Rented Places

“Tito, what's an amphibian?” I'm sure that this has happened to many of us: a younger relative, a 6 year old niece perhaps -- repeatedly poking a balloon at your face as you are asleep, then pretending to sleep, then moving to another room -- comes to you for advice, not primarily due to your intelligence and age (to a six year old everyone is an adult) but to your availability and lack of an excuse to not talk to her. I'm sure that when this happened to you and you finally gave up, you sat on the couch, closed your eyes, leaned your head back and said: “Dear Lord, Father Almighty, let her have no follow up questions.” Then quickly, before your niece asks what Almighty means, you began answering her question: “Alex, an amphibian is...a frog.”

It is always insulting to oneself to know that you have the answer to a simple question, but the ability to articulate it escapes you. The inability to answer a simple question can also be chalked up to memory, where your brain immediately connects: Amphibian? Frog!.. but then forgets the rest. In the end your niece is right to have more questions than answers.

However, there are specific simple questions that I cannot, neither due to gaps in memory or a poor command of language, answer immediately. Questions like: Where do you live? What does your bedroom look like? Where did you grow up? What is a neighbor? It is impossible to blame ignorance for my inability to answer these questions as well, for I would have to have amnesia or be in a coma for me to have no answer to them. But if you asked me the first question every year, or maybe even 10 months apart, chances are I would have a different answer. While this makes for a terrific icebreaker when amongst old friends, it is an unwelcome break from the routine of living to always be moving in and out. The house that I currently go to sleep in has closets, but still I fish my clothes out of bags. I don't know how much to pay the tricycle driver to get to Philcoa from Madasalin, and apparently neither does he. I know that in Teresa Heights, Novaliches, Quezon City, there is a sari-sari store, 2 streets away from my sister's place, that sells cheap and filling foot long sandwiches. I know that in Dominican Road in Baguio City the jeepney actually passes in front of my former classmate's place twice before going out to the main road. But after just 2 weeks here in Madasalin street, Teacher's Village East, of course I wouldn't know where the goddamn bakery is.

The second question is tougher to answer mainly because I don't think of the room assigned to me as my bedroom. It is a bedroom, but it is definitely not mine. First of all, I'm not the one paying the rent, second, even if I was it's rent, and of course I just know that tomorrow if told that I'd be staying somewhere else I wouldn't be surprised. Just feel supremely fucked. So right now no, I don't have childhood posters of Extreme or White Lion in my room, and I don't know how many books I have scattered all over the place, and every single night, I haul my cushion and pillows down to the sala, and that's where I sleep, because TV shows are familiar sleeping companions, whereas the empty room is not.

I don't know about people in other countries, but when we Filipinos are asked where we come from, we usually say the province or city where we grew up. This of course is technically incorrect for most of us, as you could not have possibly occupied the whole of Bicol or Negros Oriental. But for me when I say I grew up in La Union, I mean I was all over the place. When your mother doesn't have a stable income and your father doesn't have a stable mind, then expect to lose count of the places you've lived in and expect to lose a few things along the way. When I was young I thought that my mother was quite the hide and seek person, because once, while crouched low behind a fence, someplace somewhere sometime, luggage and plastic bags in tow, she told me with a smile and tears in her eyes, that this was a game, and the objective was that our father wouldn't find us. A few years later I would find out that the objective was also the prize.

When someone has traveled a lot and lived in different countries, one looks at the person and imagines that he would have a lot of interesting stories to tell, that he is probably rich, that his life is carefree enough that he can afford to travel, or that he is so dedicated to his work that he can put his life on hold for it. But if the same person moves around the same province around twenty times in a span of twelve years, then one imagines that he would have a lot of interesting stories to tell, as one looks at him. With pity. I have resolved all of that shame and am prepared to pimp my homelessness as a larger metaphor for the Filipino people, who live on Spanish streets, work in Chinese or American corporations and watch Korean soaps. I am however, feeling supremely fucked that this paper is late because I am typing this in an internet shop because my computer is at my sister's place because she was the one who paid for it and so I have nothing to use back at Madasalin.

Spaces

From where he lay it was two steps to the dishes, two steps to Lola’s bed, two steps to the box of clothes. An arm’s length to his left was the TV, and to his right slept Tatay, who, despite what he called him, wasn’t really his father. They weren’t even related. If he stepped over Tatay he could reach his medicines, these magical things that made his headaches go away. His glasses were there as well, cracked and nowhere near the grade his eyes needed. From where he lay it was two steps to the doorway. There was no door. And everywhere it smelled like shit. His skin was brown, the sky was blue, and the world smelled like shit. Lola smelled like shit. He woke up early today. Tatay told him last night to meet him at the labahan when the room began to shake. A gift, Tatay said. What makes the room shake? Tatay asked him then playfully. Trucks, he replied, pointing upward. The garbage trucks. How can you be so sure? Tatay taunted him, smiling. Ever seen them? What do they look like then? They’re big and dirty, he stammered. Everything’s big and dirty up there! Tatay chuckled. He was about to cry when Tatay patted his head and said tomorrow, you’ll know what they look like. Tomorrow you’ll really see. He hugged Tatay and started shouting yay and tomorrow until Lola woke up, coughing, and told him to fucking shut it kid. On the bridge vehicles honked and their engines vroomed. Fuck you, he whimpered, and then Tatay gently slapped him as a reprimand. He got up, slowly, his arms slightly outstretched, and then he looked up and groped for the light bulb. He unscrewed it and then he reached for his glasses, leaving the bulb in its place. He rubbed the lenses gently. He put them on and it was just enough for the colors in the world to have shapes. But with the cracks in the lenses he could barely see anything out of them anyway. So. Two steps to the dishes. He filled his favorite mug, the red one, with water. Lola found it in one of the trash bags outside Center Mall. He gargled half of the water and drank the rest. From his shorts’ pocket he fished out a candy, unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. He looked at the black and white wrapper. I’ll see you later rabbit, he said. Two steps to Lola’s bed. He woke her up gently, Lola wake up, the garbage trucks. Just as his Lola stirred the room began shaking. Lola they’re here, they’ll take everything, go, he said pointing upwards. Lola finally sat up, feeding him curses. Two steps to the box of clothes. He looked for his favorite shirt, bright yellow, then he changed his mind and picked the cleanest shirt he could find. He took off what he was wearing , balled it up and threw it into the box. An arm’s length to the TV. Lola asked him to turn it on. He felt for its switch and pressed it hard. Nothing happened, so he pressed it again. Finally it yelled: Thank God for this beautiful Monday morning, Igan! Two steps to the doorway. He put on his slippers -- they were his pillows as well – and went outside. The damp dirt black underside of the bridge made it seem like he was still indoors. Someone was peeing on their room’s wall. He looked down, towards the muddy path that crudely spiraled towards the river, but he couldn’t see the path clearly. His neighbors were coming out of their holes, and some of them carried small bundles of laundry. One of them was his friend, Noy, so he called out to him. He held on to Noy’s shirt as they descended, ignoring the flies that buzzed around and clung to him. The path was flanked by more rooms, patched plywood and aluminum sheeting, a campaign tarpaulin bearing the face of a senator here and there. As they descended the smell of shit got stronger and stronger, until finally he could actually see shit, yellow and black and brown, and then a collage of trash, white and blue and red. Beneath this layer of shit and trash was the river. Noy saw his mother, already washing clothes where the water was at least visible, and ran to her. He dropped his bundle beside her and then Noy jumped into the water. He laughed at Noy and wished he could do the same. Suddenly Tatay’s voice called him out. He turned towards the voice and squinted, until he saw Tatay waving at him amidst the crowd. He walked towards Tatay’s shape as fast as he could. He thrust his open hand immediately, and Tatay laughed. Tatay said, no wait, take off those good for nothing glasses and close your eyes. He whined and begged for Tatay to just give it to him already. No, Tatay smiled, close your eyes, it’ll be better that way. So he did as he told, and he felt his glasses being taken off. The bridge of his nose itched, but he held still. Then he felt it being put on. It was heavy, and its frame was cold against his temples. He smiled. What the fuck are you waiting for, Tatay laughed, open your eyes! The first thing he saw was Tatay’s face. Tatay’s eyes: they had a brown, brown iris surrounded by bloodshot, yellowish sclera. His nose: dotted with blackheads, a pimple lodged on his left nostril. Tatay’s dirt streaked cheeks: three pimples roughly forming a triangle on the left, a small horizontal gash on the right, its black and blood red scab bumpy and brittle. Tatay’s lips: somehow a healthy pink, his yellow teeth flashed in a smile. Both of his hands flashed a thumbs up. Tatay was all of sixteen, skin burnt brown. Look around, he was ordered. He looked at the river and saw its surface glisten, the slight rush of the water making it foam a little in some parts. He looked at the trash and scrutinized each distinct piece: red, glossy Chippy wrapper drifting lazily; Ma Ling tin can wobbling as it floated; a fish skeleton, sideways, being carried into the far end of the river. I got that cheap at the Ukay, Tatay whispered as he asked for a high five. Let’s go back up, Tatay said to him. He laughed and then said I’ll race you there! Tatay called after him, be careful you idiot, I’ll break your face if you break that thing! But he wasn’t listening, he was looking down while he trotted up the path. He marveled at the uneven ground, he sidestepped to avoid some dog shit, he kicked a pebble, he flexed his toes and watched them wear the mud, little people in brown costumes. Finally he stood at the top of the path. Panting, smiling, he dug into his pocket and fished out the candy wrapper. And there is was, in front of a black ellipse, facing left, with a blank expression on its face, its fur loose and fluffy. Hello, White Rabbit, he smiled. He looked at their room’s walls, at the Rorschach of yellow piss. Piss!, he pointed, laughing. Then he entered their room, and stood at the spot where he slept. Two steps to the dishes, four odd plates and a mismatched pair of spoon and fork. Two steps to Lola’s bed, two squares of foam with a green and white striped blanket over them. An arm’s left to the TV, a black 14” Aiwa, nearly half his height. It had four small buttons with Japanese captions underneath each, and four larger buttons, two for switching channels , two for controlling volume. And then there was the large power button, and he pressed and pressed it until the TV went on. MAGANDANG MAGANDANG MAGANDANG MAGANDANG MAGANDANGUmaga po! It cried out, the screen slow in catching up to the sound. He yelled back MAGANDANG MAGANDANG MAGANDANG MAGANDANG MAGANDANG MAGANDANG Umaga po! Then Tatay went inside the room and told him that he had another gift for him: he would take him out. Now that he could really see then it wouldn’t be a problem. Even better, Tatay said, I’ll take you to SM. Will we go inside?, he asked. It’s not open yet, Tatay said, but now’s the only time we can go, while your Lola’s still out. He was excited anyway, and so they climbed the path that led them to the side of the bridge. It was hot and noisy and the smoke from buses made him cough. The roads were filled with potholes, jeepneys stopped in the middle of the road, a man as old as Lola was at the waiting shed, half naked, having a smoke. Vehicles seemed to blow their horns incessantly. Pedestrians walked briskly, all of them frowning, hating the sun, the smoke, the dust, life. The sky was blue, his skin was brown, and the world smelled and looked like shit. He was in awe. Tatay broke the spell, reminding him not to let go of his hand. Tatay proceeded to bark for their fare, and he even helped at times: EEEESSEM MALIGAYA DAAN!O LAGRO LAGRO LAGRO! When they had enough they took a jeep.

Then on the jeep he saw a little girl, sitting on the lap of her mother. The girl’s shirt and shorts matched. She wore shoes.

When the jeepney stopped at a red light, he looked outside and saw a huge billboard. The hotdog being advertised was oily red, plump, juicy, tender. It was three times his size.

The jeepney driver was reckless and drove fast, but then a 2008 Civic overtook them. It was sleek and aerodynamic, spirit and performance artfully aligned. It was not a jeepney, it was not a bus, it was not a garbage truck.

A few minutes later, massive gray rectangular blocks with blue, wavy things on top came into view, rising out of the barely civilized landscape. There it is, Tatay said.

Then they were out of the jeep, they crossed the road and they stood at the main entrance. The place was still closed and dead, but Tatay presented it with much theatrics: Welcome sir to SM FAIRVIEW! The blue banner above the entrance featured smiling Caucasians.

But he wasn’t paying attention to Tatay. He was looking to the left, at the plane of concrete before them. What’s this? He asked Tatay.

What? Tatay exclaimed. That’s nothing, that’s just where people leave their cars when they go into… SM FAIRVIEW! It’s called a parking lot.

They ducked under the yellow chains and went inside the lot. It was all white cement and space. He could not believe his eyes. People leave their cars here.

It was bare as far as his eyes could see. There was the sky and then there was this space. Two steps to the dishes, two steps to Lola’s bed, two steps to the box of clothes. An arm’s length to the TV, and to his right stood Tatay, who, despite what he called him, wasn’t really his father.

Off Course part 7

As I began talking to the first batch of students they seemed uninterested, and I found myself trying to perk them up with the consequences of changing courses in UP. I never gave it much thought until I was enumerating them; fortunately these are things that I didn’t need (nor want) to research for. I told these young ones that when you shift courses you waste time and effort, both incalculable and irredeemable. In terms of the “healthy social life” target, I relayed to them my story, how the friends that I shifted out to be with in the first place ended up graduating and moving on. Aside from these selfish reasons, another big incalculable loss is the very slot that a shiftee occupies when he comes into the university. What if there was a competent student who, just because he got lower English scores than me in the UPCAT[1] was denied a slot in Computer Science, a slot which I took but just left anyway? What if he could have finished the course and became a great scientist by solving the Paint Office, Lose Papers Mystery?

But most of all I told them, the worst thing that happens when a person shifts, for whatever reason, is that you have spent precious money, money from hardworking, taxpaying people from all over the country, plus most of California and parts of Taiwan. I told them of the Philippine Collegian’s[2] recent article about the university being awarded by the Congress only half of the budget that it asked for, telling the university to fend for itself through tuition revenues and alumni support. My school, their future school, practically has to beg for sustenance, and every year we see some of its students in red shirts barking at the hand whose responsibility it is to feed us, because we need more money; I can’t join these people because I’ve already taken more than my share and will have to take a bit more. It says in big, blocky gold letters at the entrance that this is the Philippine Science High School. Like U.P. there are no students here, only scholars indebted to the country. The least they could do, I told them, was to not be like me and make their next few years count. The university doesn’t need me or my crap, yet right now there could be a thousand of us, crapping away. [3]

I ended up only talking to a handful, as it was the last day of the school year and the people were only there for the annual sports games and some minor obligations. But in this school at least the prospects were bright: the vision mission statement claims that 89% of Pisay graduates do fulfill their duties and move on to become part of the science and technology community. I could not verify this claim with the Registrar for fear that they’ll find out that I’m not under a science course and thus sue me. So I just sat on our old hangout at the front lobby, and there dear reader, as I was enjoying the breezy Wednesday afternoon, the students running about, going home, moving things, I began thinking.

But then I fell asleep.

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[1] University of the Philippines College Admission Test

[2] A publication in UP

[3] This whole paragraph screams: Drama!

Off Course part 6

DAY 7: I got to see two more In Colleges, the College of Home Economics (CHE) and the National College for Public Administration and Governance (NCPAG). These two colleges rated high this year (1048 students, 12% new shiftees for CHE, 443 students, 20% new shiftees for NCPAG), but their evaluators couldn’t guarantee that these numbers did and would hold true over the years. I asked them for records of past years and they said it would be hard to get, or that they simply didn’t have it[1]. Nonetheless, the numbers couldn’t be that way off; one of my co delinquents is from NCPAG and he assures me that there are a lot of us out there.

DAY 8: I dropped by my high school. My goal was to see if their seniors had a firm grasp of their futures. While waiting for my old teacher’s text I wasted no time and interviewed the students who shared the same table with me in our lobby. I immediately got results. Yes they were seniors, yes UP was their first choice, and 50% of them were not really sure if they wanted the course they signed up for. I let the two of them go and met my teacher. He asked me when my article was due and I replied on the 15^th. “Tomorrow?” I said that I was almost finished typing the essay[2] and I just wanted to talk to some students about their college plans.

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[1] Frowny face.

[2] Not true.

Off Course part 5

DAY 6: I went to the College of Science (CS), excited at the prospect of finally seeing an Out College, as based from my experience and the stories from my co delinquents CS was definitely a place to get out of. Now what I am about to narrate is 100% true. I get there, excited as hell, and the CS evaluator is outside the office, staring at the walls, taking off what appears to be a surgical mask. I tell her my mission and show her my letter. She clucks her tongue and tells me, “Oh, we just repainted the office, and some of the papers got misplaced. Some got lost.” While she was saying this she was nodding and smiling, as if remembering the good old days, when the papers were still there. “Some got lost”. I wanted to ask her if they used fire to re-paint the office.

So I got no definitive data for CS. What I got though is that the 4 largest majors of CS, namely Physics (P), Chemistry (CH), Math (M) and Biology (B) have very low survival rates:

On average, 43% of B students are gone after 4 years. CH and M both have half of their students gone after 4 years and in P an astounding 60% are gone. How did I get this? Apparently the Chemistry department has this data. But this is inconclusive. We don’t know if those students really shifted out of CS, are merely delayed, taken leaves of absence, stopped going to school or if they died. No wait; the last two are the same. But the point is there’s a lot going on in CS that we can’t know. Some got lost.

I labored on though, and soon got my reward. Presenting the College of Engineering (CE): Truly an Out College. The university’s largest college with 3,792 students, this year 26 students shifted in while a whopping 217 students shifted out, 6% subtracted per year, 24% of the total population leaving over a four year period. Almost one in four CE students will leave his course and/or CE while a good student works his way to a diploma. I’m not even going to add the 100 Non-major students they have.

If CE is King Out College, the Institute of Library and Information Science (ILIS) is the Queen of In Colleges. Based on the 3^rd floor of the university library, this tiny college has an average of only four to six original freshmen coming in every year, so one would expect the college to have a size of about 24 undergraduates. Yet the data their evaluator (who was also nice and helpful) gave me said that the ILIS has a population of 279 undergraduates, with about 60 students coming in per year, or 22%. This means that on any given school year 66%-88% of students in that college are originally from other colleges!

Off Course part 4

I had already figured all that out and Kuya Pabs was still organizing his data. Then he turned to me. “Varias? You came in 2001?” he said while staring at my letter. He was looking intently at my student number. I said yes sir, what about it. He said, “MRR[1] ka na.[2]You’ll have to appeal if you want to enroll next year.”

I did not want that information.

After telling me that I was about to get kicked out (again) he handed me his data. It turns out that CAL is like CSSP, except for one thing. It has 1,207 undergraduates this year and 56 new shiftees. That means 5% percent of the population, but it also has 50 people who shifted out, 4% of the population. That means that on any given school year about 15% - 20% of CAL students had shifted at least once, and every year around the same percent shift in and out, which means that CAL is neither an In nor an Out College.

Day 3: I went to the College of Education (Educ) to ask for their data. Let me state for the record that the Educ staff was the friendliest one out of all the staffs I talked to for this article. No grumpy faces, no waiting, all smiles. What the smiling lady (I forgot her name) gave me was this: Educ is certainly an In College. This year it has 472 students, less than 10 shifted out and 64 students came in, 13%. This means that for any given school year 39%-52% of students in Educ had shifted into Educ and had shifted at least once. Wow.

DAY 4 & 5: Weekend. I did nothing productive.

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[1] Maximum Residency Rule. It’s basically a limit on how many semesters a student can enroll in UP based on his course. One can have it extended, but as it stands, if you go over it’s game over.

[2] “You are MRR already.”

Off Course part 3

DAY 2: Armed with the Endorsed Letter I went back to both offices. It turns out CSSP’s restricted data was seven pieces of crumply intermediate paper paperclipped to a folder. I pressed on, sat in front of the evaluator’s desk as she did her own thing and diligently copied the numbers to my notebook. When I gave her the folder back she told me that I could have had it photocopied. I thanked her for the timely advice and went on to my home college, CAL.

I gave the letter to the evaluator there, Kuya Pabs, a very sociable and very very happy man. He said, “Antayin muna natin si Sir Maranan (the college secretary) kung anong gagawin dito, tsaka pipirmahan nya to e.”[1] So, waiting. More waiting. When the secretary arrived he took my letter and signed it. His wise counsel was written on top of his signature: “PABS, PLS HELP.” Kuya Pabs was finally able to act.

While he was looking for the data, I looked at what I got from CSSP: the CSSP is what I’ll call an “In College”. More students shift in to CSSP than out of it. For example, this year there are 1,780 undergraduates in CSSP. About 20 students shifted out. Meanwhile 108 are new shiftees; that would be 6% of the population, most of them shifting into Psychology, Geology, Sociology or Political Science. You might be saying that it’s a small number, 6%. But here’s one last thing I repeatedly asked for: except for 3 of the 8 colleges I visited, their records evaluators all assured me, sometimes with exasperated, grumpy faces that yes, hijo, the number of shiftees and undergraduates are more or less the same every year. So that means that for every year, 6% of the CSSP population is composed of new shiftees, and on every year 6% more is added. This means that in any given school year about 18% - 24% of the students in CSSP, about 1 in 5, had shifted into the college and had shifted courses at least once.[2]

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[1] “We have to wait muna for Sir Maranan so we’ll know what to do with this, plus he’ll have to sign this e.”

[2] Keep this simple calculation in mind as we’ll be using it again and again: on any given school year there will be shiftees on the 1.second, 2.third, or 3.fourth year of a college. In that case we multiply the percent by 3. If a college allows for a 4.fifth year, then we consider that by multiplying the percent by 4. So to wit: just multiply the percent of new shiftees by either 3 or 4, and you get the estimated percent of all shiftees in that college.