but apart from that, nothing more was said to us. In the

morning, the driver would take us to the hospital to accompany grandpa

and in the afternoon, he would take us back home. Nothing seemed to be

out of the ordinary. We could not have been more mistaken.

Our family, for years, has been keeping a secret. A secret that not

even my sister and I were privy to. In hindsight, they did it to protect us…

or should I say to protect me… from myself.

Although older in age, I was more delicate, more fragile than my

younger sister. I could never bear to watch people suffer. While she was

sympathetic to the people around her, I was more empathetic. Unlike my

sister, who so neatly packs and stores her emotions into little containers

and manages to keep her composure, I crumble and drown in the sea of

mine. Instead of dealing with my emotions like any normal person, I

would shut it off completely and lock myself in a bubble of my own

world, a world where nothing went wrong, where everyone was healthy,

where everyone was full of life.

I knew something was amiss the moment the

phone rang at 7:30 on the night of April 3. My sister and I had been home

for an hour, two hours tops. It was our mother on the other line, urging us

to get dressed and back to the hospital as quickly as possible. From that

moment on, the next few hours seemed to tick by excruciatingly slow.

When we arrived, the room was packed. Apart from our family,

there were two doctors there and a nurse. We were informed by grandpa’s

doctors that his vital signs were not good. He was slipping deeper and

deeper into a coma. His heart was hardly beating, his lungs were barely

working, his eyes he could not even open. My grandmother was faced with

a terrible decision: she could opt to have a tube inserted into my

grandfather’s throat or choose for him to just stay connected to an oxygen

tank. The chances of the ventilator prolonging my grandfather’s life were

not high. The doctors could not promise us that he would survive until the

end of the upcoming week, even on the ventilator. What they were sure of

was that once the ventilator was in, grandpa would no longer be able to

eat, no longer be able to speak, and he would no longer be able to breathe

without it. The options were heartbreaking. How does one choose between

two things of equal destruction? In the end, she opted to let my grandfather

live the remainder of his life as comfortably as possible. She chose the

oxygen tank.

An hour passed and we were faced with another problem.

Grandpa’s blood pressure was much too low. Without medication, he

would not survive. So my grandmother gave the go signal to inject an IV

through his arm.

Once the problem regarding his breathing and his blood pressure

were addressed, another issue arose. His body could no longer process the

minerals and vitamins in his body. So another bag of medicine was added.

All in all, my grandfather was hooked on to 4 IV bags. He needed more

but he had already reached the maximum number of bags a body could

take. The nurses even had to schedule which bag would be connected to

him since he needed another 2 more. Seeing him that way was almost too

much to bear. The person in front of us was no longer my grandfather. His

illness had robbed him of almost all of his senses. He could not speak, he

could not see, he could not move. He was trapped in a shell, caught

somehow between life and death.

Six hours. We waited six hours by his side. All eyes were glued to

the monitors attached to my grandfather. He was alive, yes, but he was no

longer living. The doctors informed us that however he was doing then,

that would be how he would always be. His body could no longer pump

blood on its own, could no longer absorb the oxygen and release the

carbon dioxide, could no longer digest. Instead of the drugs simply aiding

him, they were controlling him. My grandfather, although not medically

dead, was living an artificial life.

It was within those six hours that I realized how much time I had

lost. I was taken 9 months back, when everything started going downhill.

Initially, we thought my grandfather’s gout was simply acting up.

He started having difficulties walking. When the pain worsened after a

week, my family thought it best to visit his doctor. His doctor passed him

onto his oncologist. His cancer, which was hidden from my sister and I,

had metastasized. It had travelled to his spine which resulted to his losing

control over his legs. First his right leg, then his left. It was not long until

he required the use of a wheelchair. He not only lost his ability to walk

when his cancer resurfaced, he also lost his independence. He lost a part of

himself, a part of his spirit. Once gregarious and the life of every party,

grandfather now spoke significantly less. I felt I had lost him that early on.

I failed to see that although my grandfather was broken, he was far

from irreparable. He was a fighter after all. Our family was what kept him

going on all those months and it was during those moments when all I

could do was stare helplessly by his side, that I realized just how much I

had let him down.

Doctor Bella, a family friend, dropped by to assess my

grandfather’s situation. Upon seeing bag after bag on the IV stand, all the

warmth on her face was instantly replaced with a stoic expression. She

took my grandfather’s vital signs, jotted down notes on her clipboard, and

reviewed my grandfather’s charts.

She informed us that at that point, there was nothing more we

could do. Death was already knocking on my grandfather’s door. He

should not even still be alive at this point. In the gentlest manner, she told

us that it was time to let go. My grandfather’s body technically had. It was

we, his family, who refused to let him finally rest.

My grandmother, mother, and her siblings were obviously, at this

point, sobbing hysterically. We all were. How could we simply allow my

grandfather to die just like that? Were not we all raised to be against

euthanasia instead of agents of it? In a calm and levelheaded manner,

Doctor Bella patiently explained to us the complexities behind euthanasia.

Euthanasia is a practice frowned upon in most, if not all societies.

In our country where Catholicism is the most common religion and the

Church, one of the strongest bodies in the society, euthanasia is considered

to be taboo. The horror expressed on my loved ones’ faces when we were

faced with this was extreme given that we were all devout Catholics.

Euthanasia comes from the Greek words eu- (good) + thanatos

(death). Put together, euthanasia quite literally means “an easy and happy

death”. In the modern age, however, euthanasia is often referred to as

“mercy killing” or “physician assisted suicide”.

Several negative emotions are brought about by the mere mention

of euthanasia. What people do not know, however, is that there are several

classifications and types of euthanasia. Euthanasia could be executed with

the patient’s consent (voluntary) or without (non-voluntary), or even

against what the patient has explicitly stated (involuntary). Euthanasia can

also be executed by action (intentionally bringing about death through an

action) or through omission (deliberately failing to provide the patient’s

basic needs such as food and water).

These basic facts we knew, of course. What we did not know, and

what few people know, to be honest, is that an action can only be

considered euthanasia if there is the intention of killing the person who

still has the chance and capability to live. The act of stopping treatments

which have proven to be ineffective or refusing to supply medicine which

would be dangerous to the patient’s health, then, are not considered to be

forms of euthanasia and are therefore considered legal and acceptable.

This is even mentioned in the Doctrine of Euthanasia that was released in

May 1980. According to the Church, "When inevitable death is imminent

in spite of the means used, it is permitted in conscience to take the

decision to refuse forms of treatment that would only secure a precarious

and burdensome prolongation of life, so long as the normal care due to the

sick person in similar cases is not interrupted" (Part IV).

The truth was hard to swallow but after learning

about euthanasia through a physician’s eye as well as through the

Church’s, we were finally able to arrive at a conclusion. My family made

the difficult decision of not adding any more bags to my grandfather’s IV

stand. Once all the drugs were used up, that was it. No second batch, no

round two. If my grandfather’s body was meant to survive through this

ordeal and had gained enough strength from half a day’s worth of

medicine, he would survive. If not, it just meant that his body simply could

no longer take it. So we watched on, our hearts breaking a little more as

each drop fell, as the liquid gradually receded and the bags became less

full by the minute.

Once the final drop of medicine fell, the countdown began. How

long would he last? Would he live to feel the sun’s warmth seep through

the curtains and greet him with a new day?

Three hours. For three hours his heart continued to beat. For three

hours his blood continued to flow. For three hours his lungs continued to

expand, then contract. Expand, contract. Expand, contract.

The nurse came in to check his vital statistics. He shone his

penlight at my grandfather’s right eye, then his left. We watched on and

we could all see that his eyes were hardly responding, the pupils hardly

dilating. “It won’t be long now. He’ll be gone before sunrise. I’m sorry.”

He said the words we all knew were true but all refused to accept.

We each found a place around my grandfather’s bed; my mother,

my father, my sister, my two aunts, my uncle, his wife, my grandmother

and I. We all held on to my grandfather, refusing even for a moment to let

go.

They say that a person’s hearing is the last sense to go. And on

that night, I can safely say that that is true, for during my grandfather’s

final moments, we all said the things that were kept unsaid. All the

apologies, the recollections, the happy times, and the sad. We talked about

how lucky we were to have been blessed to be a part of his family and how

thankful we all were. We watched his heart rate steadily decrease. 60 beats

per minute. 53 beats per minute. 41 beats per minute. 35. 28. 12. 3.

Nothing could stop the tears from flowing, the pain inside multiplying a

thousand fold. As if on cue, we all bit back the tears and murmured our

last “I love yous”. He heard us, I know he did, for the moment those words

left our mouths, his heart jumped back to life, beating at 30 beats per

minute. Then it dropped to 18. To 9. To 5. 0. Then, just like that, he was

gone... forever.

The year 2010 taught me several things. How life truly is too

short. How we cause ourselves pain. How much the things left unsaid

matter. How it is never too late to turn things around. 2010 taught me the

importance of family, of hope, of faith. It taught me to remember to hold

on to the things and the people in life that matter. It also taught me to let

go when the time was right.

2010 to me will always be the year of realizations. Of redemption.

Of forgiveness. I will look back and always see how much I havegrown in

my weeks spent in St. Luke’s. How I emerged a different person the

morning I left those stark white halls, the echoes of “I love you” still

resonating in the air, on the morning of Easter Sunday, April the 6th.