We barely begun holding our breaths for the revelation of this year's Miss Silliman when Grace's name boomed throughout the gym, sending a small but boisterous crowd on the bleachers to stunned silence. Everyone rooting for her was speechless as we watched her smilingly accept her 2nd runner up awards and stood poised for roving cameras. Towards the end, Grace was glamorous and radiant while we, shocked and infuriated, were just gearing for battle.
What the judges lacked in decision, the spectators made up for in a series of congratulations and assurace that Grace was the most deserving of the title. As if pressure wasn't suffocating enough, Grace said "Sorry" to KMC President Lyde Villanueva and Masscom Dean Rose Baseleres as the latter hugged her and the former reassured her of what she knows deep inside - that she was the smartest and therefore the best. Dirgy looked as if ready to punched whoever caused Grace's defeat and Marianne, if I'd known better, might've cried at the news.
Miss CBA, in dazzling white gown and stunning over-all stage presence, deserved the crown and I have no qualms regarding her win. My congratulations goes out to her and the rest of the CBA family which technically includes me since I'm a black sheep of a management senior (hehe). However, while Sarah Martin was the epitome of a beauty queen - graceful, intelligent, and charming, Grace clearly embodied the qualities of a Miss Silliman.
As a trendsetter and oldest known campus beauty pageant in the country, the Miss Silliman is arguably not just a beauty pageant. It incorporates a woman's aesthetic and inner qualities creating a balance that transcends the society's concept of beauty. It takes pride in being represented by intelligent and empowered women, trendsetters and achievers in their own right, effectively leading and influencing others to join different advocacies for a healthier and more sustainably vibrant community.
Why then is today's Miss Silliman focused on prioritizing those with impressive stage presence? Does the pageant still uphold the tradition of selecting beautiful brainy candidates that are genuine and not pageant-influenced? If so, why was Miss Computer Studies made 1st runner up when a lot of people knew she didn't deserve a title at all? The fact that Grace's witty remarks was trampled by Miss CS's lame answers was so infuriating that Mich had to rant about it in her column.
"Bale wala nalang diay ang brains karon?," she wrote. And I couldn't agree more...
Grace's answer to the standard question about naming the best manifestations of a 21st century woman is that of global leadership. What else can you relate with 21st century but leadership? And how else can women be empowered if not by having the voice and confidence to lead?
Grace is the real deal. A true Miss Silliman in every sense of the word. Anybody opposing to the idea is a lowly mortal and like all dieties, we have no choice but respect their obscured judgment.
With 3 ID card-appropriate faces to find from at least ten dozen albums, finding the perfect ID pictures takes perseverance to a new level.
Stress
The culprit behind the few pounds I gained over the weekend. The explanation for my bloated feet and the extra wing on my right calf. The reason for my periodic craving for chocolate. Note to everyone: Be it known when Claudine gets stressed for she eats and sleeps like a pig and develops tiny but disturbing bil-bils on her neck...haha
Armpit curbuncles
A group of hellbound boils developed on my right armpit. One particularly nasty one shocked my friends who then urged me to seek medical help. This big one doesn't hurt anymore but the green pus is still there, wide awake and kicking. Renren said it was hardened flesh and bacteria, one of the worst infections in history. But instead of going to the doctor this afternoon, I slept like a baby and didn't even work at the kiosk - another one of those lazy modes caused by stress, which, I repeat, is making me fat these days.
Midterm
I haven't paid my midterm dues and time is ticking fast. Money is running like precious gasoline but I don't think I'm exerting enough effort to save some for tuition, monthly consumption, field trip, and if the need arise, boil operation bills. I don't have a job or any source of cash for that matter except for my tWS honorarium and kiosk profit (which I won't get until the end of the semester) but I'm spending like a king. I haven't studied for any of my subjects which kinda scares me into thinking I'm becoming dull. I can put up with getting fat but becoming stupid?... I might consider running off to the kingdom of far far away, or simply dying of shame.
National Bookstore
Here I am whining about the injustices of it all, about my cashless plight, and my inability to spend wisely. My beloved bookstore is having a clearance sale and I could only cry, more like lament maybe. Gabriel Garcia Marquez at 119 pesos? That's wicked man! I've been wanting to buy one of his works but 335 pesos for a paperback is just too much to consider if you'd been eating too much and buying clothes (which is equally important). Oh well, the sale's until September and as bankrupt as I will be by the end of August, a fresh financial start awaits on the 9th month.
Dear Someone,
Lord knows how you'd react if you came across this letter. But don't get me wrong. This isn't a hate mail nor a question of authority. I am just wondering why in all our years as father and daughter together, I don't feel that heart-wrenching bond typical among fathers and daughters. The usual picnic by the beach (well, the last time we did that was six years ago), unspoiled malling or restaurant hopping, and laidback unrestricted conversations. And I mean no talks and plans about my future, no pestering about my inability to speak Mandarin or Fookien (which I can fairly understand but couldn't speak), no comparisons with my brother, no words of profanity and deriding insults about my mother's non-Chinese heritage and subservience.
You're my father and I love you so very much but I do not know you at all. I know your name, your birthday, your pet peeves, your mood swings, but I don't know what you like. I know Sioti and I make you happy, and impressive scholastic achievements make you proud, but I just can't figure out what makes you cry. I know God makes you strong, that your family and your work propels you, but I want to know how you were brought up and what kind of people your parents are.
As much as I love you, I hate it when you say the pictures I send you are not clear or professional enough. I hate it when you say my brother's english is way better than mine. I hate it when you don't show my mother the same affection you give your children, and I hate to expect that you and Mama will never get back together again. Will you stop supporting her as soon as Sioti goes to college? I really don't give a damn whether you separate ways or not. I'm assuming that you don't really respect her (remember the CDO hotel incident? You made her cry and I never quite gotten over that) and that you're irked by her presence. You don't seem to give her importance and that more than ticks me off!
I hate it when you expect a LOT from me. Do you really expect me to excel at EVERYTHING? I know I'm competitive, I'm fueled by that subtle drive to desperately want to please everyone. I want to try and learn everything, to the point of wondering what I truly desire most out of life, what I truly want to be.
Where were you when I needed someone to talk about something? You know, I was always fine with having an absentee father but an absentee father who doesn't give personal details about his life and whereabouts is way to irritating. I can't tell you my inhibitions, I can't open up and freely talk about sex, drugs, alcohol, and I'd definitely talk to you about boys over my dead body. Most importantly, I can't talk to you about my weakness. Hell, I can't even tell you when and why I'm suffering. I wouldn't want you to have a wimp for a daughter.
I just miss you and I wish I were three years old again. I wish you tell us things and I wish I could tell you things...you know I wouldn't trade you for any father in the world but I still wish you'd just explain why you chose to keep your secrets...
Who says an ideal family has to be perfect?
The movie kicks off with each Hoover member going about his or her daily routine only this time Uncle Frank joins them for dinner and the whole family learns that Olive has been invited to join the Little Miss Sunshine pageant.
As Olive, in her adorable gullibility, ecstatically packs her belongings, a series of arguments ensues from dad Richard who has to attend to something more important than a beauty pageant, Grandpa who coaches the girl and wants nothing more than to see her strut her stuff, and mom Sheryl who wants everybody’s display of support and affection to their youngest member but is torn between letting the old man tag along and leaving her suicidal brother all alone.
After much deliberation, the whole family squeezes into a conked out RV and travels across the country. The 6000-mile road trip would’ve sounded like an uplifting respite from their tedious confinement had it not been for the string of awkward or unfortunate events trailing them from one rest stop to another. Surprising tragedies and realizations confront each family member, often leading to agitated rows or, in Dwayne’s case, the end of his 9-month vow of silence.
“Nobody gets left behind,” Richard says. And indeed, as gloomy as it sounds, the movie is anything but depressing. Each character has a different personality that draws out sympathy and fondness from the viewers. One cannot exist without the other because the movie wouldn’t do without Dwayne’s silent protests or Frank’s avuncular wisdom. It wouldn’t be complete sans Granpa’s penchant for heroine and porn, Richard and Sheryl’s spats, and Olive’s charming innocence. She unknowingly becomes the little ray of sunshine that prompts the whole gang to move on and finish the journey, and as she proves herself in the contest, her family’s love and support for one another also gets tested in the most hilariously poignant manner.
Imperfection meets perfection in this engaging tale of a “family on the verge of breakdown”. Relate bankruptcy, divorce, suicide, addiction, and beauty pageant to Hollywood and you get an Oscar-worthy family of losers who can definitely give winners a run for their money.
The well-known yet unfamiliar music filled the auditorium. The audiences’ gaze lingered on stage, on the lone performer seemingly oblivious to the rapt faces of around 900 spectators. World-renowned classical guitarist Michael Dadap was playing the Five Visayan Serenades for Guitar and by the time he was finished, everybody applauded.
But it wasn’t his traditional barong tagalog or his wispy salt-and-pepper mane that got hold of the crowd, nor was it his gentle features that glued the audience to their seats. It was probably one of the simplest yet most intimate presentations I’ve seen. Devoid of bulky props and fancy décor, the Luce Auditorium’s cozy ambiance was just right for a night of classical guitar music.
I couldn’t have come up with a better way to start August than with a trip down Luce Auditorium to see Michael Dadap in concert. Watching him in action was like looking at a story of a man and his guitar, and the music that spelled their bond. He began by introducing each song and its composers, and after a few tweaks and twists of his guitar strings, his fingers worked their magic as they glide, scurry, and manipulate the strings, thereby producing either the softest tune with his flesh or the fastest jingle with his nails.
I particularly enjoyed Imo Ako, Wala’y Djaga’-djaga’, a Visayan serenade inspired by soft drink crowns the musician and his elder brother used to collect during their childhood years. True to its idea, the complicated string play included the raspy chinking sound made when shaking a bunch of crowns.
I was amazed with Asturias, originally composed for piano by Isaac Albeniz and written for guitar by Segovia and Dahil sa Isang Bulaklak by Ernani Cuenco. I could feel Huling Awit composer Resurrecion Bunyi’s grief writing the song, craving for the company of the poor man she fell in love with before dying of misery.
I liked all the songs in the repertoire but my top five favorites were Agustine Barrios’ Valse Junto del Corazon (Waltz Close to Your Heart), Francisco Tarrega’s Capriccio Arabe, Constancio de Guzman’s Maala-ala Mo Kaya? (Will You Remember?), and Dadap’s very own folk song settings for guitar, Kuratsa Leyte and Pobreng Alindahao.
One couldn’t ignore the hint of Latin influence in Barrios and Tarrega’s music. Barrios’ waltz evidently showcased his native Paraguay’s culture and love for music that burns with passion and romance. It was Tarrega who revolutionized classical guitar music by introducing the complicated banduria technique. The Spanish composer’s gift for music has made him the father of modern classical guitar whose brilliant opus like Cappricio Arabe could never reveal he was born with no nails.
My favorite among the Visayan folk songs played was Kuratsa Leyte, a lively vibrant piece clearly fit for festive occasions. It was, after all, a wedding dance. Visayans might have a different way of showing emotions, as reflected in their folk songs. Dandansoy Ilonggo has such a depressing melody for a happy song, while Pobreng Alindahao Cebuano has a bit lively tune for a sad song.
The repertoire would not be complete without Constancio de Guzman’s Maala-ala mo Kaya? (Will You Remember?), a certified classic that anyone who doesn’t know the song was either a foreigner or probably living under a rock.
The audience stayed till the end, perhaps hoping for an encore. Some hurriedly went backstage to talk or shake hands with the musician. A few friends who got up close and personal with Michael Dadap could only say good things about him. World-renowned as he is his feet remained firmly planted on the ground and his heart securely fastened to his humble beginnings. He was a true Filipino, a true musician, and I could only wish to see him perform again. It was a night of classical guitar songs and mostly Pinoy serenades, a celebration of world class talent, and a story of one man and his guitar.
*Thanks for lending me your ticket, Mickey!
