The truth is: my family is my biggest inspiration. I come from a very off-the-wall Chinese-Filipino family. And I blame it all on my paternal grandfather Li Choi, who was also known as Henry Lee.

Now my grandfather, or Gua Kong as we've always called him was singularly the happiest person I've ever known. He had a quick smile and an even quicker laugh. He was a bear of a man who towered over everyone at 6 feet 4 inches. He must have had an offbeat sense of humor because he married my Gua Ma (grandmother in Chinese) Inez Gonzales, who only stood at 4 feet 11 inches... with heels.

According to family lore, they met in the noodle shop that my grandmother's father owned. Gua Ma was serving out dishes when Gua Kong accidentally touched her hand. They were forced to get married after that. That was considered normal during their time.

One of my fondest memories about my grandfather was the way he could always make people feel at ease around him. His favorite way of starting a conversation would be, “How is your goiter?” For people with goiter, this would of course, lead to a long dialogue about that person's medical history. For others who did not have this medical condition, it would lead to a few rounds of laughs.

Now my Gua Kong died at the age of 102. My A Yi (aunt) was the authority on Chinese traditions in our family, and she told us that we were not supposed to grieve for my grandfather. Rather, we supposed to celebrate his long and well-lived life. I was not sure whether it was by design or by coincidence, but my family certainly celebrated.

For Gua Kong's 3 day wake, relatives, friends, and his former business cronies flew in from all over the country, bearing food, drinks and even ampao (red gift envelopes) for the children. People were genuinely happy catching up with each other's lives. It was like a huge 3-day family reunion gone mad.

In the spirit of camaraderie (or over indulgence of food and drink,) people were suddenly volunteering to do things for the family. One person volunteered to deck out the cars that would be used during the funeral procession with flowers. An old family friend volunteered to hire police escort for the convoy of vehicles. Someone else promised to hire a band that would play all of my grandfather's favorite American marching band songs.

On the day when Gua Kong was to be buried, we were told not to look at his casket as it was being carried out of the church. A Yi said, by averting our eyes, we would free our grandfather from the temptation to look back and stay among the living. So when the few chosen men finally carried him out on their shoulders, Gua Kong almost stepped out of his casket.

Because he was big man, a couple of the men faltered under the weight of the casket. It almost tipped to the floor. Can you just imagine how difficult it was for everyone? The men were trying to rectify the problem without looking at the casket directly. The rest of us could only watch them in our peripheral vision.

As always during certain church functions, there was a photographer who managed to capture that moment. We had this one photo where the men were huddled on the right side of the church aisle. They were looking everywhere except the casket. In that same photo, one of my uncles stood a little to the left, with his eyes closed tightly. His hands were positioned in such a way that he looked like he was waiting for somebody... anybody to place the casket back on his right shoulder.

When we finally stepped out of the church, we were surprised to find the cars decked out in balloons – in huge, read and white balloons with the words “Happy Birthday!” printed on them. Apparently, someone got the wrong memo.

The police escorts were missing as well. Instead, there were 2 fire trucks from the Chinese firefighting brigade that were positioned at the start of the funeral procession.

And the band? The hired band that was supposed to play all of Gua Kong's favorite American marching band songs knew only one song. They played and kept playing the theme song of Hawaii 5-0.

(Note: for some of you who don't know, during the first day of the Taboan, we had a procession. The marching band there played the theme song of Hawaii 5-0... twice. And I was like: Gua Kong is that you?)

Despite all the bloopers that day, I think Gua Kong would have enjoyed his send off very much.

So this brings me to the question: why are there very few of us who write about the lighter side of being Chinoy? Many of our most prominent Chinese-Filipino writers prefer writing about the dramatic depictions of life in the Philippines.

I'm not saying that we should make fun of Chinoys. Of course not. No one wants that. But life is not just about drama, or tragedy, or the very outdated and stereotypical forbidden love affair between a Chinese and a non-Chinese person. There is humor to be found as well. There is always that other side of the story... the lighter side of life. And I believe this is pretty much under represented in Philippine Literature.

I believe one of the main problems of writers who write humorous pieces, Chinoy or otherwise, is this: no one takes us seriously.

Seriously.

What many people don't realize is that writing in this genre is a really serious affair. Humorous pieces almost always never win contests or get awards. At the same time, Chinoy living is full to the brim of funny anecdotes, light hearted stories, and even tenderness.

So hopefully, by bringing this issue out to the light, we can encourage more people to write about the lighter side of being Chinoy.

Thank you.

Delivered during Taboan 2013 February 8, 2013

Re: Writing Chinoy, Chinoy Writing

     I found this among the stuff I carried over from Manila. According to some incidental details, this piece was submitted to my Psychology I class in Dominican College on July 6, 2001. I was taking up Mass Communication then. There was no grade written on the paper but my professor commented at the bottom of the last page: “Did you really write this yourself? It is beautiful!!! I love the rain too, yet...” I love the fact that she used three exclamation points.

     I edited this a little, as is my wont. There were a few misses here and there, as is also my wont. But overall, it remains almost as it first appeared. This piece is yet unpublished.

     I shall be very honest about this. When our Psychology teacher asked us to write an essay about the most unforgettable moment of our lives, I drew a blank. Zip. Zilch. Nada. I had to throw away several drafts before I totally gave up.

     You see, I've never climbed a mountain, or crossed a sea. I've never had those supernatural experiences that get documented in the X-files. I've had none of those heart-wrenching, soul-searching, life-changing experiences to boast about. True, I once did a head dive in Tagaytay, which earned me a fist-sized lump on my forehead, and I did an incidental split in front of my family, which they still talk about during gatherings.

     But an unforgettable experience? Whoa.

     I'm scratching my head as I am writing this down. Believe me, most of my experiences are totally forgettable and there are some not even worth mentioning. If I had my life flashing through before my eyes, I'd probably die of embarrassment by now.

     But an unforgettable experience? Help!

     Jeez. The rain outside is almost thunderous. I can't even hear myself think over the din. But I'm glad. I love the rain.

     I love to hear the patter of raindrops on tin roofs. I love the unsteady stream of water dancing in the wind. I love to see the dark heavy clouds carrying their wet burden and the sun peering from somewhere in their folds.

     I love the rain.

     I remember this one time when I was left all alone at home. The rest of the family went to an amusement park for the whole day, and I volunteered to house sit. It started out as a very damp morning, and by midday, the rain was coming down in torrents.

     Of course, the clothesline was loaded with almost dry clothes.

     Of course, I had to run them into the house by myself.

     Of course, I had to get drenched before I had the task accomplished.

     It was glorious, I tell you. It was a carefree moment. (No, not the sanitary napkin kind of moment. Oh, never mind.) It was like commuting with Mother Nature herself. And if you disregard the fear of catching pneumonia for a moment, you'll feel that little-child-in-you delight running through your veins.

     I loved that moment above everything else. The rain is still falling by the buckets outside and I am sorely tempted to run out and dance in the rain. But then I have tons of assignment to do and I still haven't figured out that one unforgettable moment in my life that my teacher wants. Besides, I do not – I repeat – do not wish to get sick now.

     But the rain is there, dancing noisily up on my roof. The wind is fierce and the air is cold. I love it. I simply love it. I'm sorry if other people don't like the rain, or are too depressed about the storm, but their views will never be mine.

     I love the rain. And I love the carefree moment it brings, sanitary napkins and all.

This is my first attempt at fiction writing after a loooooooooooong time. After it was critiqued at the Ateneo National Writers Workshop, it was eventually published first in the Dagmay section of Sunstar Davao (August 19, 2012,) then in Life Today magazine (September 2012 issue.)

The Day I Met Juan Luna

     It was a crappy, crappy day. My client for a vegan website had just requested a revision of all 100 articles I sent him, simply because we could not agree on two points: he thought #eggs were #fruits, and I thought he was crazy. No matter how hard I insisted that eggs were considered as animal-based produce, my client still wanted me to rewrite everything. He wanted to encourage his website visitors to include more eggs in their daily #diets. With much gnashing of teeth, frequent head shaking, and finally inevitable resignation, I inserted positive (though inaccurate) snippets into all 100 articles about the benefits of consuming eggs everyday for all vegans to read.

      After that, I felt like creating my own website that would educate the world about the simple truth that eggs are not fruits, and that these shelled products actually emerge from the posterior of chickens, thereby making these animal-based. I had planned on dedicating the website to all vegans and crazy clients alike.

      However, that would have proven to be an exercise in futility. So instead of being passively aggressive to my crazy client, and passing up the chance to jot down 100 ways of knocking sense into someone by using eggs as the weapon of choice, I decided that it was time to get some food shopping done. I made a mental note to buy real fruits, preferably the ones that were harvested from trees and not from the posterior of any animal.

      I was still very much preoccupied with the #eggs-are-fruits debate when I arrived at the grocery section of the mall. From hindsight, I did notice the raggedy-looking man on my way in. He was wearing a heavy black coat that looked several sizes too big. He was also approaching people with what looked like a small slip of paper.

      Many ignored him as I did. A few passing pedestrians made great efforts to avoid him altogether. I also remembered hearing a group of men giving out cat calls and jeers in the raggedy-looking man's direction.

      The man slipped out of my mind as I perused the fresh produce shelves. I was feeling vindicated to find that there were no eggs in the fruit section. Instead, the eggs were right beside the dressed chicken stalls... right there in the animal produce section where it ought to be.

      After my impromptu food shopping spree, where I bought several items that thankfully did not come from the posterior of any animal, chicken or otherwise, I boarded a jeep home. The driver of the vehicle apparently had way too much time on his hands, because he was willing to wait for more commuters to fill his seats.

      I impatiently sat there for more than 15 minutes, fiddling with the handles of my grocery bag and hoping not to bruise any of my newly bought fruits. After several more excruciating minutes though, I knew that I was just about ready to lay my own human-based produce from my own posterior, just to express my impatience with this jeep driver who had way too much time in his hands. And trust me, the “human-based produce” would not come out in a shell.

      That was when I noticed that the man in the over-sized black coat was making his way towards the jeep... approaching one pedestrian at a time. From my vantage point, I could see the frayed collar and ratty hem of his coat, the badly worn elbows, and pockets that were hanging on by the merest suggestion of threads. The man was also wearing a graying polo shirt that may have been white once, and black shoes so old and cuffed that the tips were mottled brown and white. The only somewhat decent thing that he was wearing was a pair of high-waisted jeans, which he belted with a cord of pale green plastic twine right under his rib cage.

      What fascinated me the most was that: he was holding out that piece of paper to anyone who approached him. When people tried to take the paper to examine it, he would yank it back and start anew with someone else.

      Such strange action also aroused the curiosity of every other passenger in that darn jeep. After all, we had nothing better to do than to wish for the driver to finally get a move on. And I had nothing better to look forward to than another eggs-are-fruits related request from my crazy client.

      The older woman sitting beside me started wondering aloud, offering suggestions as to what the raggedly-looking man was up to. Someone else pitched in and soon, a very loud and lively discussion was in full swing inside the jeep.

      Someone said that he must be a beggar asking for money. But we all saw that the man in the black coat wasn't taking any coins. Someone conjectured that our subject was probably an over zealous preacher, but that still did not explain the piece of paper he was showing everyone. I heard the words, “nabuang” (gone mad) and “binuangan” (insane) frequently.

      After several more minutes, of which I was already contemplating on buying 100 pieces of eggs and hurling them at the driver who had way too much time on his hands, the raggedly-looking man came close enough to the jeep that we could actually see what he was holding out to people. It was an old, crumpled postcard that had already frayed at the edges from too much handling.

      The older woman sitting beside me then (very boldly, I thought) called him over and asked (in Bisaya, which was the local vernacular) what he was doing. The man, probably in his 40s or 50s with a long, lean, and lined face topped with a crew cut, peered through one of the jeep's windows and started speaking in gibberish.

      His voice was oddly high-pitched. His tongue seemed much too large for his mouth. All we could really hear from him were words that sounded like “wah-ta-twa-fa-fa-wah” repeated at irregular intervals. He kept pointing at himself then at the postcard, which upon closer inspection, bore the painting of the iconic #Spoliarium that was created by #Juan Luna: one of the more famous Filipino artists of all time.

      The young woman sitting closest to the window tried to hand the raggedy-looking man a few coins, which the latter refused with gusto. He then focused all his communication efforts on the older woman sitting beside me. And there ensued something like a game of 20 questions, where my seat mate would inquire and the man in the black coat would say yes or no.

      The first question was blatantly offensive. “Are you crazy?” to which the man answered no.

      “Do you want money?” Again, the answer was no.

      Referring to the postcard, my seat mate asked, “Is that yours?” To which the answer was a vigorous nod and a large smile from a mouth with the barest suggestion of teeth.

      Soon, the other commuters in the jeep were offering inquiry suggestions to the older woman sitting beside me. Questions were sometimes acute, other times irrelevant, and given in a jumble of the local tongue, Filipino, English and even a combination of all three. Some of the questions went like:

      “Do you have a family living nearby?” (asked in Bisaya.)

      “Have you taken a bath today?” (asked in Filipino and English.)

      “Why doesn't ice cream melt in the North Pole?” (asked in Bisaya and English.)

      All the questions were met with either a nod or a shake of the head, a few “wah-ta-twa-fa-fa-wah” thrown in, but always with that continuous and incessant referral to the postcard in his right hand. Finally, it came to a point where the man's story seemed as if he was trying to convince us that he painted the Spoliarium himself.

      “Ask him if his name is Juan Luna,” I whispered to my seat mate. The answer was a definitive “yes.” Then, for some unknown reason, the man in the black coat applauded and gave us all the thumbs up, while laughingly yelling: “wah-ta-twa-fa-fa-wah.”

      For the same unknown reason, all of us sitting inside the jeep were compelled to applaud and cheer as well. A few even managed to say something similar to “wah-ta-twa-fa-fa-wah” while a couple of commuters returned the thumbs up sign to the raggedy-looking man. I found myself happily clapping as well.

      As the man in the black over-sized coat walked away, his mission of apparently identifying himself to the general public accomplished, I had my seat mate ask him a parting question.

      “Are eggs fruits?”

      The answer was a definitive “no,” with more clapping and more thumbs up sign for everyone.

      Finally, the jeep started moving. The long ride home was filled with that happy chatter among strangers thrown together by chance, aided by that strange fellow in the black coat who believed he had created the Spoliarium. Some one commented that only a handful of people today could claim that they have met Juan Luna in the flesh, and that we should be proud. I had to agree.

      More than anything though, I felt vindicated once more.

      If Juan Luna says eggs are not fruits, then it must be so. I intend to tell all vegans and crazy clients of that simple truth. After all, who would dare argue with the great Juan Luna? I could still see the man in my mind's eye, nodding in approval, applauding and giving everyone the thumbs up sign.

      I should really thank the jeep driver too. If ever I see him again, I'll try to give him 100 pieces of eggs just for having way too much time on his hands. And if the great Juan Luna is there, I just might be persuaded not use the eggs to knock some sense into the driver.