TINDIG PERYODISTA

julia, 18. patungo sa isang makabayang literatura at komunikasyong pangmadla.

[tindigperyodista]

Insights on mental health and class analysis, by a girl who has been depressed for eight years

A few months ago, a high school friend and I reconnected, and after feeling each other out for a bit, eventually admitted that since we'd lost touch, we'd been diagnosed with our respective mental disorders. We cried, commiserated. About lying in bed because we just can't get up, hearing "tamad ka lang katamaran lang yan" and believing it, screaming at ourselves that we are better than this we are good, we are smart, we are our parents' golden children, we have to make them proud. And from my talks with people, with strangers, with friends--I've noticed that this is a trend. The need to be more than what we are now. The desire to live up to expectations. To be normal. And for those of us who were told all our lives that we were the crème dela crème, best of the best, it's an even more damning pressure. It's not enough to be average, you have to be above average. And it's not enough to be above average, you have to be the best of all those who are above average. It's not enough to be a big fish in a small pond; you have to be the biggest fucking shark in the ocean. I remember curling up on the floor, sobbing to my therapist, "All I want to be is power. All I want is to be worthy. To be good enough." And this need is what drives my borderline personality disorder (BPD) and my depression. According to the National Institute of Mental Health, BPD is five times more likely to occur if a close family member has the condition. It's also linked to to "structural and functional changes in the brain, especially in the areas that control impulses and emotional regulation" (National Insitute of Mental Health)--though of course these are not the only factors, and indeed there are people with BPD who do not have these risk factors. The point being: mental disorders can be, but are not necessarily, a biological thing. I have met so many people struggling with mental illnesses and mood disorders and we all feel the same way. Cry the same way. Break down sobbing when we miss a deadline or fail a test or get a grade lower than we ever had in our whole lives. (I dropped from magna cum laude to cum laude during the worst semester of my life, and I stared at my CRS and tried not to hate myself any more than I already did.) Sometimes, these breakdowns lead to the--no, not unthinkable. Many of us have already thought about it. Some of us, myself included, have even tried it. Sometimes these breakdowns lead to the terrible conclusion. Suicide. It's estimated that in the Philippines, an estimated 2,558 people commited suicide, according to a 2014 World Health Organization report. And the rates for suicide, according to the Philippine Psychiatric Association, peak at 15-24 years old--right at the cusp of young adulthood. Late teens to early twenties. Young people. Me. My friends. My peers. The boy I see jogging at the oval. The girl I always meet at the kiosk. The Department of Health (DOH) has found that in Southeast Asia, the Philippines has the highest incidence of depression. In 2004, over 4.5 million cases of depression were reported in the country. According to DOH, so many of us are suffering a pain that has no name. Thirty out of 90 depressives don't even know they have depression. Thirty out of 90 depressives do know, but won't seek help. It could be the stigma. It could be the shame. It could be the fact that in my experience, a therapy appointment costs upwards of P500, and P500 buys so many things: clothes, food, a fraction of the rent, bills. So we push and we fight and we struggle for quality and accessible mental healthcare. We clamor and lobby and rally for a healthcare that isn't privatized, for bodies not to be milked for profit. For us not to have to choose between eating and wanting to kill ourselves. For our government to care that we are dying and to do something so we live. Because even for us, the lucky 30 who do seek help...we, or at least I, scream at ourselves for it. Therapy is expensive. I am guilty every time my family sends me money for my sessions: my brain, screaming mind over matter, God you're pathetic. Kala ko ba matalino ka. Bakit babagsakin ka na ngayon? Laki ng gastos mo sa magulang mo, pakamatay ka ma lang, di hamak mas mura ang kabaong at kape kaysa sa tuition rent bills grocery-- So we struggle. So we fight. Because mental disorders are insidious and murderous and we want to live. But another huge factor we can't discount is how the society we grow up and live in, molds us into this self-hating self-deprecating always-fucking-hurting individuals. Why would kids like us--like me--need accomplishments so desperately? Why would we be curled up fetal position sobbing, saying over and over, "Tangina gumalaw ka, puta ka, may acads ka, di ka gagraduate, you worthless piece of shit, pano na magulang mo, pano na lahat ng pangarap mo--" Love, of course. The safety and stability of our families. But also: the glittering life sold to us by the capitalist economy. The one that promises billboard-worthy happiness and a penthouse condominium and wine after five Fridays. If we just work hard enough, push past this stupid depression, we can reach that. We can be happy. It's an illusion. But it's an illusion that's difficult to dispel. It's the same illusion that drives the viral posts of security guards graduating magna cum laude at the school theu guard at; the elementary schoolchild studying under a lamppost; the illusion that states if you work hard enough, you'll succeed and be happy. It's a lie because from the very beginning the racers were weighed down with balls and chains. It's a lie because not everyone gets the education that people who can afford college do. It's a lie because not everyone gets the same education that we UP students do--the same education that guarantees at least a glance at your resumé. Hell, not everybody qualifies for "at least high school graduate" job postings I've seen around. So we fight not only for mental healthcare, but for quality and accessible education in all levels, for all Filipinos. Because the right to life doesn't stop at life; it comes with the right to quality to life, as well. The K-12 program is not only a burden to the parents forced to shell out for another two years of education (the discussion of how private schools have milked K-12 for profit will have to be put aside for now). It is also a machinery to create welders, domestics, nail artists--in short, docile labor--to send as overseas Filipino workers (OFWs) out in the international market. I am reminded, once again, of former UP president Alfredo Pascual: "Tertiary education is a privilege, not a right." But it is a right. Filipinos deserve more than to be called "the world's best workers". Why not the world's best scientists, best artists, best singers dancers engineers lawyers writers doctors--God, psychologists and psychiatrists! What I am trying to say is: we have been conditioned all our lives to believe that if we work hard enough, we will get that glittery life of peace and plenty. And when we struggle to get there--our genetics, our brains, our traumas--we curl in on ourselves and hurt and blame ourselves. But it was unfair from the beginning. It's not our fault it's hard. The way our society works is by keeping the poor, poor, and the middle-class just solidly middle-class enough to keep chasing that glittering dream life that keep the Powers That Be laughing all the way to their offshore bank accounts. Break that society. Break that system. We deserve better. Mental health issues cannot be imprisoned within the narrow lens of biology or emotion. They also have to be seen through a societal lens. Living as we do in a social construct, we are shaped and changed by how that society treats us. The struggle for mental health is not exclusive to the struggle for free education, or indeed the struggles of the many sectors who push for land, autonomy, representation--democratic rights. Our struggles are woven together. We are stronger together. Hanggang sa tagumpay! Sources: https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/borderline-personality-disorder/index.shtml  http://www.who.int/mental_health/suicide-prevention/world_report_2014/en/  http://www.gmanetwork.com/news/story/376780/lifestyle/healthandwellness/psychiatrists-tell-all-the-411-on-suicide-prevention  http://portal.doh.gov.ph/content/woeful-suicide.html

[tindigperyodista]

Father– I miss him. There are burn marks on my face from where his lips touched me–Father, I still want him. I am standing at the mouth of hell and praying the rising vapors have passed through his lungs somehow, that I could be close to him at least in this. I breathe in and out, and it’s almost as good as the nights we spent together, breathing in and out just like we used to, under the stars in the dark of the moon. It has been so long since I last saw that traitor and yet my heart still thuds at the memory of his mouth. Father, are you the same? You made me in your image so you must know, must own, the same boundless love, the same endless heart. Have you filled solar systems–galaxies–with wishing things could be different; are there universes full of letters that begin and end the same way: come back come back I love you I forgive you, you are still my secret heart, my north star–Oh, do you still miss, do you still ache for your star-bright love, your only sin? Father, I stand here staring at my hands and how empty they are. There are spaces where his fingers should be. These are the same hands that washed his feet, but the memory is both far away and immediate; these are the same hands that handed him wine and bread. I miss him. I still love him. I wanted his love to be like honey, like wine–honey doesn’t rot, and wine gets better with the passage of time. I wanted fingers sticky with sweetness, with age. With something else entirely. Father, all I ever wanted was a love that did not have an expiration date. Forget him, the angels sing. Thank you for not falling to temptation, my siblings exult. Have they forgotten who I am, what my lineage is? I am blood and bone of my mother’s mother’s mother, child of she who unleashed the world. She fell to a forked tongue and a venomous mouth; still now her lips drip crimson. I slumped there dying for him and he turned away. I would have given him everything, anything–they say I carried the weight of the world that day, but heaviest of all was the weight of thirty silver shekels. The weight of heartache. Of betrayal. My mother’s mother’s mother doomed the world for love; I saved it. And yet our fates are the same. (Father, you put the light in the sky and it fell out of spite.) His silver tongue doomed me and yet I still remember. My hands are hollow with the emptiness of waiting. My hands are heavy with the weight of wanting. I knew what he was when I loved him, yet I begged against set-in-stone, fell on my knees for a maybe-just-maybe. I thought he would change, for me. (Oh, Father, isn’t it family tradition, to love those who would ultimately betray us?) -J

UP Writers Club Love Letter Writing Contest 2017. First place, English category

[newtonrants]

Does activism have a uniform?

So earlier this afternoon I was forced to commute to Calamba because of a workplace emergency. It seems that the local labor union had a score to settle with management after a string of pay cuts. As a result, I found myself suddenly in the middle of an open forum - a powder keg about to explode.

“Maagang pa-buenas ngayong pasko,” I remember Mang Dave, the union treasurer, saying mockingly before spitting on the sidewalk. 

And yet in light of everything, something completely different stood out the most from earlier. It was the fact that I wore my red STAND UP polo - the first time I’ve ever worn it in the workplace. 

It was…surreal. 

Like wearing another person’s skin, or putting on a new pair of shoes you haven’t broken into yet.

It may seem such a petty thing to most, but for someone like me who has, for the longest time believed he was a mema aktibista, it meant the world.

Mema aktibista? You know what I mean. Someone who identifies as an activist sorely because it was the cool thing to do. It was the cat’s pyjamas. The trendy and the uso. In my college, anything less than left-leaning is unacceptable.

Aktibista nga ba talaga ako?

And so I guess I never really was confident about how I seemed to other people. Especially because for someone like me who never had the time to join rallies because of my multiple jobs, the hardness quotient of what passes off as my credibility must be on par with hot jell-o.

And because of my massive introversion streaks, I’ve never been comfortable hanging around with my fellow STAND UP members.

I have not memorized the chants. In fact, I currently have a note in my cellphone where I record all the ones I can hear for future reference.

Aktibista nga ba talaga ako?

So you can imagine me being in the middle of an open forum between an oppressive multinational company and its oppressed workers, while decked in my reds. Did I have a right to wear it given my track record?

After all, it was only because I literally didn’t have anything else to wear that I was relegated to the last piece of clothing on my dresser.

To be fair, I’ve handled work disputes like the one earlier so many times to keep a correct count. And I’ve been engaged in public service for most of my college life like putting children through school, or hosting educational discussions wherever my work takes me. 

But for some reason, this particular forum struck a chord deep within me. 

Aktibista nga ba talaga ako?

The answer came to me an hour later, when the forum was nearing its end and I was saying my goodbyes to the union people I knew. At the time, I seriously debated taking the damn polo off. After all, it didn’t feel quite right.

I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I look back and see Mang Dave.

“Buti nalang may mga estudyante pang katulad mo na aktibista. Na may alam sa nangyayari sa tunay na mundo. Salamat iho,” he said.

Which made me realize that it isn’t what someone wears on his person, or says out loud that really measures activism. First and foremost still is one’s personal need to serve the masses.

As I was preparing for my long night ahead in my cramped cubicle in the main office, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass, all in red. Somehow, I feel a bit more secure in who I am. It didn’t matter as much what other people thought of me.

Hindi na mahalaga kung aktibista nga ba talaga ako. Ang mahalaga ay nagsisimula pa lamang ang laban ko para sa bayan.

In the end, isn’t that all that really matters?

[tindigperyodista]

A villanelle about Jollibee Katipunan

I no longer step foot on the second floor; I can’t face the ghost of happiness. I am haunted by my heart. For Jollibee Katipunan sees JC no more.

At fifteen the seniors told me: Corner table, at the upstairs of the store. Now, I can no longer step foot on the second floor.

Late-night confessions, “do we have to go”– I can barely remember our laughter. Lost is that rapport. And Jollibee Katipunan sees JC no more.

When I come in for dinner, it’s takeout or not at all; Dining in with JCers just isn't done anymore. I can’t bear to step foot on the second floor.

The old order of things is impossible to restore; Time and distance wreaked their hell. Dinners together are things of yore. And Jollibee Katipunan sees JC no more.

I walk in and place my order; My yearning heart begs for that beloved, familiar corner. But still I do not step foot on the second floor. for Jollibee Katipunan sees JC no more.

[tindigperyodista]

1(1081)6

Isinulat para sa STAND UP CMC bilang pahayag laban sa paghimlay ng diktador na si Ferdinand Marcos sa Libingan ng mga Bayani.

--

Hanggang ngayon ay may bangungot ayaw tumungo sa himlayan: 1081 ang kanyang numero, kawalan ng hustisya kanyang ngalan. Noong idineklara ng haring “Walang lalaban sa akin,” Libo-libong buhay ay kinitil upang patahimikin.

Kay tagal na noon--dekada nang nakaraan, Ngunit ang utang ng kasaysayan ay dala ng kabataan. Hanggang ngayon ay may bangungot ayaw tumungo sa himlayan: 1081 ang kanyang numero, kawalan ng hustisya kanyang ngalan.

Ating ilibing--maghilom--lumimot, Ngunit paano gigising sa isang bangungot? Bitbit pa rin ang dugong inutang sa bayan, Nakawan ng pera--pulisiyang di pabor sa sambayanan.

Hanggang ngayon ay may kurakot na ayaw tumungo sa himlayan-- Tayo’y lumaban sa bangungot na kawalan ng hustisya ang pangalan.

[tindigperyodista]

The Insight, Diliman, Quezon City, Philippines. 878 likes · 513 talking about this. The Insight is an official class newsroom under CNN editor and...

Nirebisang bersyon ng tulang isinulat para sa The Insight bilang pahayag laban sa paglibing ng diktador na si Ferdinand Marcos sa Libingan ng mga Bayani.

--

Ilang taludtod para sa bansang nilulunod sa paglimot

Sa Pilipinas may Hitler, may diktador, may tuta. May inutang na dugo na hindi binabayaran. Ngunit sa pag-alala, ang bansa’y maralita.

Noong hindi kanais-nais ang kanyang nilathala, Anak ay pinaslang sa harap ng kanyang ama. Sa Pilipinas may Hitler, may diktador, may tuta.

“Dormitory fight” ba ang pumaslang kay Trajano, O galit ng prinsesa nang kakayahan niya ay inusisa? Sa pag-alala, ang bansa’y maralita.

Walong daang bangkay, hanggang ngayo’y nawawala. Tatlong libong ama, ina, anak, kapatid pinaslang. Sa Pilipinas may Hitler, may diktador, may tuta.

Ang “salvage” ibig sabihin “ligtas”; kahuluga’y iniba: Maaaring ibig sabihin ang utak ng bangkay mahahanap sa bituka. Ngunit sa pag-alala ang bansa ay maralita.

Hinagpis ng sambayanan ay ayaw pa ring bayaran; Paano ibibigay ang sinasantong kapatawaran? Mayroon tayong Marcos, na Hitler, diktador, tuta: Pilipinas, sa pag-alala huwag maging maralita.

[tindigperyodista]

Ilang taludtod para sa bansang nilulunod sa paglimot

Isinulat para sa The Insight, bilang pahayag laban sa paglibing sa diktador na si Ferdinand Marcos sa Libingan ng Mga Bayani. Isang nirebisang bersyon ay mahahanap dito.

–

Marcos, Hitler, diktador, tuta. Inutang na dugo ni hindi binabayaran. Ngunit sa pag-alala ang bansa ay dalita.

Noong hindi kanais-nais ang kanyang nilathala, Anak ay pinaslang sa harap ng kanyang ama. Marcos, Hitler, diktador, tuta.

“Dormitory fight” ba ang pumaslang kay Trajano, O galit n’ang kakayanan ng anak ng diktador ay inusisa? Sa pag-alala’y ang bansa ay dalita.

Walong daang bangkay hanggang ngayo’y nawawala, Tatlong libong ama/ina/anak/kapatid pinaslang. Marcos, Hitler, diktador, tuta.

Ang “salvage” ibig sabihin “ligtas”; kahuluga’y naiba: Maaaring ibig sabihin ang utak ng bangkay mahahanap sa bituka. Ngunit sa pag-alala ang bansa ay dalita.

Dugo ng sambayanan ay ayaw pa ring bayaran; Paano ibibigay ang sinasantong kapatawaran? Si Marcos ay isang Hitler, isang diktador, tuta: Pilipinas, bakit sa pag-alala ikaw ay dalita?

[tindigperyodista]

twenty years from now, a dictator twenty years in the ground, they will ask you, “what happened on nov. 8, 2016?”

your gaze will unfocus. you will be brought years away.

nov. 8, 2016. you sat in your airconditioned classroom and picked at your nails. nov. 8, 2016. you updated your profile picture to a black square. nov. 8, 2016. while people were burning a photograph of a human rights violator, screaming against injustice, sobbing about laws bent and broken and bodies worse than bloodied, you were in a classroom arguing some irrelevant nitty-gritty–you don’t even remember what.

nov. 8, 2016. the classroom is half-empty. nov. 8, 2016. so many of your friends are out protesting. nov. 8, 2016. you shrug, say “they’ll be marked excused absent.”

days, weeks, months, years later, the children will ask you, “what happened in 2016?”

i survived, you want to say. i survived.

you survived while your friends, your beautiful furious righteous fighter friends–

they let themselves burn for the revolution.

[tindigperyodista]

A Letter from Prison (Love, Toothbrush)

The final draft of A Love Letter From the Household to The Girl, originally written for the poetry module of Sir Paolo Manalo’s creative writing class. Inspiration taken from A Love Letter..., by Sarah Kay.

For so long we were stuck in the muck and the grime, and it isn’t a crime to want to climb  up to porcelain homes  and cleaner lives.

So hopeful, so strong the day we shipped out. Joy, anticipation: at last, dreams, fulfilled. 

Then used hard, every day, twice a day, till we drooped, grew less shiny, begged for rest and were denied. The factory said to change every three months, but we were used till we could no longer stand for anything.

New age heroes, world’s best workers, country’s pride – there are bars on the windows, our bristles are flat, why doesn’t it matter that we are in despair, that our handles once solid now are sorry affairs

For so long, we were stuck in the muck and the grime, oh my God, my God, was it a crime to want so badly to have a cleaner life?

[tindigperyodista]

Originally written for Ms. Tress Reyes’s J121 class, in answer to the question “Why (are you still in) journalism?”

8/22/2016

In basic education everyone had a niche, and writing was mine. Someone else was council president and all-around sweetheart, and someone else was the athletic, angelic academic. I was the journalist. I was the one who brought home medals from press conference after press conference – I was the one who my classmates asked to proofread their essays – I was the one who made a business writing short summaries to read out during prom. “The singer-dancer-all-around artista, the one who will replace Daniel Padilla!” went for five pesos, don’t you know?

In fact, it got to the point that in a box somewhere in my house, there is a stack of medals wrapped in paper, carefully labeled. “Press conference,” the childish handwriting says. Press conference, press conference, press conference – differing only in the dates won.

Unfold the papers, and there will be short notes within.

Second year national press conference – this is the greatest achievement of my life (for now). Third year regional press conference – I’ll make it to nationals next year. Sixth grade district press conference – this led me to my lifelong affair with journalism.

So this is the truth – in elementary, I joined journalism contests for extracurricular points, and I stayed throughout high school because I kept winning.

But staying in journalism in college is an entirely different story.

I took my first major during my second semester in UP. My freshman self was wide-eyed and idealistic, wholly enthusiastic about learning AP style and trimming the fat from her news articles. But words, form, and style are not journalism – at least, not the entirety of journalism.

It was my first ever legwork that really hammered that home for me.

His name was Melvin Mercurio – even now, I can remember that without checking my files. He was the caretaker of the old stud farm to the north of the Centennial dormitory, which used to be former president Ferdinand Marcos’s. It became a composting area for UP’s materials engineering and waste management, later on. I could read the story of the hard work waste management was on Kuya Melvin’s skin – it was weather-beaten, and he was stooped over, as if labor had permanently marred his posture. His skin contrasted with the white of his eyeballs and the greying of his hair.

But he transformed when he began talking about the Back to Square One/Juan projects, which rehabilitated the old stud farm into an art installation. Unlike art installations in galleries or museums, this was open to all – most especially to the children of the informal settler communities of the university. In fact, the old concrete structure even had an Honesty Library filled with children’s books, and a lovely treehouse nook in which to read in.

Instead of being piled high with compost like leaves, blown-over tree trunks, or the more unsavory parts of being a university with a twenty thousand student population and much more than that staff and informal settlers, the old stud farm became a place for poor children to learn to read, to skateboard, to paint, to have fun – for Back to Square One/Juan’s artists even held basic design workshops and storytelling sessions.

He enthused about the program keeping children from vice, from vandalism – his smile was evident in his voice as he talked about the waste materials recycled and turned into art.

Then he gentled, became introspective, and said quietly, “Ma’am, dati, yung basura, basura lang. Pero ngayon nagiging positive, hindi negative. Yung basura, pwedeng maging maganda, maging art.”

And I carried that with me as I walked home from Centennial and got to work on my story.

I got an uno on the article, and for the entire course as well, but my course in life had changed somehow.

Entering journalism was easy. It was a matter of finding out what I was good at and milking that for awards and recognition. Taking it in college was a no-brainer choice, as well – where else would I go? This is where I’ve been going my whole life.

But finding meaning in it, finding fulfillment – realizing that journalism is not about you, but is about them – that’s different. You might know that, intellectually. You might even say that “I’m a journalist because I want to perform a public service.” Freshman me certainly did.

But until you step into your own first interview – until you listen to the voice of your own Kuya Melvin, who calls you ma’am even though you’re only sixteen and he has to be at least twice that – until you see class struggle and gender divide and all the things that seemed only theoretical in class in action, in people’s daily lives – that’s when it hits. That’s when you know. That’s when you begin to transform.

[tindigperyodista]

A LOVE LETTER FROM THE HOUSEHOLD TO THE GIRL

Inspired by Jaz Sufi. Originally written for Sir Paolo Manalo’s creative writing class. 

The placemats say, look at us. We have come in different guises throughout the years; lacy and delicate and plastic and smooth. Your great-grandmother set us out as a bed for capiz and silver; your grandmother with trembling fingers serving slit-eyed dark-haired men. Your mother, heavy with you, put out plastic mats, plastic plates, modern everything, beaming proudly at her new acquisitions. Imported, she says, looks just like china but doesn’t break. Truly everything is better from the West! 

The toothbrush says, look at us, fresh and new in our sterilized packaging. Three to a pack, less expensive that way. So hopeful. So strong. So ready to work. Use us hard every day, twice a day, till we grow tired, till our bristles beg for a rest, till we are drooping and less shiny and the packaging says to change toothbrushes every three months, but we are used until we can no longer stand for anything. And then. We are used to clean shoes. Sinks. Each and every dirty thing. Even in old age there is no rest no rest for the best workers there are. 

The kwek-kwek says, you do not call me by name. Are you ashamed? You stand there at the street corner and your voice goes high, goes nasal, goes, kuya how much is the egg waffle po? Your stars and sun turn red-white-blue, while your father sits in an office in a desert and longs for quail eggs in a bed of noodles. For orange coating and oil unlike the kind he is mining. 

The watch says, I belonged to your grandfather, tick-tocking on his wrist as he hid in a church, rifle at the ready. Aiming at the ones who had taken over his country. You have heard this story multiple times, but you do not listen, only hear. How he shook at the sight of marchers. How he shuddered at the thought of their atrocities, of the dark-haired girls they’d left in their wake. Of a dark-haired bright-eyed girl he’d left behind. 

The placemats say, For too long you have believed the lie of “hospitality”.

The toothbrushes say, We deserve more than what we get. 

The kwek-kwek says, You know me in your bones, in your cramped childhood and dirty streets. 

The watch says, Time is ticking, even as dust collects on my face. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Time is ticking, and it is time for your revelation.

[tindigperyodista]

Bagong buwan, bagong kalansay na idadagdag sa sementeryo ng pamantasan. Sana biro lamang ang barakilang inaabot ang langit - butong natanggalan ng laman, ng balat. Sana biro lamang ang gumuhong bubong, ang basag na bintanang tila hungkag na matang walang nakikita, walang pinapakita. Malugod na pagbati, bagong kalansay sa iyong pagdating sa sementeryo ng pamantasan. Ikaw na naging tahanan ng arte, ng literatura, na binahay ang agham panlipunan at pilosopiya - samahan mo ngayon ang nagpakain sa pamantasan, ang inuuwian ng mga nagsitapos na. ‘Di pa lipas ang isang taon mula noong nagpaalam ka sa kanila at ngayo’y nagkita-kita kayo muli. Narinig na nila ang mga pangakong naririnig mo ngayon. Bagong kalansay, hahanapan ka raw ng bagong balat, bagong laman. Itatayo muli ang iyong mga barakila, bubuuin ang binasag ng tubig at apoy. Muling mapupuno ang iyong dingding ng libro, dokumento, mga guro at estudyanteng nagmahal sa iyo. Narinig na nila yan. Panandalian lamang ang ganiyang pangako; laging mananaig ang boses ng mga gusaling rumerenta lamang sa pamantasan. Habang ilang buwan nang nakatengga ang iyong mga kaibigan (wala pa raw pambili sa kanilang bagong balat, buto, dingding, bintana, mata), ‘di nagbabayad-utang ang mga ‘di naman talaga taga-rito. Mga wala naman talagang karapatang tumayo sa lupang kinatatayuan ninyo. Sampung buwan, tatlong kalansay, mga pangakong pinako sa kabaong ng pamantasan. Sana nga biro lamang ang inyong mga pagkamatay, ang inyong mga paglagablab at pag-iwan sa amin sa gabi. Ngunit sa aming pagdadalamhati - sa aming pagluluksa sa iniwang abo at bangkay - alam naman namin na ang tunay na biro ay ang kawalang-pakielam sa inyo ng estado.

Bagong Buwan, Bagong Kalansay; o, Para sa Faculty Center