As a student, I have always searched for gems. Not because of their precious appearance, but because of the invaluable meanings associated with them. Whenever I find one, I believe they represent my journey to becoming a better version of myself.

Six years ago, I was given the chance to look for such stones in two top universities. The first one is known for its sapphires. I was dazzled by the shiny blue sparkles – the nobility of the pious priests, the dignity of the scholarly students, the elevated social class of the rich kids. Since I wanted to regain the honor and high status I once enjoyed in my previous school, I was convinced to pay the 10,000-peso fee, no matter how expensive it was.

But there was a sudden change in the plan. The day before I was about to pay the enrollment fee in that university, I received a letter from another one I have not heard of. I was invited to collect the rubies and emeralds in that university. But I found the gemstones duller than those in the school I first applied for. The fiery glare of the rubies horrified me – the rowdiness of the protesters, the alleged alliance with disgruntled rebels. The grass-like emeralds, on the other hand, were disgusting – the low social status of the students, plus the lack of civilization of the buildings. Nonetheless, the dean told me that I did not have to spend anything – not even a centavo.

I could not decide where to look for gemstones. I did not really like the latter university because I thought that the students had no class at all and complained about the mundane. But I also had to listen to my parents – they told me that the school I wanted would teach me that social inequality and materialism are acceptable. In the end, I gave in, albeit grudgingly.

It was my first year. I felt like a complete reject in my new school. Almost everyone there told me that I was so burgués. Almost everyone there did not approve of my elitist attitude – bragging about achievements and looking down on the poor. Almost everyone there told me to stop pretending to live a fantasy and become more aware of the social realities happening around.

I would not do those, I insisted.

Day by day, I would tell my parents that I wanted to stop searching for those rubies and emeralds. I ranted to them that going there was not a good choice, and that I would have been more socially accepted in the other wealthier university. I begged them to let me enroll in that place where I could be one with rich, snobbish intellectuals and flaunt my flair.

Give it a second chance. Try again, they replied.

So during my second year, I tried to open my mind. I tried to befriend people who do not normally click with me. Those who dress simply, keep their offensive thoughts to themselves, and spend their money allowance prudently. They might not emit a sapphire-like sophistication, but at least they are humble and down-to-earth. Like the green energy emanated by the emerald. Not bad.

I also tried to engage in discussions about pressing issues. Those who complain about the exploitation of labor, expose the expanding neocolonialism of the US, and worry for worsening apathy of the youth. I might not agree with all of them, but at least they are critical and champion social awareness. Like the fiery fervor of the ruby.

By the end of eighth grade, my parents asked me again if I would still continue until the end of high school. I told them my sudden enlightenments – that my new classmates still have manners and social awareness. Going here... is not really bad at all, I admitted.

That meant I would continue looking for the ruby and the emerald for the next four years. I have changed – I have become more humble and tolerant of the differences of others. I have also educated myself of various social commentaries. But those are not enough to find the two gems. In fact, I still have met a number of frustrations even today.

I have not yet found the emerald – the deep, harmonious connection I have yearned. To admit, I still come across as unwelcoming to a lot of people because I want to look dignified all the time. I have always thought that asserting myself and not tolerating nonsense would command respect to others. However, that intimidated them. That also prevented me from revealing my insecurities, finding common ground, and relating with them. As if I had to set aside my fixation on self-regard just to do so.

I have also not yet found the ruby – the burning spirit of the protesters. Honestly, I still have second thoughts about my school's tradition. I appreciate that student-protesters want to elicit a message – a message so powerful enough to alert the entire minds of the preoccupied. But most of the protests fail to initiate action from the masses. The message is just left there, but that does not translate to solving all the issues covered. As if I had to think that rallying is one-hundred percent effective just for me to join.

It has been six years since I started my search for the two gems in my school right now. But I am not giving up. I still have a few more months to make the most of my high school, confront my frustrations, and fully imbibe in the red-green spirit of my school. In that way, I will become what I aspire to be – a better version of myself.

“Dad, pa-buy the Parmesan-crusted salmon from the fine dining po. Basta not the sinigang one, ha, kasi it’s so kadiri!”

Ito ang kanyang inutos sa kanyang ama kanina. Gamit ang kanyang banyagang pananalita, binilin niya sa kanyang tatay na bumili ng pagkain sa labas sapagkat ayaw niya ang luto ng kanyang ina.

Puro na lang kasi sinigang na bangus ang niluluto kada hapunan. ‘Pag uuwi galing paaralan, sinigang na bangus! Pagkasimba, kakain na naman ng sinigang na bangus!

Nagsimula ang kanyang pagkamuhi sa putaheng iyon nang nagluto si mama ng kakaibang sabaw na ang ngalan ay sinigang. Sabi raw niya, malinamnam ito dahil may halo itong sampalok at may bangus na lumalangoy sa loob. Sumunod naman siya sa kanya, dahil ang unang akala niya'y magiging masarap ito – tulad ng salmong palaging binibili ng kanyang ama.

Hindi niya alam ang ibang mga sangkap nito, bukod sa sampalok at isda. Sabik na sabik siyang tikman ang sabaw, ngunit nang hinigop niya ang putahe at nginuya ang sinubong bangus, agad na bumagsak ang kanyang kutsara sa aking pinggan. Muntik na siyang mapatakbo sa lababo dahil sa pagkaayaw niya sa nakain.

“Ma, the sabaw is so kadiri. Puwe!”

Kaya mula noon, hindi na siya kumain ng sinigang na bangus. Nandiri siya sa sabaw na iyon, maging ang kahalo nitong karne. Sinigang na baboy, puwe. Sinigang na hipon, puwe. Basta may sinigang, puwe! Naging mas maarte siya sa mga kinakain. Hindi nagtagal, at tinanggihan niya na rin ang lahat ng mga putaheng Pilipino – ang pang-almusal na sinangag, pananghaliang tinola, pangmeryendang bibingka, at panghapunang galunggong. Puro na lang mga pagkain ng mga dayuhan ang kanyang binibili.

Sa paglipas din ng panahon, nagbago ang kanyang pananalita. Hindi na siya masyadong nagsasalita ng tuwid na Filipino. Di lang kay Tatay tuwing magpapabili ng pagkain. Di lang kay Nanay tuwing magrereklamo sa kanyang luto. Pati na rin sa kanyang mga kaklase tuwing may pagpupulong, kahit pa sa drayber ng dyip – sa lahat ng mga nakakausap niya, kahit saan.

Ginawa niya ang lahat upang makalimutan ko ang sariling wika. I made English my “native”, I made gaya na the coñotics. Kaya puro “You make pasa the so bigat na libros forward!” at “Make bilis, Manong Driver, I’m nagmama-hurry!” na lang ang nasasabi niya.

Alam ng kanyang nanay na ayaw niyang kumain ng sinigang na bangus. Pero ayaw niyang makita ang kanyang anak na hindi maging maka-Pilipino. Di kumakain ng di-Pilipino na pagkain. Di bihasa sa sariling wika. Habang nasa labas si Tatay, naisip niyang ihalo sa pinakaayaw niyang sabaw ang pinakagusto niyang isda.

Pinagmalaki ng kanyang ina ang kanyang niluto, "Anak, ang hapunan ngayon ay sinigang... na salmon."

Nagulantang siya nang narinig ang sinabi ng kanyang nanay. Alam niyang naroon ang kanyang paboritong isda – ang rosas na kulay nito, ang preskong halimuyak nito. Pawang mga magagandang katangiang haka niya'y mayroon sa mga banyagang lengwahe. Pero naroon din ang kulay ng sampalok na masakit sa mata, ang nakakahilong amoy nito. Pawang mga katangiang binabatikos niya sa sariling wika. Pinili niyang paniwalaan ang huli, kaya hindi niya binuksan ang kaldero sa mesa.

Habang nasa kusina siya, dumating ang kanyang tatay. Dala ang paboritong Parmesan-crusted salmon ng kanyang anak. Hindi na siya makahintay kainin ang laman nito na malarosas, mabango, at may halong impoted na keso. Nilapag ang putahe sa may bandang kaliwang bahagi ng mesa.

Malamang ay pinili niyang kainin ang Parmesan-crusted salmon. Ngunit nang binuksan niya ang kahon sa loob, muntik na siya mapanganga sa pandidiri. Amoy malansa ito, tulad ng “mabahong” amoy ng bangus sa sinigang. Nang tinignan niya ito, hindi na masaganang rosas ang kulay nito, at naduwal siya sa amoy sa kesong halo nito. Sa ibang salita, napanis ang salmon.

Dapat niyang tatanungin ang kanyang ama kung bakit malansa ang amoy ng salmon. Bakit the salmon so baho? Why you did not make tignan the isda bago you made alis? Ngunit nawala na ang tatay sa kusina, at pumunta sa kanyang kwarto. May nakalagay na patalastas na "HUWAG PUMASOK" sa busol nito. Naramdaman din ng kanyang anak na mahanging lamig mula sa pinto. Patay na rin ang ilaw sa loob nito.

Hinanap din niya ang kanyang nanay pero hindi niya ito nakita. Nahinuha niyang nasa kuwarto na rin siya, at tulog na ang kanyang mga magulang. Nakakahiya namang gisingin ang kanyang tatay at nanay, kaya dumiretso na lang siya sa kusina.

Paulit-ulit niyang sinabi na ayaw niya sa sinigang na niluto ng kanyang nanay. The sabaw is kadiri, the sabaw is so diri! Ayaw niyang lumapit dito, dahil sa takot na baka sumuka siya. Hinayaan niya ang ang kanyang sarili na magutom sa halip na lulunin ang kanyang pagkamuhi sa Pilipinong putahe.

So lansa, so lansa, so lansa! Kahit sobrang masakit ang kanyang tiyan, hindi pa rin siya kumain. Hanggang sa maalala niya ang payo ng kanyang ina tungkol sa pagpili sa kakainin noon.

Naalala pa niya kung gaano siya nagalit sa pinakain sa kanyang sinigang na salmon kanina. Maasim ito, nakakawalang-gana ang hitsura, nakakahilo ang amoy. Gayunman, galing sa mga sariwang kasangkapan naman ito, at hindi bilasa ang isda.

"Anak, maaaring hindi kaaya-aya ang anyo nito. Pero, hindi naman malansa ang salmon sa sinigang! Tikman mo, fresh na fresh pa!"

"Eh pero, I find it so kadiri-ish eh!"

"Isa pa 'yang pagkokonyo mo. Isipin mo, ang pagsalita gamit sa sariling wika ay tulad ng pagkain ng sariwang isda. Tulad ng ating wika bago inimpluwensyahan ito ng mga banyagang wika, hindi pa ito nabubulok ng mga salik sa labas. Kung naiwan ba magdamag, kung hindi ininit.

Kinumpara niya ito sa biniling Parmesan-crusted salmon ng kanyang tatay kanina. Ibang-iba ito sana sa sinigang na niluto ng kanyang ina – nakapagbibigay-gana, masarap ang lasa. Pero, malansa ang amoy! Dahil sa mga salik sa labas – naiwan ito nang matagal sa loob ng kotse, kaya napanis. Tila'y may isang boses na nagpaalala sa sinabi ng kanyang ina noon – pero ang kabaliktaran, "Ang di pagsasalita gamit sa sariling wika ay tulad ng pagkain ng malansang isda."

Umalingawngaw sa kanyang isip ang mga pariralang “malansang isda” at “sariling wika” at napamuni-muni siya. Nakita niya ang kanyang pagkakamali, na kung paano siya naging tulad ng malansang isda na tinapon kanina, na kung paano niya tinakwil ang kanyang sariling wika sa loob ng kanya buhay. Inamin niya, mababa ang naging tigin niya sa kulturang Pilipino. Dahil lang sa paniniwalang mas de-kalidad at sibilisado ang pamumuhay na banyaga.

Nilaro niya muli ang mga alaala sa kanyang utak – ang pagtanggi sa mga luto ng kanyang nanay at pagbago sa paraan ng kanyang pananalita. Hanggang sa hindi na niya kayang tiisin ang sakit ng tiyan niya. Kaya, kinalimutan niya muna ang kanyang pagkamuhi sa sinigang na niluto ng nanay. Kumuha siya ng mangkok at sinalin niya roon ang sabaw. At tulad ng kanyang ginawa nang una niyang nakita ito, hinigop niya ito. Hindi naman maasim. Hindi masakit sa mata. Masarap naman pala. Di niya inakalang mabubusog siya, at mauubos niya ang buong kaldero.

Nang siya ay tapos nang kumain, napasigaw siya, “Kay sarap pala ng pagkaing ito!” Wala nang pagkamuhi sa mga pagkaing Pilipino. Wala nang pilit at banyagang pananalita. Wala nang paghuhusga sa sariling kultura.

Whenever I do my weekend swim-training near Antipolo, the weather would be overcast most of the time. I would pull my elbows, raise my legs, and stretch my back. Then I would place my fins, kickboard, and paddles near the available starting block. I would dive, start my warm-up, and perform as many sets as I could for two hours. Then I would cool down, stretch my whole body, take a shower, pack my stuff, and leave. No more sun again? How upsetting! I just want to find joy in swimming under a clear sky! It makes me remember those horrible moments way back when I was a member of my swim team.

One day, my teammates and I had to train, even if the sky was gloomy and the weather was raining. The absence of the sun made us feel unmotivated to go to the pool. Some of us would not stretch. We fought over our workout because there was no cooperation. So we were not able to complete the sets. As punishment, we were told to swim two extra non-stop kilometers of individual medley (IM), even if we already heard the menacing lightning. After that day, we became unfriendly towards each other, just like the thick, dark nimbus clouds. We might not have fought anymore, but we did not have teamwork.

It is surely dejecting to remember those moments, especially if someone is trying to find happiness in that sport. I do not feel the happiness I used to enjoy before that gloomy work-out day.

I could remember that whenever the sky was clear, my teammates and I would race each other to the pool. Before, we followed a rule with no hesitation. Whoever would dive last would get extra IM sets, so we made sure we stretched and warmed up together. Before, we listened to coach’s instructions and let his advice motivate us to finish all of our laps. Most of all, we did not have any squabble. Of course, we were sunburnt, much to our "pain". But that did not matter – we did not experience emotional pain at all! We talked to each other pleasantly and enjoyed each other’s company.. The camaraderie was present before, in other words.

I just want to rekindle those happy memories again. They might not be here, but when the sun is there, I would be elated. I would also forget the fights and disagreements we had.

Six years after, my wish was granted – the sky gave a clear blue. When I dived into the pool, I felt as if I have found the source of motivation and happiness I have earnestly yearned. I could finally rekindle those happy moments with my former teammates. I stretched as long as I could – I even flexed the parts of the body I would not normally do, namely the groins and abdominals. For every dive, splash, glide, kick, stroke, and tumble turn, I could feel the sun's positive power shining on me again. I felt driven to continue my laps. Most of all, I was assured there would be no more dark clouds ruining my workout and bringing back those fights with my teammates.

As soon as I finished my workout, I shouted with triumph, “The happy sunshine I have yearned for too long is finally here!"

31/3/2019

Mi estimada amiga Karla,

¿Qué onda? For the past months, I tried chatting with you through Viber about what happened to the trip you were planning. I remember you and Joaquín informing me of planning a flight to Manila and visiting mi casa. You enthused about exploring my country. You said you wanted to take photos of erected monuments en La Luneta, talk to the locals about the connection between Méjico y Filipinas, and even apply as an international news reporter here.

I tried calling you anteayer, but it seems that you did not respond. What’s happening there? Is it because you had press conferences in Cancún? Is it because tu’ijo is so busy selling jewelry at La Joyería de Palacío? Or is it because of your stressful chamba in Telemundo?

You told me you had to cover several news articles and report about the new administration. I saw on the news that Obrador replaced Nieto recently. Is it true that he is stricter than the former president? I heard rumors from others that he’s fresa – a cautious man who has few reforms for the country. Are those true?

In case you’re free, please talk to me. The last time I heard from you was practically two months ago. Tell me everything that happened. I am always here to listen.

Te lo juro, Karla. You can always confide in me.

It has been a while since we talked without fighting. After all those debates, silent treatments, and other misgivings where we thought we would no longer bury the hatchet, I found the courage to say something. Something I felt because I realized that I have disrespected and treated you like dirt. Something I felt because I realized that I have not savored the heartwarming meals you cook. Something I felt because I realized that we would be happier, more peaceful had we not argued. Three words: I am sorry.

I am sorry for calling you by your name, without the titles “Mom”, “Mamá”, “Nanay”, and other words that convey politeness. You, Mom, showed me the value of being respectful to everyone, even to my enemies who would provoke me with their dagger-like curses and ironfisted punches. You, Mom, repeatedly advised me, “less talk, less mistake” - that saying resonated in my mind and kring! Like a church bell, it told my conscience to keep my composure and to avoid going against it.

I might have moved to a new school where those “non-gratas” are gone for good, but I have worn the hideous mask of bad manners wherever I go. I have learned to ruin someone’s day with just the F-word and badmouth against my professors in front of them, to you as well, even at the pettiest things – the dress needed for this day’s celebration, the to-buy things for school – and to the gravest ones as well – sarcastically making bad jokes to granny and yelling at daddy whenever he would video-call us. Whenever I would talk to him on Skype, I would treat him like someone who has forsaken his family. As if I’d forgotten that he dared to go abroad and sacrificed his safety, all so that I could go to school. I admit that I have forgotten your counsel, the counsel that has given me self-dignity and good character up to now.

I am also sorry, Mom, for refusing to eat the food you cook every day for my breakfast, school “baon,” and dinner. Instead of going home to rest and to take a few sips of your “plain-looking” tinola, I would seek refuge in fine-dining restaurants. Just because they had a more refreshing ambience and expensive baked salmon dishes. Just because they served my favorite dishes, which I presumed you could not emulate.

I remembered the time you even saved a thousand pesos in a span of months just to buy the ingredients for the cheesy à-la-Conti’s salmon I would constantly crave. On that day, I saw the pink belly of the fish, the slices of mozzarella cheese, the mint green oregano leaves, and the flavory garlic cloves on the dining table. Upon recognizing that you would be baking the salmon, I thought that I would taste trash and eventually vomit. So while you were putting the tray inside the preheated oven, I seized it from you, like a parent confiscating a child’s phone, and let it go from my hand. The poor, garnished fish and its condiments fell on the floor. When you saw the mess made and realized your failure of granting your son’s wish, you burst into tears. While I walked out of the kitchen, giving a nonchalant shrug, pretending that nothing happened.

I did not realize that not only had I squandered the money Dad worked hard for. But I had also underestimated your attempts in cooking those meals. I was blinded by the whim of dining outside just so that I could escape from dinner time and spare myself from the “disgustingly prepared” food. I failed to appreciate the essence of love spread on every viand, and the time it took for you to prepare even the bowl of sinigang I used to dread. The labor dedicated by Dad in the factory is similar to the effort you have given to every dish you cook. Now I see that even if what I eat is not exactly my favorite, I will still be given enough energy needed for the demands of school. And that is a sign that you still love me, despite the insolent attitude I show to you.

I am also sorry for not offering anything to you throughout those years of misunderstanding. The floral blouse you would search for in the annual ukay-ukay. The ruby, heart-shaped necklace you would see in the jewelry shop - oh, I forgot its name, at SM. Or even a small but heartfelt gift for your birthday. I think I have not paid my indebted gratitude to you. After all the unpaid, indispensable words of wisdom you have said and the countless number of dishes you have cooked for me, I think I do not deserve them anymore!

Even if I have already wasted most of the money dad remitted to us last month, I think there’s still a few pesos enough to buy a heart-shaped envelope. With that, I can put the letter I wrote inside. Yeah, you may say it may not satisfy your clothing wants. You may say it is just a cheap, ordinarily carved piece of paper. But I’m sure that its value is a lot more than the envelope itself, more than the most expensive set meal of a fine-dining restaurant. I can’t exactly describe it exactly, but it is enough to show you my true feelings and repair the damages of our relationship. After all, it is not too late to apologize and change for the better, right?

Mom, I wish you would not simply throw this in the trash can. May you please read every paragraph, every sentence, every word, with the respect you have taught and the love you have devoted to my meals.

Happy Valentines Day, Mama. I love you.

Sincerely,

Your son who promises to show courtesy to others

and appreciate the food you prepare

When I was a child, I marveled at people who could speak different languages. I once saw this thick book majestically displayed at the shop window of our local bookstore. I looked at it carefully and quietly read the words shown on the cover - The Future Polyglot. Ciao, ola, bonjour, namaste, hallo. Those words stuck to me as if they wanted to say something, even if I did not know what they really meant.

The next day, I urged my father to buy the book. I nagged on him, "Oh tata, I love that book, go the bookstore, and buy it pretty please... you see, I wanna see what's inside, there might be a new friend who I could talk to!" But with an air of adultlike cynicism, he scowled at me and even said that I was so foolish to yearn for something like that. He even barked, "It's gonna be useless for you, mijo, you won't be able to use that when you get old. I think you should stop dreaming of getting a stupid book that doesn't even make sense... ¡caray! Do something useful! Be a lawyer for the higher courts of our county! Grow up!"

I was crushed by his hurtful words. Just like a child whose dreams were shattered because of a single-minded parent who forced him to rot in this mundane, parochial reality. I stopped wishing for that book for the next years and pretended that it was just a whim.

When I was in fourth grade, I wasted my chance to be part of a special Interlingua course, which was given only to a few gifted students. When I was at middle and high school, I feigned distaste after my teacher suggested I take foreign language classes. The day before my college graduation from legal management, I declined an invitation from my professor. He invited me to come with him in a trip around Latin America so that we could refine my Spanish and learn unknown languages such as Quechua, Taino, Guaraní, and more. Instead, I put on a timorous face and said no, as if I was really scared of exploring new places and learning those languages.

But as I was walking home from law school yesterday, I came across the same local bookstore where I would go every weekend. And at an instant, flashbacks played through my head all at once. Hey, that was where I used to go as a child! Hey, that was where my favorite book was! I instantly forgot my responsibilities – the written-in-English-only tone about various constitutions, affidavits I need to review, tomorrow's mock trial about an immigrant Chicano versus a native New Yorker, and I stepped inside.

I was surprised that everything seemed different – It was not a bookstore anymore! Once again, I was a child, curious of everything he saw. I approached the owner and asked what happened to the bookstore. She said she decided to convert it to a library so that everyone, despite of social class, of nationality, of race, can read. She hopes everyone can realize that open-mindedness, not money, is the key to relishing books. After hearing her story, I was determined to look for the book.

I saw the book in an antique rack on top of a bookshelf, perhaps for the books on linguistics. This is your chance, come, and get the book! So I followed my inner voice and hugged it as if it was the mestizo-like doll I played with when I was young. I blew on the cover (literally) to remove the dust. Still the same title – The Future Polyglot. Ciao, ola, bonjour, namaste, hallo – still, looking as if they wanted to talk to me.

I started reading its introductory parts – its table of contents, preface, and other important stuff I should know. I found out that this book actually presented a spectrum of languages, from the widely-used ones in the world today to those almost extinct. This was exactly what I have yearned since childhood, and I felt like achieving a lifetime wish! I wanted to learn different languages because I wanted to gain awareness of the people around me, as well as their varying cultures. I wanted to learn different languages because I wanted to appreciate the world outside me and to tell my dad to stop thinking so rigidly in life – that everyone should not be of the same scope, that diversity does not lead to chaos but further understanding. And this book is going to turn my dreams into reality! Without a moment to lose, I began scanning the first part – the most popular languages.

Bienvenue. Oui, it's French. The language of romance, chic life, arts, the food I would usually eat at fine-dining restaurants, the immigrant Canadian classmate I met in seventh grade ... it makes me feel entitled!

Willkommen. Ja, it's German. The language of assertiveness, social gatherings, music, of those buoyant, hole-like symbols put in vowels, my athlete-friend from Munich since second grade... it makes me feel energized!

Huanying. Shi, it's Chinese. The language of commerce, divine horoscopes, Eastern philosophy, my businessman-professor from torts law class... it makes me feel astonished!

There are even languages for which one does not need to use his or her mouth to speak. With just simply playing with one's fingers, can use sign language and hear the voice of the disabled in no time.

On the next chapter were cognates – words which are common in various languages. Common, sí, but their rare meanings made me rue my mistakes in the past.

Hand. This word is used in Dutch, German, and Norwegian to refer to the organ one uses to do tasks which may seem commonplace but have a special purpose. Conveying gestures so that everyone, including the disabled, would understand one's efforts in expressing his or her beliefs. Writing sentences in different tongues so that one could be united in understanding ideas despite of language barriers. All those I could have done had I stayed true to my dreams and seized the opportunities gratuitously handed to me before.

Kanan. One can say he or she is taking the right path in life in the tongues of Indonesian, Malay, and Filipino. I felt I had lost my sense of direction when my father told me not to follow what my heart said. When I shied away from those opportunities that could have built my potential, I felt my course of action was wrong. My caprices of being the barrister of my barrio misguided me from what I really wanted.

Triste. In French, Italian, and Portuguese, it conveys the unhappiness as a result of one's failures and setbacks. My sorrow when my father dissuaded me from studying linguistics and becoming an international diplomat. The melancholy I had felt for years when I was ordered by my dad to pursue a legal-related career, just because it was a lot more practical than language.

I felt worst when I turned to the next page. It talked about unknown languages. Learning about them felt like the death of a friend who could have achieved a lot more in life.

"Eyak is a language native to Alaska that just became extinct. Mary Smith Jones was its last speaker. She decided to print a book that discussed the language; too bad, no one read it, and she did not succeed in preserving it."

"Andalusi Arabic was a language unique to Spain and Portugal. It was spoken by the Moors who were expelled from Granada in the late fifteenth-century. Too bad the Spaniards, after recovering their land, branded it as 'taboo', thus leading to its extinction."

"Livonian was a language spoken in Latvia. It is somehow related to Estonian. It was used as early as the post-medieval era. Too bad that its last native speaker met his demise a few years ago, and with him, his language."

My tears were probably enough to refill the lost waters of a river. I was devastated to find out that these languages had so much potential, yet they were taken for granted. Like a cadaver given an unceremonious burial, it became dead without being passed on to the next generations, without being publicly recognized by humanity. Maybe they could have been one of the most popular languages if people did not reject and treat them as gibberish.

But maybe, I thought, feeling my childlike imagination playing in my head once again, maybe we can revive them and prove the whole world that they deserve another chance. Maybe we can tell each person to cherish not just his or her language but also those spoken by the people around him or her. Maybe we can encourage everyone to develop a sense of love for all languages, whether Eyak, Mandarin, German, or even ASL!

All of a sudden, I received a text from my father. Where on earth have you been again? ¡Apúrate! Go home this instant! You have a mock trial a la mañana, remember?

Okay, tata, okay, I replied, trying to imitate his curt talking style. But I could not keep this book in the library – I need to borrow it and continue my research! Our current languages are at stake if I do not take action! So without hesitation, I asked the owner if I could take it home for a day or two. Then I marched off the building and thought of a plan.

When I get home, I shall show the book to my father. I shall announce that tomorrow l shall leave law school and become a polyglot. The polyglot who will find a way to revive those dead languages and bring them back to the lingual spectrum. The polyglot who will convince the people around the world to take care of their languages today. The polyglot who will tell his rigid father that one ought to break the walls surrounding him or her and embrace the beliefs of others.

Masarap maglaro ng mga palarong Pinoy

Araw-araw lumalabas ng bahay at oras ay lumilipas

'Di namamalayan na ang kanilang mga gawain

Ay nakaaambag sa pambansang suliranin

Sipa

Sipa ang pambansang laro

Na ang maliit na bola ay sinisipa't pinapalo

Sira-sira, gula-gulanit na ang kalagayan

Hala! Tuloy pa rin ang pangmamaltrato

Bang Sack

Bang Sack kailangan na magtago

Kung noo’y sistematiko, may proseso

Ngayon kahit hindi kasali’y nadadamay

Ayan! Maging mga inosente’y napapatay.

Patintero

Patinterong mga balakid ay kailangang malampasan

Para makamit ang kaunlaran

Kailangan marami ka pang daraanan

Kasabay ng maraming humaharang.

Agawan Base

Agawan base bantayan mo’t baka manakaw

Sa isang iglap lang base mo'y mawawala

Mga kasama mo’y unti-unting nangagsiwala

Ginamitan ng dahas at mga armas.

Tumbang Preso

Tumbang preso patumbahin mo

Kailangan mawala ang makapangyarihan

Na binabantayan ang kaban ng bayan.

Nakuha lang ang mataas na pwesto kinuha na ang kayamanan.

Ang mga larong Pinoy

Sa bata’y libangan

Subalit kung pakalilimiin

Estado ng Pilipinas ay masasalamin rin