Selling the drama

(March 2006 issue)

I don’t know about you people but a door-to-door salesman weighs me down.

To a keen observer, a typical door-to-door salesman is that distressed looking ambler who basks in the nasty glare of the sun typically clad in a besmeared shirt and a borrowed necktie. A boxed set of China-manufactured kitchen knives or single samples of Science books would be resting on his sleeved arm while a travel bag hangs on another.To a door-to-door salesman, the “back-off” hand gesture is already an accepted form of rebuff. He has learned, through innumerable occasions of having it held before his face, to take it the same way a battered wife would contain a blow in the head: muted, passive and incredibly accepting.I remember vividly an incident back in my middle-school days which transpired in my father’s medical clinic:

Two women clothed in identical red and white uniforms came staggering to the receiving area where I was seated comfortably with my tube of sari-sari store-bought iced candy.

The straps of the box-like postman’s bags which one of them was almost dragging on dirt gave in from the pressure of the burden resulting to tiny packets of laundry soap blanketing the office floors.

I stared down at the sea of red and white Tide logos and looked up only when one of the women cried out. The woman, who had suffered a heat stroke, collapsed and conked her head on concrete. My father stitched her up and received six packets of soap as a miserable fee.

After the two had left, my father reminded me that if I dropped out of school because of my continuous tardiness, I would end up like them: underprivileged detergent soap salesgirls.The Philippines is a label-conscious country. Unlike in most Western countries where a high-school diploma can serve as a passport to a reasonable and decent employment, not being able to attend college in the Philippines is a precursor to doom: you end up doing graveyard shifts as a poorly paid security personnel or work as a promo girl for sanitary napkins in a supermarket.One of my many frustrations as a human being is the sad fact that we are all breathing in a meritocratic society. Persons working blue-collar jobs gain little to no assistance in shoe shops, get the unimportant tables in eating places and hardly receive any nods at church during a Sunday service.

On the contrary, people who work important jobs in their perfumed pinstripes enjoy the privileges of a glorified white-collar employee.The intellectual experts in the field of Economics would argue that the cause of a country’s economic decline is the decrease in production and failure to produce more equitable income distribution among classes and regions. I would say it is the mounting bigotry that is plaguing our society like a terrible black cancer.Admit it: in a conservative government like ours, organized bigotry exists.

And political crucifixions, an epidemic.

Which brings me to recall James H. Boren quoting: “When in doubt, mumble.”

In this case, consider this commentary a scream piece.

***

Some of the people of the Office of Culture and Arts (OCA) probably perceive me as this despicable battle-ax. Not because I spout green slime in their presence or because, like the devout catholic school boys and girls that they are, my last column on Christian idiosyncrasies offended them. I don’t think they even know who I am and in a crowded hallway, I doubt if they could even pick me from the litter. This because I supposedly cancelled their production of Lualhati Bautista’s Japayuki. Yes people, I am spilling the beans now: I am the college’s secret mafia godmother, authorized to concoct misfortunes against the individuals I loath. And yes, the Big Brother listens to me.

Seriously speaking, I want to clarify one brainless issue: I have got nothing to do with this. I was only asked by an OCA superior for Ms. Bautista’s number considering the fact that I am personally affiliated with the latter. The OCA wanted Ms. Bautista’s number so they could ask permission to stage Japayuki for the Crossroads Festival. Ms. Bautista flew off the handle when she learned that her screenplay was used by the OCA without informing her beforehand and over the phone told me she holds the right to cancel its production.

I knew this was bound to happen. However, for the sake of professionalism and respect for Ms. Bautista, I zipped my mouth shut and allowed her to personally tell the OCA her concerns.

A few days later, it was already a different story: I, goddaughter of Lualhati Bautista from the Student Publications Office, ordered the cancellation of OCA’s Japayuki.

OCA’s Ms. Cecille Ravelas maintained that she didn’t know who I am and that the whole issue is unheard of in her part. Furthermore, she also maintained that the OCA already had Ms. Bautista’s number even before I was contacted for it.

Now, don’t piss on my head and tell me it’s raining.

All I did was help and in return was trampled on for it. I knew it: Niceness won’t get you anywhere.

Politicking irks me.