And so I am writing this dangerless and formless essay full of my experiences of some sort… Forgive the flow, structure and grammatical errors. I intend to write a second draft. This is just the first serving of my desire to write a concise essay that will soon prompt a pro-Filipino movement in the near future. Here it goes. Do not read if you are a Bush fanatic, a blondie-wannabe or if you are not ready for repetitive thoughts on one single agonizing theme.

I’m in love with my country even as the newspapers are bombarded with economic crisis, killings, famine, price hikes, corruption and the predictable showbiz break-ups. As most of my batchmates, countrymen, friends and relatives are planning to leave this country of ours for good, I am certain that I’ll live and die in this land of mine.

            Sure, I am one of those who find joys in buying classy clothes in Singapore, tasting apple pie at the Blue Mountain, striking a pose at the Grand Canyon and the Bondi Beach, holding a dozen of paperbags at Hong Kong or watching Aida live in Broadway New York. But I am one of the few who takes pride of the dirty markets of Tagaytay, unexplored beaches of Bolinao, the prose of Lourd de Veyra, the jeepneys of U.P., the tunes of Razorback and Gary Valenciano, the bazaars of Divisoria and the taste of Bicol Express.

Our country isn’t matched with the first-class nations. One cannot simply find a decent toilet with free tissue paper, lotion and jasmine-scented soap at the mall without paying at the lounge. Yes, traffic is an old-age tradition. Government bureaucracy is a god. Kidnappings are famous movie plots. Economic progress is characterized by a linear movement just as our evening telenovela soaps are of the same storylines. It takes almost six months to get your plastic “real” driver’s license be printed and two years and counting to serve justice to the Filipino people of the obvious crimes committed by our ex-president.

We simply cannot compare our country with Switzerland, USA or Europe. I do not know why we have to always look at the “first-class”, “the first-rate”, “the greener pastures” and “the leading.” We live as if we are living in hell. We create hell out of our own imagination, out of our own desires to be “of the first-class.” We simply cannot be of the first class when we do not patronize our country, if we forget too much and if we strive to leave and never come back.

Once while I was buying at Greenhills, a young vendor exclaimed at the sight of an American family buying pirated DVDs. “Look how beautiful they are. Ang tatangos ng ilong!” They were just ordinary people with whiter skin, blue eyes and upright nose. That moment made me realize how our country’s condition had been tormented by the brutal colonial mentality. Billboards declare it all the time implicitly, as if saying: “Reject your skin! Everything about you is ugly! Don’t be proud! Buy everything American!” Televisions are traumatized with tisoys and tisays displaying their “gorgeous” skin even if they cannot act nonetheless speak straight Tagalog.

Even as my country defines intelligence by the number of English words you could pronounce and define perfectly with the American twang, I am hopeful that one day the Philippines will be liberated from corruption, American puppetry and poverty. I am hopeful that one day Filipinos will not exclaim elated tunes when they see shanties being destroyed, squatters being disposed off at some faraway relocation doghouse-like site or when a homeless kid begging for a peso is reprimanded by the security guard. I am hopeful that Filipinos will stop talking the un-Filipino strivings of a Sam-wannabe.

I admit that there are times when I curse the structures of our society but these structures make me see the real Filipinos—the Filipinos stripped off worldly desires. A poor family offering you their last canned sardines, the generous help of a stranger to a bloody man, the good mornings of smiling kids at Banaue, the free tastes of santol at the market, a brave child saving the lives of his neighbors, the united people chanting at Edsa, a grade 3 Balara student who uses his paper as his handkerchief but nevertheless perseveres in his studies more than you could ever imagine, blind men making their own unknown soundtracks at the mall and a lot more.

For some of us, our faith in our God is intensified by our poverty. We hope while we struggle. I hope that as we live everyday, we realize more our responsibility as a Filipino—not as a man deprived of a “first-class.” Yes, life is hard but progress entails a lot of sacrifice.

A friend was bewildered when I told her that I wouldn’t migrate even if given the chance. “Will there be an effect if you’d migrate?” Yes, there is. As the corny cliché goes “One centavo is worth a peso,” an uncertain adolescent like me would still matter if I’d turn my back to my country. Your annual consumption might equate to one job or more. Someone coming from a middle-class might add a little help in our dwindling economy.

I still do not know how but I am certain that I will someday. Some people just long for money, money and money. Go to America where you could earn at least five times than on what you could earn in the Philippines! Even if other places would offer me higher pay, I cannot turn my back to my place of heritage. I can sacrifice with this “stingy place that you curse everyday.” Sure, I can wait for my turn on Bayani’s U-Turn slots. I can withstand this snowless heat that causes my migraine. I can endure the endless inefficient lines of SSS and LTO. I can pretend that my eardrums are numb until our FMs stop hiring those Brown American-wannabes. I can live even with the presence of self-created entertainment breaking news. I can still exist with the thick smoke that damn Claire dela Fuente’s buses are creating. I can cope with that overpriced lobster at Pagudpud. I can forgive those raging taxi drivers at Baguio. I can manage to close my eyes whenever those tricycle drivers countercross the mad Katipunan Avenue. I can survive.

But no, I cannot survive without the lively procession-like crowd that elbows me at the mall during the 6 times a year sale. I cannot survive without the colourful joyful and smiling people that I come across with everyday. I cannot survive without the Pinoy hoys, pssts, ano and daily curses. I cannot deal with the uncertainties of life without the ano, ganoon, hayun, heto, si ano, noon and other vague terms. I cannot live without the expressive beautiful language of ours which almost all of us have rejected. I cannot be unbankrupt more than ever without the Divisoria, Tutuban, Riverbanks, Greenhills, Bulacan bazaars, Cubao, Quiapo, Banaue Market and Baguio ukay-ukay. I cannot see life without the inspiring thoughts of Randy David and Conrado de Quiros. I cannot feel more comfortable without the “small-world-we-know-everybody” country. I cannot be excited during the dullest days without the corny jokes, Erap jokes resurrection, Ateneo-La Salle jokes, unimaginable love stories, tong-its, pustahans, pusoy dos and kitikitext missend syndromes.   I cannot satisfy my tongue without the sizzling plate, Isabela rice, kesong puti, kare-kare, talaba, tahong, isaw, tapa, lechon cebu, tiyan ng tanigue, piniritong lumpiang ubod, balut, taho, mais na may pinulbusang keso, minatamis na saging, ginataan at ensaladang mangga. Forget the burgers, I’ll indulge with my bottomless rice at the karenderia. I cannot rest without the solemnity of the blue quiet waves that touches the long stretch of white sand. I cannot be motivated without the exceptional devotion of Joker Arroyo, Haydee Yorac and a thousand nameless Pinoys who strive to be a Pinoy for all the Pinoys. I cannot be reminded of the formless life without the zeal of unpaid public school teachers, MMDAs who risk their lives, JVPs who do make a difference and Bobby Guevara and Fr. Adolfo Dacanay-type of people who continuously inspire the youth of today. I cannot live without the hospitality, charm, wit, creativity and intensity of the Pinoy.

And while everybody considers this place as “the stagnant basket case” where everyday is similar to the yesterday, I am still caught with much amusement of the secrets and surprises it reveals to me everyday. From the intriguing history that Ambeth Ocampo narrates, rich culture the Ifugaos possess, callos that my grandmother cooks, untamed waves of an infamous town in Zambales, caves of Biak na Bato, cold breeze of a February Sta. Maria fiesta night to the quiet escapades of the smelly Manila Bay. I simply refuse to turn my back on my own motherland. Come what may. No matter how horrible you could describe this country, I could still proudly enumerate (to infinity) the unfading beauty it is endowed with.