Of poverty in charity

AT NO other season of the year is unchristian charity more practiced than at Christmastime.

Throngs of do-gooders – politicians, notably – make perfunctory swoops through resettlement sites and evacuation centers, shantytowns and squatter areas bearing an assortment of stomach fillers packaged in Christmas tinsel stamped with their names in big bold letters.
As though the gifts came from their pockets and not from the public coffers they pillaged and plundered, or from some public works contractors they bled dry.
And what gift-giving will be complete, nay, will ever be, without the media, both mainstream and bloggers, pressed to cover the event?
So we’ve been dogmatized from our pre-first communion catechism class that gift-giving took off from the first Christmas example of the three magi whose anonymity – the Good Book did not identify them, remember? – spoke a lot about genuine charity and a lot more about true humility.
Though tradition named them, it did not tell of Gaspar bearing gold, of Melchior offering myrrh, or Balthazar bringing frankincense.
Tradition travestied now in every gift gilded or etched with titled names, as in tocino ham from the honorable concejal, dressed chicken from the honorable mayor, crispy Ninoy from the honorable congressman. Oxymoronic honorific all, given the dishonorable conduct of Philippine politics and the way they run their dominions.
Rob the country blind the whole year. Dole something out for the noche buena table of the poor. And all is well with the Lord. Christian living, indeed!
At no other season of the year is poverty more pronounced than at Christmastime. You just can’t escape it. Not in this season of giving when, most naturally, beggars – in all shapes and sizes – go forth and multiply.
There’s the outstretched palm shoved at your face, nearly knocking your caramel macchiato mug as you watch the girls pass by Starbucks at SM City Clark.
There’s the unshod kid tugging at your Ralph Lauren polo as you line up for baby-back ribs at Rack’s in SM City Pampanga.
Stalled in traffic going to Marquee Mall, there’s the knock at your car window from a tabo-tapping tyke singing you ABS-CBN’s “If we just love” before wishing you Merry Christmas.
There’s the unending stream of carolers of all ages in two’s, three’s, singly or in gangs crooning “ang babait…” for your ten-peso kindness.

There too are the indigenous Aetas descended from the mountains of Porac and Zambales, and the Badjaos way removed from their native Sulu Sea habitat finding their way to your very doorstep, demanding – rather than begging – food, clothes, cash, as though you were the very cause of their deprivation.

A recurring racket I first noted some seasons back: “SEC-registered” religious and civic organizations kuno from Metro Manila going house-to-house in St. Jude Village in the City of San Fernando with letters of solicitation for their “projects for the poor.”
They could have simply saved on their bus, jeepney and tricycle fares and gave them to their poor.   
With the pulverization of Marawi City, and Urduja devastating Eastern Visayas, expect more of these metropolis-based “SEC-registered” racketeers knocking on Pampanga doors.
The poor do indeed constitute an object lesson for Christmas. But not from the perspective of patronage politics where the poor are shamelessly dehumanized, reduced to utilitarian tools for the politicians’ self-projection for the coming elections.
Neither from the pharisaic (dis)compassion of wannabe Samaritans where mendicancy, rather than liberation from poverty, is (un)wittingly instituted.
The poor do really make the leitmotif of the season. Or have we forgotten how the Christ was born? Engrossed as we are in the commercialization of Christmas, we find its reason in the malls rather than in church; we summon its spirit from our pockets rather than from our hearts.
Year after year, some beggar or another has knocked at my gate and asked, in a guttural – read: non-Kapampangan – voice, for a little share of the abundant blessings God provided me and my family. 

Invariably, they all get some high voltage shock when I tell them that in their poverty God has bestowed them with the greater blessings than mine.
No, I did not mean that they are spared the trouble of a house and cars to maintain, mortgages to pay, kids to send to school, job pressure, societal demands, etc.
I meant a different kind of blessedness that is inherent in poverty. That is the truly spiritual, the beatified, kind.   
Is it just me, or is it still a verity in Christian teaching that poverty liberates? That the poor, unfettered by material – worldly – possession, have so much spiritual wealth that in the end theirs is the kingdom of heaven?
A materially impoverished, and therefore, truly blessed Christmas I wish upon us all.   

(This is yet another iteration, albeit updated, of what has come to be called the Christmas sermon of the frustrated reverend, thus turned irreverent, A. Caesar Z. Lacson that was written over ten years ago.)

Jammed in stupidity

IN WHAT it billed as a bid to address traffic issues in the city, the San Fernando LGU conducted its first ever “traffic summit” last July, participated in by different transport groups, barangay officials, government agencies, non-government organizations, and representatives from schools, churches and malls.
In that summit, Mayor Edwin Santiago disclosed that the city was pushing for the “institutionalization of a Public Order and Safety Coordinating Office to spearhead the effective planning and focusing on the issues of traffic jam.”
“We are continuously adding manpower in the TMD (Traffic Management Division) and we are striving to provide our personnel with skills and educational trainings and keep them well informed on the national and local traffic rules to effectively manage traffic.” So was Santiago quoted.
Instant output of the summit: Pledge of Commitment signed by Santiago, Vice Mayor Jimmy Lazatin and all the stakeholders “to implement and initiate policies and solutions; and abide by the traffic laws towards a more sustainable road, transport and traffic management in the City of San Fernando.”
Five months after, summit pa more!
Already bad, bad, bad, the traffic situation in the City of San Fernando has gone even worse, worse, worse after the summit.
Where traffic was very light – at the St. Jude junction of Lazatin Blvd and MacArthur Highway – it is now really heavy. 
Where traffic was only moderate – at the SACOP, Del Rosario and Sindalan intersections – it is now full-blown heavy. Ditto the Sto. Nino-Lazatin Boulevard intersection going all the way to the Capitol. Shudder to think how worst in extremis it will be once Megaworld starts constructing – and ultimately, operating – its massive Capital Town project there.   
Where traffic was heavy – morning and evening rush hours at the Bacolor EPZA and Paning crossings of MacArthur Highway – traffic is already hellish. Wait for SM Telabastagan to open and we shall behold carmaggedon.
Where traffic was routinely heavy – the whole Dolores stretch of MacArthur Highway – it is routinely heavier.
So, pledge and commit pa more!
Abide by traffic laws? Not in the City of San Fernando – where they are never wanting in enactment and posting. But ever waiting for enforcing.
“No helmet, No travel.”  Ay, more honored in the breach than in the observance.
At signalized intersections: Red for Stop, Green for Go – tell that to jeepney drivers and motorcyclists.
“Tricycles are not allowed on major highways – DILG MC 001-2007.” Just about the most violated road regulation ever contrived, and the least, ay, never, enforced order by the LGUs. And the DILG still awards them the Seal of Good Governance. It cannot get any stupider than this.
“Bawal ang Magbaba/Magsakay Dito.”  All jeepney drivers are too illiterate to understand, therefore, to follow this. Wonder how they passed the requisite Land Transportation Office tests for their professional driving license.

One crystal clear stupidity leading to present danger and great peril is the utter disregard by heavy vehicles – loaded quarry trucks and ten-wheelers with container vans crammed with all sorts of cargo, specifically – of the 14-ton limit at the flyovers along the Gapan-San Fernando Olongapo Road, er, Jose Abad Santos Avenue.

 Signages are right there at the approaches of the flyovers for all to see. Yet, these behemoths of the road rage through them with careless abandon. The traffic enforcers, either ignoramuses unknowing of the law or already too corrupted to even think of enforcing it.

The bitterest irony of it all is that the office of the City of San Fernando Traffic Management Division is situated right under that flyover at the Dolores Junction.

If not only for the inconvenience it would cause the thousands of motorists and the commuting public that use it daily, it would be justifiable schadenfreude to wish that flyover – under the weight of all those overloaded heavy vehicles – would fall and crash on the inutile TMD office underneath.             
Improper, yes, definitely unchristian, but that is no impossible wish. In November 2011, the Colgante Bridge connecting Apalit and Macabebe towns collapsed under the weight of three overloaded dump trucks. Just like CSF’s flyovers, a 14-ton limit was also imposed for vehicles crossing Colgante Bridge. The sufferings of the people of Macabebe and Masantol – going over unpaved, bumpy detours – dusty in summer, muddy during rains – took over a year or two before the bridge was completely reconstructed.  
Vis-à-vis the San Fernando flyovers, the fall of Colgante Bridge is too dire a warning to ignore.  
Aye, if only for the spirit of charity permeating this Christmas season, we shall refrain from calling out the city government…estupido.  

   

Homing in Him

THIS SEASON of joy makes – to me – an occasion for tears.

If only for one carol – I’ll be home for Christmas. Whoever sings it, Bing Crosby or Michael Buble, Whitney Houston or Josh Groban, reduces me to a crying heap.
Just the first strains are more than enough to work up the lacrimal glands –  
I’m dreaming tonight of a place I love
Even more than I usually do
And although I know it’s a long road back
I promise you…
Thoughts of toiling fathers in the scorching desert sand, of seafaring husbands amid the frozen winter seas, of care-giving mothers in some retirement home, of child-rearing sisters in some high-rise flats – all of them wishing, longing, pining —
I’ll be home for Christmas
You can count on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
And presents under the tree
Aye, presents under the tree, but not so much – indeed, not ever – for snow and mistletoe. As for the parol, simbang gabi and bibingka, puto bumbong, suman and tamales.

And – above all – family —   
Christmas eve will find you
Where the love light gleams
At the Misa de Aguinaldo singing Gloria in Excelsis joyfully welcoming with the angels and the shepherds the birth of the Savior.

And then, from the humblest hovels to the grandest mansions, the whole family, in prayerful thanksgiving, partaking of the noche buena feast.   
I’ll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams.
The overseas Filipino worker sings. And I just can’t help but cry with him. 
Still, he, she can dream of some homecoming.
Alas, that is not so with the folk uprooted, displaced, death-visited in Marawi, in the Lumad communities and hamletted hinterlands of Mindanao, in the EJK-impacted shantytowns. 
For them, home for Christmas is now all in the heart, pained memories of what once was. Of what can never be again.
Of them, what can we sing?
Only dirges to haunt the barely surviving. 
Suffering deepening. The weeping unceasing.

Still, hope eternally springs.

There in the Book a cause for some soul-uplifting: “And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.”  
No home at His aborning. Home for all mankind is in Him. 
Rejoice.    

A MOKA saga

THIS TIME, there is no denying the Most Outstanding Kapampangan Award (MOKA) in the field of government service to Elmer G. Cato, charges d’affaires en pied of the Philippine Embassy in Baghdad, Iraq.

It was in the late ‘90s or early 2000s that Cato was first considered in the annual Kapampangan honors derby, in the field of journalism. Having at that time already gone, excellently, through all the zigzags, byways and avenues of the craft – from beating deadlines to writing headlines, from blue-pencilling to putting the paper to bed – be it in Pampanga, in Metro Manila, Saudi Arabia and Indonesia.

For whatever unreason of the Capitol at that time, the MOKA eluded Cato. I personally took that as some wrong that needed righting. At the right time.

In May 2015, I wrote here:

BAGHDAD-BOUND to assume his post as charge d’affaires en pied of the Philippine embassy in the war-torn country, H.E. Elmer G. Cato, despite his hectic preparations, made sure to have his day with former peers in the media and friends in government here.

Congratulations – to the incoming de facto ambassador – were the order of the day at his call on Gov. Lilia G, Pineda and members of the provincial board.

The Gov and BM Rosve Henson wondering aloud how the diplomat could have been missed in the annual Most Outstanding Kapampangan Awards.

Prior to this latest posting, Consul Cato served as minister and consul at the Philippine Embassy in Washington D.C.

In 2012 he was bestowed by the DFA one of its highest awards – Gawad Mabini with the Rank of Dakilang Kasugo for braintrusting the establishment of consular offices in shopping malls which generated a lot of savings for the agency as well as provided more accessible and convenient locations to the public.

Yes, if only for that, he should have won the MOKA hands down…

Five days into Baghdad, Cato survived a car-bombing of the hotel he was staying in where over a dozen were killed. He has since acclimatized himself to the daily bombings in the Iraqi capital and went about his work in his usual excellent ways, from looking after the interest of the Filipino community in the capital as well as in the regional areas such as Kurdistan, to enhancing relations with the host country. The smooth repatriation of distressed OFWs in Iraq, makes but one definition of Cato’s brand of diplomacy.

In December 2015, I entered Cato’s MOKA nomination. Which he instantly shot down, upon learning a senior diplomat was also nominated in the same category.

It was the same last year.

Hence, his MOKA’s finally coming overdue by three years. Actually, all of nine years, as affirmed in this column I wrote on June 7, 2008 which formed part of the main body of my nominations through all those years.  

Excellence defines Cato

KAPAMPANGAN DIPLOMAT and former journalist Elmer G. Cato has been elected vice chairman of the Fourth Committee of the 63rd Session of the United Nations General Assembly.
A signal accomplishment not only for the Kapampangan race but the Filipino nation as well. It does not take just any diplomat to get elected to a committee of the UN General Assembly, and one with concerns on the issues of decolonization, peacekeeping, information, outer space and Palestine at that! Really, really heavy stuff there. Palestine alone is one helluva concern.
Every Kapampangan should find some pride in Cato’s election. But proud and happy as I am, I was not the least surprised about this event.
Why? It was really bound to happen sooner than later.
Excellence has always defined Elmer G. Cato.
From his days at the Chevalier School where he found his nursery in journalism and where, as a delegate to a regional secondary schools press conference he came under my and Ding Cervantes’ tutelage, albeit very shortly, being lecturers-evaluators, to his De La Salle University days editing the school papers, excellence already found an expression in Cato.
That such a pa-burgis an institution as DLSU had social unrest in the pages of its official publication could only be attributed to the spunk that Cato brought to his craft.
Into the vortex of provincial newspapering Cato found himself after college, covering Pampanga for Malaya and the Manila Chronicle while at the same time stringing for a number of wire agencies, Kyodo News among them.
It was in the reportage of the communist insurgency that Cato sank his teeth most, and as was the usual, he excelled most. He had the closest and most credible link to the insurgents, earned through forays in their mountain lairs and urban nests be it for plenums, anniversaries, or simple press conferences.
This of course did not endear Cato to the military and its right-wing vigilante groups. He was – in 1988 – one of three Pampanga newsmen (mis)identified by the vigilantes as “propagandists of the CPP-NPA and card-bearing members of the NDF” and promptly marked for “neutralization.”
Think what the country would have lost if the standing order for Cato’s execution was ever carried out!
It was also in this period that Cato put up the intrepid Angeles SUN weekly that readily grabbed the premiership among local publications.
From provincial newspapering, Cato moved on to the national stage with editorial stints in the Daily Globe and Today; and beyond the national borders, to the Middle East via section editorship in the Saudi Gazette and later in an Indonesian newspaper.
Journalism’s loss was the foreign service’s gain when Cato passed with excellence the foreign service examinations and joined the DFA in 1998.
Even as a junior foreign service officer, Cato already showed his streak of excellence, serving as special assistant to Foreign Secretaries Domingo L. Siazon and Teofisto L. Guingona Jr.
It was Cato too that effected the transfer of the regional consular office from the flood-prone Paskuhan Village in San Fernando to its current site at the Clark Freeport when he served as consular officer there.
As officer-in-charge of the Presidential Commission on the Visiting Forces Agreement, Cato stood toe-to-toe with a ranking US Embassy official when the question of Filipino rights in one of the joint military exercises was raised, never blinking once even when that American ranted and raved with SOBs and jackasses generously thrown in Cato’s direction.
As a diplomat with the Philippine Mission at the United Nations, Cato first gained notice when he served as Alternate Representative to the Security Council during the Philippine membership to that body from 2004-2005.
Excellence has always defined Elmer G. Cato.

This has given the Kapampangan one more source of pride and joy. It is truly a wonder why the Kapampangan has not returned the favor. Like making Cato a Most Outstanding Kapampangan Awardee.

And so, on the evening of Monday, Dec. 11, at the capping event of the Aldo ning Capampangan, Elmer G. Cato was bestowed with the MOKA in Government Service. 

Capampangan, A to Z

THIS MONDAY, December 11, marks the 446^th year of the founding of the Province of Pampanga, the first in the entire island of Luzon by the Spanish conquistadores. Enough cause not only for a grand celebration but also of that conceit the Capampangan is widely known for.        

Unwanting to reprint for the nth time my paean to the Aldo ning Capampangan that originally appeared in The Voice in 1998, I engaged in some quick top-of-mind randomness on everything Capampangan with the letters of the alphabet as only guide for some semblance of order.

Arayat, naturally comes first. The mountain that lords over the plains of Central Luzon impacts the majesty, if not the primacy, of the province over the rest of the region. Abe, dear friend, doubled to oneness in abe-abe, so central in the vocabulary as in our character as a distinct race, as we have long elevated ourselves to be. Augustinians, the harbingers of the Faith enshrined as much in the hearts and souls of the native Capampangans as in their magnificent churches.

Betis, arguably the church with the most Sistine Chapel-like ceiling in all the Philippines. Buru –fermented rice with fish or shrimps – pungent but ambrosiac, no true Capampangan can do without.   

Clark. Once the bastion of American imperialism in the Asia-Pacific as host to the largest US military installation outside continental USA, now a bustling freeport with an airport long-promised to be the country’s premier international gateway.   

Dugong aso. Long (mis)impressed as backbiting treachery, in actuality referencing to dogged devotion, okay, canine loyalty.  Don Perico. Traitor to his landowning class, he fathered socialism in the Philippines, and – to me – equals in greatness the martyrdom of his brother, Chief Justice Jose Abad Santos.

Ebun, principal agro-product that formed one half of Candaba town’s iconic festival, cause of the province’s economic woes with the bird flu scare in August-October. Everybody’s Café, unarguably serving the best in home-cooked Capampangan dishes, major contributor to Pampanga being hailed the Culinary Capital of the Philippines.    

Furniture and furnishings, from the antique to the “antiqued” that gave the world “Betis Baroque” to exotic rattan, metal and cast-iron, all crafted exquisitely by the country’s best artisans.

GMA. Love her. Hate her. But there’s no denying the economic fundamentals instituted during her watch did the nation good. And she still wins elections, even during her incarceration, er, hospital arrest, with or without her neck brace.

Hot air balloon. Once the only thing Clark was good at. Now, much better off in Lubao. Go, ask the balloonists themselves. H – in the Capampangan tongue – silent where present, stressed where absent. As in hay ev ha aws hin onolulu, awaii.   

Ilustrado, the social class to which every Capampangan assumes himself/herself as belonging to, no matter his/her socio-economic condition. With outward manifestation in his/her being –   

Japorms, showy but chic in style and fashion, ever dressed to the nines even when the pocket holds but a dime. 

Kamaru, mole cricket, invariably cooked deep-fried adobo. Reputedly an aphrodisiac for the Capampangan macho.  

Leguan – a living, walking celebration of beauty is the Capampangan woman, as the local ditty puts it aptly, aro catimyas na nitang dalaga…

Mequeni – a most welcoming invitation as much to the home as to the heart of the Capampangan.

Nanay. Motherhood becoming the best practice of provincial governance.  

O’t. What other dialect, or language for that matter, possesses a word comprising   two letters conjoined by an apostrophe? O’t macanyan ca? O’t balamu matudtud ya mu ing meangu bie.

Parul¸ the Christmas lantern that is both shibboleth of our faith as Catholics and our culture and craftsmanship as Capampangan taken to gigantic proportions with the City of San Fernando’s signature festival. Pinatubo, from which devastating eruption triumphed, excelled, soared the Capampangan spirit to greater heights of development and glory.

Qng, queca, queni, quibal, calaquian, tuquil… the Q in Capampangan words losing to the Tagalog’s K. What gives?

Religious, the first Filipino priest and nun were Capampangans. So was the first Filipino cardinal. Rebellious, the first major, major revolt against the Spaniards was by the Capampangan Francisco Maniago.

Sinukwan, the deity-king of the ancient Capampangans celebrated in December’s other festival in the capital city. Sisig, hailed as the best pork dish in the world.

Tarik Soliman, Wikipedia says was “the first warrior-hero who died for our freedom.”

Universities, at least seven in Pampanga, plus scores of colleges and other higher institutions of learning, making the province a center of education in the whole region.

Virgen de los Remedios, the beloved patroness of Pampanga, whose image, with the Santo Cristo del Perdon, is taken from town to town in a crusade of penitence and charity.    

Wetlands, particularly the Candaba Swamp, where the annual migration of birds from temperate countries has put the province in the world wildlife map.

X, not for the cinematic rating but for the expletives easily rolling out of the Capampangan mouth. As in bolang, buguk, tigtig, luse, murit, turak, sira buntuc just for crazy.

Yabang, the single characteristic that defines the Capampangan most, among other ethnicities, er, tribes, er, other Filipinos.

Zest for life. Joie de vivre best expressed in Oyni’ng bie!

Luid ya ing Capampangan! 

   

In adoration, at the village green

ADVENT COMES ever to me with some deeper sense of prayer. Mayhaps, brought about by some intense expectation of His coming.

The stirring of the soul assumes heightened magnitude, so to speak, even with just the usual meditative walk around the village green. Yes, about this same date ten years ago, we have written of this prayerful experience here.

THE GOLDEN rays of the early morning sun tenderly piercing the canopy of green swaying to the gentle wind: the shafts of light, a promise of a good day dawning.
The last drop of the evening dew on a blade of grass mirrors a minute world awakening.
Little butterflies in white and yellow fluttering, flitting from flower to flower, abloom wild in all of rainbow’s hues, untouched, untended – beauty at its primeval best.
From the choir loft of acacia branches, a chorus of birds sings a symphony of praise to a new day; the last strains of the cicadas’ vespers softly fading.

Whistles in the wind, raining confetti from the majestic trees: the leaves wafting through the air, falling, touching the earth – in death one with the earth for a new life to rebirth. The eternal cycle unescaped.
God is good! God is great!
NOT ONLY on Sundays that a walk around the village green of Villa Victoria becomes an occasion for worship, an expression of faith, a celebration of life.
The human senses so get a feel of the elements of the Divine – magnificence, omniscience, omnipresence, beneficence – that one can only go in the total acceptance, nay, in the fullness of faith that “God is, and is ours.”

Whence comes too, the full realization that – as one philosopher put it – “The final end and purpose of every human being is the unitive knowledge of God’s being.”
Indeed, an uplifting, if not a provoking thought.

At my own open cathedral of trees, grass and birds though, philosophy is the last thing to bother oneself with.
There, it is all about man and his God in a truly person-to-Three-Person interaction. Without the trappings of rites and ceremonies. Without the aid of incense and candles. Without sermons, exhortations, ejaculations and damnations.
There, is but that quietude that sears the very soul.
There, I open up my worship with but a plea to my God to:
Touch – my mind O Lord, that I may think of you constantly;
My heart, and fill it with Your love;
My ears, that I may hear and listen to Your voice;
My eyes, that I may see Your loving kindness, in all of my fellowmen, in all of Your creation;
My nose, that I may breathe in your goodness.
And – open my lips O Lord, that I may sing You praise.
And then, I get myself enveloped in His grace, not only to keep, but to love and live His commandments.
Amen.

Off raffles, unruffled

IT IS that time of year again when incredulous faces greet my entry to every Christmas party. 

What? Is this a joke? Are you for real? The usual response to my refusal to – okay, request not to – enter my name in the usual raffle that invariably comes with these parties.

Why? My response is, It’s against my religion. To cut any further questions.

Fact is, I started shunning raffles but three years back and it has nothing to do with religion. My declaration of sorts I published here in November 2014 under the heading Getting smart.       

DESIRE IS the root of all disappointments.

A truism that is so much a staple in my Buddhist readings it has become so trite that its appeal has dimmed, its meaning dulled.

Last week, it struck anew as a mantra from a friend of long ago I met after over a generation of missed absence.

Over coffee – green tea for him – I remarked how differently he looked from our happy hippie days of yore, exuding a definitive aura of enlightenment about his physical self.

Mastery of desires, he told me.

Repression of instinctive impulses? Suppression of natural urges?

Mastery. Simple mastery. Aspire not to control a desire, or an impulse, or an urge. Just go with the flow and rise above it all. Om mani padme hum…

Responded I: Om ah hung vajra guru pema siddhi hung…

He left me with a beatific smile.

Desire is the root of all disappointments. It smacked me in the face.

This Monday, I attended the annual advanced Christmas party for the local media by a telco that projects itself as the unrivalled one in the Philippines today.

Good food. Great company. And the traditional raffle to boot. Bliss, yeah.

The minor prizes first – company backpacks, P1K gift checks – the winners getting eliminated on the way to the major prizes. Some games for intermission, with minor, minor gifts as prizes. Onto P2K gift checks and the mobile phones – Chinese brands? And then there were but three or four names not yet called.

“Yahooo! Tayo na lang sa major prizes, ‘pre.” Manila Standard’s Jess Malabanan was ecstatic telling dwRW 95.1’s Perry Pangan and myself at an adjoining room. By tradition, the last man to be called in this telco’s raffles gets the grand prize. We were all smiles.

Malabanan! Boomed the caller, Balacat News’ Deng Pangilinan.

Pareng Jiss nearly collapsed. His major prize: P1K gift check.

Ninong Perry! Boomed Deng anew.

Speechless went the motormouth. His major prize: P1K gift check.

Lacson! Deng at his loudest.

Totally shocked. My grand prize: P500 gift card from Starbucks.  

WTF? All the supposed major prizes are of much, much lesser value than the minor prizes. Some sick joke here? Weird sense of humour? Perverted set of values?

“In all those Christmas raffles we’ve had with different companies through the years, it’s only now that I came so close to a major, major prize. Only to be cheated out of it. Ginago ako.” No, that was not me talking there.

Come to think of it, is it this company or is it just me? In the scheme of raffles, that is.

Only last March, I raised an issue here over this telco’s sister company’s marketing head reprising the infamous take-it-take-it moment at that Manila Film Festival of long ago and the second-coming of Lolit Solis.

The marketing madame dipped her hand into the fishbowl holding the entries to the raffle, looked and sifted through the unrolled pieces of paper and picked out the winning name. All these shenanigans before the disbelieving eyes of the shocked audience of newsmen.

The grand prize of her petty cheating: an inexpensive Alcatel mobile. Which until this time has remained unawarded to her premeditated winner.  

How can the biggest telco in the Philippines ever get into such miserly pettiness? For that matter, how can anything stamped MVP? It just can’t be. Just thinking about it smacks of blasphemy. Yes, it just cannot be.  

So, it can only be me. Specifically, my consumerist materialism that whetted that desire to get more than what I was pre-destined to deserve – the P500 gift card from Starbucks.

If I did not desire some assumed grand prize, I would not be disappointed now. Yeah, comes to mind a related truism – Assumption is the mother of all failures. I assumed much, I feel miserable.    

So, what is there for me to do?

Master my desires. By totally shunning not only the raffles staged by this telco, but all kinds of raffles. And anything that has to do with this telco.

Just thinking about it already dissolves my disappointment. And writing this induces some pleasant, if malicious, excitement…whoops.

Master desire. Just go with the flow. Rise above it all. Om ah hung vajra guru pema siddhi hung…

Now comes this sudden, if late, realization of raffles being intrinsically insulting to the intelligence, and an affront to human dignity. I mean no offense to well-meaning raffle patrons and sponsors who only want to inject fun, fun to their parties.    

Two ways to get what one keeps: 1) earning it by the sweat of one’s brow, called compensation; 2) receiving and accepting it as a gift from some benevolent other, called charity.

Where lies the raffle prize – in the context of Christmas parties and the like -- there?

Charity? Then, why should it be left to chance to determine the beneficiary?

It just doesn’t sit well with some renascent values in me.

Yes, I shall still attend parties tendered by friendly companies this season. If only for the fellowship. But I shall disengage myself from any and all raffles that shall most certainly be parts of these parties.

So, is this some kind of an epiphany? Birthed out of a P500 Starbucks GC? 

God works in mysterious, if truly mundane, ways.