Saturday, 12 April 2025

The Weight of the Word

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

He holds the word like the smooth belly
of a clay pot still warm from the fire—
confidential—a syllable he folds
like laundry in the quiet of 3 a.m.,
not because he’s afraid of light,
but because some things collapse
when exposed too soon to sun.

It was never his to begin with—
it arrived like a sealed envelope
on the kitchen table, beside a chipped cup,
his name written in blue ink,
slanted like someone in a hurry
to be precise.

Now, voices press like steam
against his bathroom mirror,
fogging him into shape.
They want him to peel silence
from his lips like dried glue,
they say his hush is a shelter
for the guilty.

But he knows
there’s a difference
between hiding
and holding.

They don’t see
how a promise
is sometimes a pair of hands
stopping a plate from falling.

They don’t know the gravity
of carrying a name
like a candle you must not let flicker
even when wind
insists on testing you.

He is not dishonest.
Only loyal
to the thing
that asked him to wait.

Let them call him traitor.
Let their mouths work like hinges
rusted from use.

He will not speak.
He will remain the keeper
of an unopened drawer
in a house still standing
because someone, somewhere,
refused to let the lock go soft.

Friday, 11 April 2025

Island Living

haikus by Roger B. Rueda

Brownout again comes—
radio hums, then goes still.
A candle exhales.

Rice tastes like old dust,
sardines float in rusted tins—
still, we eat with grace.

No fish on the shore,
only bones wrapped in plastic.
The ocean forgets.

The mangoes? Gold-priced.
Sweetness too far to reach now.
We chew memory.

Sun carves out our skin—
even the wind hides from noon.
Shadows sweat with us.

Still we smile and wait,
for the sea to bring us back
what the land withholds.

Thursday, 10 April 2025

Valor, Forgotten Over Coffee

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

On April’s ninth, the flag is raised with pride,          
To honor those who fought through flame and fear.        
Their names carved deep where silent heroes bide,        
While we sip foam and chat of mugs this year.           

No memory of Bataan’s cruel sun,               
No whisper of the march, the bound, the slain.         
Just latte art, and pastries bought for fun—          
Their valor lost beneath a sugar stain.             

The day wears robes of silence, not of flame,          
Its meaning drowned in blends of caramel.           
We mouth the date, but do not speak the name         
Of those who walked through war to shield our shell.      

Yet still, their blood insists we must remember—        
That peace was bought with fire, not sweet December.     

 

Wednesday, 9 April 2025

The Privilege to Waste

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

They say it’s free now—to sit beneath the hum of ceiling fans,
to let your name be called in rooms where walls forget your silence.
No more need for jeepney fare tucked in sweaty palms,
no more mothers trading sleep to pay your way to books.

But look—some sprawl on desks like this were a motel,
scrolling through reels while verbs slip out the back door.
They eye the front row only when the teacher calls for names,
but never when meaning asks to be made, line by line.

And when red ink bleeds across their papers like quiet bruises,
they ask, "Why not ninety?"—as if knowledge came prepackaged.
Their sentences are scaffolding with no building in sight,
yet they want the skyline, the stars, the applause.
O country that gave them pages without price—
see how they tear the leaves, still asking for more.

Tuesday, 8 April 2025

The Scales Tilt

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

She once stood like a prayer,
blindfolded in marble,
her hands steady as gospel—
scales balanced, lips sealed
like the promise of rain.

People spoke her name
like they would an aunt’s
who taught them to spell fairness
with their mouths closed,
with backs unbent.

But now—
the blindfold hangs loose,
a silk ribbon around her throat,
more fashion than oath.
Her eyes kohl-lined,
lashes long enough to cast shadows
on the innocence she ignores.

She no longer walks.
She glides,
in heels that sound like warning shots
on the polished floors of courthouses,
her perfume sweet
with the rot of old verdicts.

She buys silence—
gift certificates for loyalty,
extra budget for delays,
a lunch meeting with steak
and wine the color of bruises.
She offers justice
in monogrammed envelopes,
the kind tucked quietly
into folders that don’t make it to the minutes.

She calls herself balanced—
a Libra still,
but her scales tip
before the evidence is weighed,
before the affidavit is read.

Now her good
comes at the cost of forgetting
who she used to be—
a blade dulled
by too many soft hands,
a woman who traded her blindfold
for a better view
of who she wanted to save.

No one tells her she’s changed.
They bow still,
as if reverence were memory,
not fear.
They let her pass,
watching the gold bangles
tremble on her wrist—
each one a case
she never closed.

Monday, 7 April 2025

Softness as Resistance

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

They say we are broken—
boys with lip gloss smudged on cigarette filters,
our laughter too light to carry history,
our hips speaking languages they’ve banned.

We want men, yes—
the ones with motor grease beneath their nails,
who smell of rain-soaked laundry and cheap cologne,
who call us names by day,
but lie in our rented rooms at night,
bones grateful for softness.

We feed them—
the broth scalding our fingers,
coins scraped from wallets worn thin
by love that expects nothing back.

We send them to school,
not for thanks,
but for the dream of their names stitched
on barong tags, their shoes clicking
on government hallways.

They—men with God’s permission to speak first—
preach perfection from bar stools,
but cannot hold another man’s pain.

Sunday, 6 April 2025

The Mystery of the Midnight Cuddlers

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

The audacity! Every night,
as if the dark itself split open—
two streaks of black silk
glide beneath my doorframe,
shoulders twitching, tails
curling like wisps of incense.

They do not belong to me.
And yet—
they arrive with the confidence
of men who’ve made up their minds.

Their emerald eyes catch
the moon’s pale reach,
gleaming like wet sea glass
held too long in the palm.

They weave through my legs,
tracing figure eights on bare shins,
their purrs low and steady—
the sound of a car engine idling
on an empty street.

Then, as if rehearsed,
they leap with the grace
of something holy
onto my bed,
claiming its center
like it remembers them.

At first, I laugh—
but then one presses its face
into the soft dip of my neck,
another plants a kiss
just below the eye,
its nose cold,
its breath warm
with the scent of dusk.

Their love, unasked for,
is shameless.

Meanwhile,
my own cats—dignified as duchesses—
appear only
at the sacred clang of kibble
in a ceramic bowl.

They eat like royalty
and leave without goodbyes,
tails lifting in practiced disdain,
each flick a full sentence:
You are not needed for anything
but nourishment.

I ask the air,
soft with fur and questions:
Is it something in this building—
a mineral in the pipes,
an aura in the hallway—
that breeds detachment?

Or have I stumbled
into the paws
of a secret society
of velvet-footed wanderers
who cross thresholds
in search of warmth
the way others search for meaning?

Tonight,
I’ll leave a plate of tuna by the door,
not for the ones I feed,
but for those who choose me
without asking
and love
without needing to.

Wednesday, 2 April 2025

Gigil

tula ni Roger B. Rueda

May mga damdaming
ayaw magpakulong
sa mga salita—
parang ilaw ng poste
sa madaling-araw:
hindi pa ganap ang liwanag,
pero naroon na,
nanginginig sa gilid
ng balat.

Ramdam mo itong umaakyat
sa dibdib,
parang kuryenteng
nakakabit
sa pangalan ng sanggol
na parang panaginip,
o ng kuting
na tumatalon
sa iyong kandungan
na parang sinasadyang
pumunit ng puso.

Hindi ito basta tuwa—
ito ay buntong-hiningang
nahulog sa pagitan
ng mga ngipin.
At ngayon,
may pangalan na ito
sa Ingles:
gigil.

Isang salitang hindi lang
nagmumula sa bibig,
kundi umaabot sa mga
daliri.
Sa bagting ng leeg.
Sa panginginig
ng panga.
Hiniram mula sa Tagalog,
ngayong nasa Oxford na—
parang alon ng wika
na bumangga
sa banyagang dalampasigan
pero hindi nawala
ang alat.

Sabi ng diksyunaryo:
damdaming
sobrang tindi
na hindi mo na mapigilan—
kailangan mo na lang
kumuyom ng kamao,
magngitngit ng ngipin,
at pisilin
ang kung sino mang
sobrang cute
na gusto mong lunukin.

At oo,
ganoon kabaliw
ang pag-ibig minsan—
umaabot sa gilid
ng pasensya at pananabik,
nagiging sandali
ng kabaliwan
na walang sinasaktan
pero may pinipiga.

Hindi lang ito
pakiramdam—
ito rin ay pagiging.
Pwedeng sabihing,
"Ako'y gigil na gigil,"
na parang sinasabi mong
“Mapupunit ako
ng sariling galak.”

At sa ganitong pagdiriwang
ng di-maipaliwanag,
ng di-matinag,
naglalakad ang salitang ito
mula sa laway ng ina
na tuwang-tuwa
sa unang ngiti
ng anak,
patungo sa pahina
ng diksyunaryo.

Dahil minsan,
hindi sapat ang sabihin—
kailangan mong
ngumiti
habang nanginginig
ang pisngi,
habang pinipigilan mo
ang sarili
na yumakap
nang masyadong mahigpit.

Ito ang gigil:
ang damdaming
gusto kang kainin
mula sa loob.

Tuesday, 1 April 2025

Pagkatapos ng Tayfun

tula ni Roger B. Rueda

Pagkatapos ng tayfun,
hindi lang flad
ang naiwan.
May katahimikan din—
‘yung klase ng katahimikang
nagsisimula
kapag may nasira
pero walang gustong umamin.
Alam mo ‘yung frag padel
sa likod ng barangay hol?
Wala na.
Dati, nagtatakbuhan doon
ang mga bata—
nakatsinelas, putik-putik ang paa,
tawa nang tawa
parang walang bukas.
Tapos dumating ‘yung mga trak,
mga buldozer,
at mga lalaking
hindi naman madaldal
pero kayang baguhin ang lupa
na parang nagco-compyut lang.
Bawat buhangin,
bawat tabingi,
inayos nila,
pinatag,
binura.
Ginawa nilang ulit
na parang dati—
biyts,
lohn,
parkinglat.
Pero kung lalapitan mo,
makikita mong nanginginig pa rin
ang lupa,
parang hindi sigurado
kung ito ba talaga
ang dapat niyang anyo.
Tapos isang umaga,
doon mismo sa dating padel,
may tumubo—
isang tapolanga lang,
walang kaartehan,
walang ingay,
pero nandoon.
Parang sinasabi niyang:
“Nandito lang ako. Noon pa.”
Tumayo siya,
harapan ng araw,
hinihipan ng hangin,
parang binubulungan.
Hindi siya pabibo.
Hindi rin siya nagpapansin.
Pero naroon siya—
buhay.
At siyempre,
dumating ang graskater.
Maingay.
Diretso.
Walang pakialam.
Hindi niya nakita ang bulaklak.
Hindi niya kailanman nakikita.
At parang wala lang,
nawala na naman
ang kagandahang
pilit bumalik.
Ganyan siguro talaga tayo—
nag-aayos,
nakakalimot,
nagbubura
kahit ‘yung mga bagay
na pilit
bumabalik
sa’tin.

Monday, 31 March 2025

Tahimik ang Mesa

tula ni Roger B. Rueda

May tahimik
na kalupitan
ang pagkaabala—kung paanong
pinipiud tayo
ng sarili nating kalibutan,
tinatalikuran
ang pag-inog ng palibot.
Akala natin,
nagtatrabaho lang tayo,
nagsusuma ng maliliit na kadalag-an,
sumasabay sa agos
ng kabuhi. Tinititigan
ang mga baraha sa kamot:
mga plano, pagkabahala,
mga layuning paulit-ulit
na ibinabato,
parang bola ng labahan
na di matapos-tapos.
Samantala,
ang mga mahal natin—
nasa gilid lang—
ay umaabot.
Minsan para kumamay,
minsan para magpaalam.
At hindi natin
sila nakikita.
Ang pamilya, tulad
ng basag na pinggan
sa lababo ng madaling-araw,
ay hindi nagpaparamdam
kapag nawawala.
Tahimik silang
lumalayo.
Ang hapag,
na dati'y puno
ng kwento, tawa, sabay-sabay
na pag-abot sa sinigang,
ay unti-unting
nawalan ng tunog.
Tumanda ang ina,
naging mas tahimik
ang ama.
Ang kapatid,
hindi na bumabanggit
kahit ng mga simpleng kwento
ng kanyang araw.
May umalis
nang hindi na isinara
ang pinto.
At tayo,
nandito pa rin—
nakayuko,
naglalaro,
nakatuon,
naniniwalang
may oras pa.
Na may uulitin pa.
Na hindi pa tapos
ang hampang.
Hanggang sa isang araw,
parang pagputok
ng ilaw sa gabi—
na hindi mo agad napansin—
dumarating
ang pagkaunawa.
Wala na ang lahat.
Wala na ang pinggan,
ang baso,
ang kutsara’t tinidor.
Maluwag ang mesa.
Malamig ang upuan.
Tahimik ang palibot.
At ang lahat
ay nakahawak na
sa kani-kaniyang kutsara—
nakapili na,
nakahakbang na
palayo.
Tayo,
naghahanap pa rin
ng tamang pares,
ng perpektong set,
na hindi naman
talaga mahalaga.
Dahil ang tunay
na hampang
ay ang
pagtanaw.
Ang pag-angat
ng ulo.
At minsan,
sa oras
na gawin natin ito—
ulihi na
ang lahat.

Sunday, 30 March 2025

Paspud Restawran

tula ni Roger B Rueda

Ginamit ko ang ATM kard—
ang plastik na may guhit ng aking pangungulila—
sa harap ng makinang
sumusuka ng salapi.
Hila ang hininga, sinilip ko
ang naiwang halaga:
tinatantya kung kasya
ang kahit isang gabi ng karangyaan.

Sa paspud restawran,
kung saan may neyon na ilaw
na parang luhang hindi humihinto sa pagkurap,
umorder ako ng hapunan:
espageti na pula’t malagkit,
parang alaala ng Pasko sa bahay
na hindi ko na inuuwian.

Isang pleyt ng pitsa pai,
kutsarang may langis,
hawak ng kamay kong sanay sa tipid
pero ngayon, dumadaya.
Isang lard sais na koka kola—
malamig sa palad,
bula ng asukal na sumabog
sa aking dila,
habang sa aking wokman,
isang gitara ang binibiyak
ng tinig ni Axl Rose.

Kumakain ako’t
tumatango sa saliw ng rak,
parang may lihim
na hindi kayang ipagtapat sa sinuman.

Pagkatapos,
lakad pabalik sa opisina—
kalansing ng bota sa simento,
kaluskos ng dyaket sa hangin,
bitbit ang katawan
na parang hindi na kanya.

Sa loob, naroon na naman
ang kompyuter na matagal nang naghihintay
na parang asong uhaw
sa init ng paggalaw ng daliri ko sa kibord.
Naroon ang mga peyperwork,
mga papel na tila bundok
na pilit kong inaakyat gabi-gabi
nang walang tanong kung bakit.

Dahil hindi rin naman makapaghintay

ang bukas—


UPNWW, UP Miag-ao 2002

with Leoncio Deriada, Rosario Cruz Lucero, Merlie Alunan, Gemino Abad & Virgilio Almario


Monday, 24 March 2025

A Mirror of Doubt

 a poem by Roger B. Rueda

You have always been skeptical—
not in the way rain doubts the sky,
but like a gambler who eyes the deck,
knowing the cards can’t be trusted
because his own sleeve is heavy with kings.

You watch him speak, weigh his words
like coins you are sure have been clipped.
A compliment is a trade, a kindness
a hook, a hand extended only
to pull you closer to his own design.

You call this wisdom. You wear it
like armor, convinced it shields
your ribs from the blade, but you never
question the weight of your own hand—
how often it has drawn the dagger first.

You tell white lies,
so you see his words as ash.
You smile for gain,
so you mistrust his joy.
You hold doors open
only when they lead
to your own fortune,
so you call his gesture
a trick of the light.

It is easier to doubt
than to face the raw sinew
of your own reflection—
to say aloud what you know:

That the fraud is not him,
but the shadow you cast.

Tonight, he sits across from you.
"You should apply," he says,
voice uncoiled, weightless.
"You’d be perfect for it."

You smirk. "Why tell me this?
Are you just paving the way
for yourself?"

His face folds into quiet.
"Not everyone is like you."

The words press into your chest,
slip under your ribs like a secret.
Not everyone is like you.

You laugh, but it curdles in your throat.
The room, suddenly too small.
The light, suddenly too clean.

Later, you stand in the mirror,
eye your own mouth forming
the words you never said out loud:

What if the lies, the barter,
the careful undoing of trust—
what if they were yours alone?
What if his hands were empty,
and yours the only ones
threaded with strings?

For the first time,
you are unsure.
For the first time,
the doubt does not
point outward—
but in.

Saturday, 22 March 2025

The Wounded Serpent

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

He stands, the sharp hem of his suit
clean as a surgeon’s blade—
pressed against the rot beneath,
where the wounds gape, law-wrought,
as if the wisdom of verdicts could
become teeth, gnawing flesh from bone.

Each decree a bullet lodged in sinew,
each doctrine a knife slipped cleanly
between his ribs. He should be dying.
He should be undone.
each principle a gash,
each doctrine a knife slipped cleanly
between his ribs. He should be dying.
He should be undone.

Yet he speaks—slow, measured,
like the world has not
opened its maw to swallow him whole.
He stands where he should kneel,
lips pursed against pain, words
coiling like silk around a wound,
binding it closed in ribbons of lies.

"I have always served this country,"
he says, his tongue a surgeon’s hand,
his breath a scalpel cutting the truth
to fit his will. "I have acted
in the best interest of the people."

His wrist flicks, a gesture—
practiced, precise, an artist’s stroke
on a canvas of deceit.

Behind him, his sins stretch long—
a procession of ghosts whispering
their grievances in the hush of air.
The hands he has emptied of coin,
the mouths he has emptied of speech,
the stomachs he has emptied of bread.

To him, patriotism is a throne
carved from the bones of the hungry.
To him, duty is a golden sheath
hiding the rust of his blade.

He knows the eyes that bore into him,
like torches pressed against wax.
He knows they see him unravel,
his body unraveling like thread,
yet still, he stands.

Despite the ruin of his flesh—
a body crumbling under the weight
of its own falsehoods—he smiles,
because even as blood pools
in the quiet corners of his conscience,
there will always be those
who mistake a well-polished lie
for the gleam of righteousness.

Friday, 21 March 2025

Crisp as Childhood

a poem by Roger B. Rueda
The pan hisses as oil meets the salt-dried anchovies,
their edges curling like brittle leaves in heat,
their scent rising, thick as the tide on a noon-warmed shore.
The eggs follow, yolks breaking into the sizzle,
spreading gold through the pan, slipping into the cracks
where fish bones turn crisp, where hunger waits.
Tomatoes collapse in the heat, their skins splitting,
juice bleeding into the oil, into the salt,
into something sharp, something sweet, something old.
This is not just food. This is a small, bright miracle,
a childhood plated and steaming, a reunion of taste
first met when I was eight, when my grandmother stood
by the stove, her hands moving through the rhythm
of hunger and memory, stirring, waiting, knowing
just when to turn the anchovies before they burned.
She would crack eggs in a single motion, let the yolks
pool, let the tomatoes weep, let the house swell
with the scent of something so simple, so whole.
I sat at the kitchen table, feet not touching the floor,
watching the meal take shape, the air thick
with salt, with heat, with something I did not yet name.
Even now, when luncheon meat or pork adobo or fried chicken
sits on the table, I return to this dish—anchovies crisp
as childhood mornings, eggs soft as a voice calling me home.
The bright burst of tomato on my tongue, the salt
curling at the back of my throat, the warmth
of a past still alive in the oil-slicked pan.
I eat, and for a moment, I am back in that kitchen.
The scent of frying oil clings to my hands,
my grandmother hums under her breath,
the world is smaller, warmer, whole.
Each bite a step backward, into the quiet
of love, into a hunger that has never left.
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Thursday, 20 March 2025

Rainwriting on the Earth

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

The first drops fall like whispers on the tin roof,
hesitant, as if testing the rust, slipping through the gaps
where old nails have loosened, where time has unstitched the seams.
The island has been too dry for too long—
grass turned to brittle thread, soil cracked like parched lips,
trees standing with their arms lifted, begging the sky.
The wind has been cruel, carrying heat in its teeth,
flinging dust against walls, against bare backs,
against restless nights where even sleep burns.
But now, the rain comes—soft at first,
like a child’s breath on a windowpane, then steady, then all at once,
its weight pressing the world back into itself.
It drowns the dust, darkens the sand,
makes a river of the road where footsteps vanish.
The air thickens with the scent of damp earth,
with the coolness that moves through the house
like a long-lost song, slipping through open windows,
past curtains stiff with heat, past the rim of a forgotten glass.
It settles on skin like a memory,
and suddenly, it is not just rain—it is childhood again,
bare feet on wet ground, puddles swallowed by small running steps.
It is the taste of rainwater caught in cupped hands,
the sound of laughter breaking through thunder,
the sky leaning in, heavy, close,
seen through the blur of a summer storm.
The island drinks deeply, its thirst momentarily quenched,
and so does the heart, opening like cracked earth
to the promise of green.
Because this rain is more than water; it is return,
it is remembrance. It is proof that even in the driest seasons,
the sky does not forget how to give.

Wednesday, 19 March 2025

The Turning Mechanism

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Life is a factory of trials,
a slow-moving belt where hands, warm or calloused,
reach for what is given—water or stone.
Some wake to the scent of morning,
to the hush of bread rising, the soft swell
of a child’s breath against their skin.
Some wake to hunger, to doors bolted shut,
to the weight of nights that bear no answers,
only the hard arithmetic of survival.
Here, love moves like a thread through linen,
pulling strangers into the shape of a family.
Here, love is a lamp in a hallway,
left burning for someone still finding their way home.
But the machine does not run on love alone.
In another room, the air is thick with iron,
words sharpened like cutlery, the cold press of rage
against a ribcage.
Some hoard light and call it power,
lock the doors and count their victories
in the ruin of others. Some burn bridges
and call the ashes justice.
The machine does not choose.
It only turns, rusted and relentless,
offering a thousand doors—each one a question,
each one an answer waiting to be made.
And always, the choice:
to close a fist, or to open it.
To build a wall, or to break it.
To love, or to leave love waiting.
The machine does not wait.
But you do.

Tuesday, 18 March 2025

A Letter of Apology

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

To those I have hurt—
like a glass knocked over in my hurry,
spilling more than I meant to,
shattering in places
I never thought to check—
I am sorry.
I am sorry for the times
I failed to understand,
for when I listened but did not hear,
like wind through curtains,
a passing thing,
weightless, insubstantial,
gone before it could settle.
For when I saw but did not truly look—
glancing over your grief
as if it were a street sign
I passed too quickly,
as if your silence was just
another shadow in the room.
I was careless with my words,
like a hand reaching too fast,
knocking the delicate off its shelf.
Reckless with my actions,
like a driver who assumes
the road will always clear for him.
I am sorry for my stubbornness,
for standing my ground
as if I were the only one
who deserved to stand there.
For the moments
I could not step aside,
could not give way,
could not let go—
even when my hands
ached from holding too tight.
I held onto my pride
like an old coat,
mistaking it for warmth
when it was only weight.
Mistaking it for armor
when it was only rust.
I am sorry for the times
I was too much—
a room filled with too many voices,
a radio blaring static.
And for the times I was too little—
a chair left empty,
a name unspoken,
a space you did not know
how to fill.
I am sorry for the tantrums,
for the sharp edge of my voice,
for the way I threw my anger
like a stone into still water,
rippling outward
long after I had forgotten
what made me throw it.
For the times
I let my emotions
crash through doors
instead of knocking,
for when I let my own storms
flood the rooms we shared.
I was foolish.
I was selfish.
I was human—
but in the way a fire is,
devouring all before it
realizes it is alone.
If I could gather the things I broke,
if I could take back the things I said,
if I could mend what I have damaged,
I would.
But time does not run backward,
and apologies are not erasers,
only offerings.
So this is mine—
a small thing, perhaps.
But honest.
And I hope,
in some way,
enough.

Monday, 17 March 2025

Philippine English: A Lingua Franca or a Lingua Fracta?

by Roger B. Rueda, PhD

Let us not kid ourselves. If English is the language of the learned, then Philippine English is the language of the undaunted. It defies grammar, bulldozes syntax, and mangles pronunciation—all with the confidence of a student who forgot to study but still raises their hand in class.

Now, I have no problem with linguistic evolution. After all, language is a living, breathing entity—unlike some politicians I know, who, despite being politically alive, are intellectually comatose. But when English in the Philippines starts resembling a linguistic crime scene, complete with the butchering of tenses and the massacre of idioms, we must draw the line.

A Nation of English Speakers—Sort Of

Ah, yes, we Filipinos pride ourselves on our English proficiency. We wear it like a badge of honor, proudly declaring, “We are the third-largest English-speaking country in the world!”—never mind that some of us pronounce "video" as beydyow and "aircon" as if it were a life form.

We are so creative with our English that we have gifted the world with uniquely Filipino expressions—so unique, in fact, that only Filipinos understand them. For instance:

“Let’s eat first.” As opposed to what? Eating second? Eating last? “Fill up this form.” Are we inflating it like a balloon? No, dear reader, we fill out a form, unless the form is an empty swimming pool. “Can you repeat again?” Ah, yes, because once is never enough. “The traffic is so traffic!” Ladies and gentlemen, this is redundancy squared.

And then there is the greatest linguistic crime of them all: “For a while, sir.” This is our version of “Please hold,” usually uttered by customer service agents who then proceed to disappear into another dimension, never to return.

Survival of the Linguistically Fittest

To make matters worse, we have an elite breed of English speakers in our midst—the kind who insist on "British English" or "American English" as if they are choosing between tea and coffee. These are the people who say, “Oh, I only use British spelling”, yet pronounce schedule with an American accent.

Meanwhile, our local institutions have fully embraced their own linguistic inventions:

“Masteral” degree. This word does not exist in any English-speaking country, but in the Philippines, it is a proud academic milestone. “Bedspace” and “bedspacer.” Because apparently, in this country, we do not rent rooms—we rent the air above the bed. “Aircon.” In any English-speaking nation, this is an adjectiveair-conditioned. But in the Philippines, we have transformed it into a noun, a verb, and possibly, a way of life.

English, But Make It Filipino

And let us not forget our national pastime: inventing words and pretending they belong in the dictionary.

“Traffic” – In English, this is a noun (There is heavy traffic). In the Philippines, it is an adjective, a noun, and possibly a state of mind (It’s so traffic!). “Topnotcher” – A word Filipinos love, but which confuses the world. In the West, they have toppers, high scorers, valedictorians—but no topnotchers. “Colorum” – Originally Latin, but in the Philippines, it now refers to illegal public vehicles. Because why should Latin remain dead when we can repurpose it?

Of course, the greatest crime of all is the phrase "I cannot cope up." This monstrosity has no place in any civil society. You cope with something—you do not cope up unless you are trying to reach a high shelf.

A Plea for Sanity

Do not misunderstand me. Philippine English is a marvel, a linguistic cocktail of creativity and resilience. But if we are to claim global competence, we must at least attempt linguistic coherence.

So the next time you hear someone say, "I am good in English," please, for the love of Oxford, remind them—you are good at English, not in it. Unless, of course, they are physically standing inside an English textbook.

Let us speak English, not invent it.

 

Sunday, 16 March 2025

The Betrayal of Merit

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Summa Cum Laude is a crown,
polished by long nights under library lamps,
its weight pressing against a skull
filled with theories, equations, words
that blur into the dawn.
A distinction, a bright flare against
the ordinary—gold ink on paper,
a name called into a microphone,
applause rolling like waves, then fading
into the tide of forgotten honors.
It is an honor—so they say—
stitched onto résumés, printed on
certificates framed in glass,
displayed in houses where dust
settles just the same.
A mark of excellence, the pinnacle
of scholarly pursuit. But is it always?
Sometimes, it is a stroke of luck,
a decimal rounding in one’s favor,
a professor who sees promise
where another sees only effort.
Sometimes, it is just a matter
of chance, a dance of circumstances—
a schedule without distractions,
a semester without grief,
a mind unburdened by hunger
or homesickness, or love
that comes at the wrong time.
The brightest minds do not always
wear the medal; sometimes,
the medal finds its way
to those who slip through
the cracks of expectation,
who fall upward into the light.
A fraction of a point, a forgiving professor,
an exam taken on the right day,
when the brain was a river
instead of a drought—
luck, disguised as merit.
And so, the act betrays
the taxonomy of brilliance,
makes it a construct,
a shifting thing,
a phantom in a borrowed robe.
Not being a Summa Cum Laude
is not a disgrace, nor is it
a mark of mediocrity.
It is a label, too—
just one less spoken,
one less gilded in the mouths
of parents at dinner tables.
Sometimes, it is the product
of a single misstep—
a question misread,
a deadline missed
by the width of a second,
a flu that turned a final exam
into a fever dream.
Some walk in the shadows
of the ordinary, but others—
just as luminous, just as relentless—
are merely misplaced
by time and chance,
by a professor who saw
what was written
but not what was meant,
by a moment that slipped
between fingers reaching
for something grander.
Their brilliance does not dull
in the absence of a title;
instead, it flares defiantly,
like a match struck in the dark,
a fire that burns outside the margins
of certificates, diplomas, programs.
And so, the act betrays
the taxonomy of the ordinary,
for some rise beyond the weight
of distinctions, become something
uncatalogued, unmeasured, undeniable.
The world, then, is a potpourri
of contradictions—
where the summa falls
and the silent ascend,
where brilliance is neither
the name on the program
nor the tassel turned
but the thing that endures,
long after the last
clap has faded.