Segue A

pril 2011

What’s inside?

Like Mother like daughter / 2

Magkaparis / 4

A pen in your hand / 7

Behind her smile / 8

UP Panitikan Visuals / 10

and more...

I never felt a mother‘s love. Not even once did I get to experience the warm sensation of a mother‘s accepting hug nor did I get to hear her kind and compas-sionate words. It would be hypocritical of me to say that I didn‘t get

jealous of other kids when I see them run and cry to their moms because someone bul-lied them and then the mom goes rushing like

a superhero to defend them. I always wished that there would also be a mom that would praise my work even though it‘s obviously short of retarded, a mom who would tell me I‘m beautiful when oth-ers call me ugly, a mom who would cheer me up whenever I‘m in de-spair. But, you know,

as years pass by, you kind of get the hang of not having someone to call mommy. Not to get confused though, it‘s not that my mother abandoned me nor I‘m

just insensitive to feel her love—it‘s just that I didn‘t have a mother in the first place.

My mother died when I was just a baby. Many say that what she did was heroic but I said, especially while I was growing up, that she was just a selfish bitch wanting others accep-tance and recognition

‗til the very end of her short-lived existence and letting me survive alone, unwanted and miserable. But let us

not dwell on the past for my past is full of darkness and negativ-ities that it could engulf the flickering hope I have, the flickering hope that I hold upon

so dearly, the flickering ray of light that I now pass on.

You know, I really didn‘t believe in people who claim they had a near-death experience when they go on saying that towards the end of one‘s life, you replay your life in fast forward- that sort of thing hap-pens only in movies. But now I believe with full certainty that they were not kidding. In fact, when I felt the in-describable pain of my heart ceasing to bet, my systems failing and

the struggle to breathe my last and as the light was seemingly being sucked up by black-ness, I was transported to the that place where

memories came flood-ing me- and incredibly, only in that precise mo-ment, I began to real-ize, only in that mo-ment did I cry.

I wept for the very

first time, not for my-self, but for my mother. Like me, she also must have been shocked and depressed when she felt the appalling signs but

not having anyone to tell to. She must have felt helpless when she had fever that went on for weeks. When the blisters and lesions that

never healed slowly spread throughout his body, she might have wished death. She must have been terrified but she chose to prolong her agony for my sake.

I was lucky I didn‘t in-herit the disease, but I was equally foolish enough to contract it. But who am I to blame? Should I lay the burden on the fact that I didn‘t have a family to enlighten me? No. I was promiscuous. My mother was not. I just wish my daughter would forgive me for falling under the same faith as my mother.

I look at her now, beautiful, innocent. But have I given her the curse? I have no way of knowing. I only can ask for her forgiveness,

though she could not give it to me at this moment and I doubt if she could give it to me tomorrow. She might hate me like the way I despised my

mother. I would under-stand. I cast on you, my last wish, my only hope that your future be better though I could not be there to kiss, hug and guide you. I will commit

all the same mistakes of not being there and will cause you the same pain, bitterness or grudge that I felt for not having a mother—my apologies,

the least I can manage for you is do what my mother, your grandma, did for me. But for now, I depart. #

Like Mother Like Daughter by Dick Penisi

totoo ngang di biro maging ina

sa trabaho mo'y pa-god na nga

pag uwi, pamilya'y aalalahanin pa

minsan talaga parang ako'y suko na

ngunit pag narinig na

ang halakhak ng aking mapagmahal na mga anak

lahat ng pagod ay tila naglalaho

mistulang gumagaang ang dinadala ko

noon ay puro pagka-muhi ang nadarama

noong iniwan kami ng kanilang ama

hindi ko alam ang ak-ing gagawin

di alam kung paano ko sila bubuhayin

salamat at sadyang mabait ang langit

unti unti ay nawala

ang pait aming nairaos ang pang araw araw

at naging maayos na-man ang aming bu-hay

madalas nakakapa-god, madalas na-kakasawa

pero lahat ay kakaya-nin para sa pamilya

bagamat hindi biro

magtaguyod mag isa bawi na lahat makita lang ang ngiti nila #

Mula sa isang ina ni baliw na payaso

2

Working Mom by sir.bonsai

Ang kama'y mapang-akit

maputi't malambot hatid sayo'y pan-gako

'sang gabing ligaya 'lang oras ng pagli-

mot sandaling paglaya ng pagod na kata-wan #

Babae Isang likhang kapitapita-gan Ang likha‘y kapitapita-gan;

Isang obrang walang kapantay, Ang obra‘y walang ka-pantay. Tumikwas ang kanyang kamay, Sa marmol ay humaplos At ang malamig na ba-to‘y nabuhay;

Huminga, sumigaw, sa damdamin umaapaw, Ang konkretong dati ay patay. Isang kaluluwang maku-lay, Siyang nag-ihip ng kalu-luwang may kulay;

Pula, asul, luntian, dilaw Iba-ibang kulay sa kan-bas isinaboy Iba- ibang larawan, iba‘t ibang galaw. Makapigil-hininga, gan-yan siya; Makapigil-hininga ang

kanyang likhang pigura. Oh makabagong Eba, paano‘t ika‘y naging isang biyaya? Gawa‘y matayog bagkus kamay ay marikit. Likha‘y bantog subalit ang manlilikha'y nakaku-bli.

Babae Isang likhang kapitapita-gan Ang likha‘y kapitapita-gan; Isang obrang walang kapantay Ang obra‘y walang ka-pantay. #

Likha ni withtact

And she bit her lip, drawing aside her brush for the nth time.

The blank canvas stared at her.

Taunting me with its whollyness, she thought as she fiddled with her brush, tapping it against the range of colors mess-ily assorted beside her. It had been past four when she sat on this exact chair, looking at the same blasted thing and now it was almost seven and she hadn‘t even started any-thing yet.

It was just one of those ordinary days in the uni-versity where the sun was high, sweat was crawling underneath the blouse she wore and her arms were practically begging her to drop off the load of books she was carrying when she saw that lone piece of paper tacked on the bulletin board.

Her father was laugh-ing in disbelief when she said that she announced one night when they were having dinner that she would enter an art com-petition. Poking furiously on her potatoes and car-rots, she listened on how her father ranted about the ridiculousness of her idea and continued on his talking of his latest ex-

hibit. Yes, he was a painter. Yes, he was an absolute brilliant painter. And yes, she didn‘t inherit her fa-ther‘s prowess.

Sometimes she wondered if it was because of the Law of Dominance (a topic she had somehow begrudingly listened to on her Genetics class) that made her fa-ther‘s talent in arts reces-sive on her. Or maybe it was because she hadn‘t ex-erted any effort when mani-festing her ―works‖ into physical form.

On actuality, she knew Cubism, Art Nouveau, Sur-realism and all those fancy art movements that pul-sated the 19th and 20th century, what colors to use, the shapes and forms for-mulating in her mind, but when face in front of paper and pencil or with any art medium, she was as dumb as the class dunce.

Theory without prac-tice, her professor would say while shaking his head.

Maybe she wasn‘t as en-thusiastic as his father was when it came to arts, but she knew she had that in-nate passion inside her that was slowly growing each day, burning her with its igniting flame.

While she was taking a break from her futile jour-ney into finishing her art, somehow she had un-earthed some old sketchbooks of hers stored in their attic.

So many pages of lines, shapes and undefined color-ing that spoke so much of her childhood days. Some-times she drew of rain, peo-ple with undescribable faces, and her own menag-erie of the seven-year-old mind. The nostalgic feeling left a smile on her face as she traced each figure, each mark and mess that she made and this lifted the pile of self-pity she was carrying on her back.

All along, she knew how to draw after all.

The competition held an exhibit in lieu of the winners and the other contestants. And there, on the wall, was her masterpiece. A painting of a canvass with a girl sit-ting drawn on it, slowly creeping out of the frame upwards, exploding and blooming into a hundred of different colors and shapes.

―Out of the box‖ was the title.

It won 1st place. #

Awkward Steps to Picasso by Bart

3

She was unheard of She was invisible in her

own world She looked into the mir-

ror and saw not her-self

but someone society told her to be.

She was sad and no one

cared. She bore no scars or

bruises and left no footprint in

the sand

what was left of her was someone stripped of

any identity Who she was was disre-

garded what she did was forgot-

ten

who she should be is etched in stone

and what she should do is known by all

In time she would learn

to fight in time she would learn

to be there was not much she

could do just waiting and watch-

ing for the rule of

men to fall#

May dahilan Kung bakit ang kalika-

san Hindi ipinaris sa kung

kaninuman

Kundi sa isang babae, sa isang ina

Na pinakamalapit sa puso ng karamihan.

Kalikasan, tulad ng

isang mapagkalin-gang ina

ang siyang responsable sa ating hininga

Binibigyan tayong ba-hay

Gamit ang kahoy sa mga puno,

Binibigyan tayong pag-kain

Mula sa mga butong inihasik at namunga.

Kalikasan, tulad ng

isang babae Birhen na maituturing

hangga't Walang kamay na

pumipinsala Karaniwang walang

salita, sa mundong

pinagagalaw ng mga lalaki

Itinuturing na walang laban

Pagkat natural kuno rito ang magtimpi.

'Di mawari Ng utak na taglay

Bakit natin hinahayaan Sila'y unti-unting

mamatay Kulang ba kanilang pag

-aalaga?

At kung ito man ay tama, sapat ba ito upang

Pagkamatay nila'y Hindi natin ikabahala? 'Wag na sanang hin-

tayin pa Na tayo ang magdusa

dulot ng pagpapa-baya

Dahil kalikasa'y tulad ng isang babae o ina

Na kailangan rin ng pag-aaruga. #

Magkaparis ni Piniritong Gulay

Who was she? by ako-si-art

―In health there is free-dom. Health is the first

of all liberties.‖ - Henri Frederic Amiel

September 6, 2010

This is it. He‘s finally going to

tell his parents that I am his fiancée.

It is a dream come true. It is my happily

ever after finally becom-ing a reality.

Yet, it was hard. It was really hard not knowing how I will act. I grew up in a very liberal environment while he grew up with his strict

parents. And when I say strict – I mean, really

strict. They are very re-ligious in the sense they are really devoted to the goal of the church.

Turn to next page

Live and Let Live

by sweetdoll16

4

Live and let live From the previous

page

I, on the other hand, grew up with my mother. She was a pros-titute. I know it is shocking. However let‘s

all get real. People do anything for the sake of earning a living. I mean, not all of us is actually given the privilege to have what others call decent jobs. Not every-

one wants one too. I am aware of the fact that those who are employed in offices are no differ-ent from my mother. They also experience

the ills of the nation. They are affected whether they like it or not. I couldn‘t care less if you work in the dump-ster or not. All I care is that you are not one of those who give false promises during elec-tions of a better life. They do not really mean a better life for us. They are referring to them-selves.Well, that is a problem for me and him. His parents are loyal supporters of the current administration. And I am not. I have been in rallies for differ-

ent national issues while he just does what his parents tell him.

Additionally, they also hate laws that go against the teachings of

the church. Especially the RH Bill proposed a few years ago because they think that it legal-izes abortion and pro-motes the use of contra-

ceptives. I, on the other hand, believe that it is the choice of the woman

if she wants to use con-traceptives or not. In the case of my mother, she really needs to use contraceptives since she is a prostitute. It is for her protection from dis-

eases transmitted dur-ing the act of sex. Yet, not everyone under-stands that. Not every-one is capable of seeing the truth from another

perspective. They cannot seem to

understand that the Church cannot interfere with the decisions of the state. Even the constitu-tion says that the sepa-ration of the church and state is inviolable. They are among those who believe that the teach-ings of the church should be followed. They are performing their moral obligation without realizing that there is something much more important.

They do not know how hard it is to a

woman who lives in pov-erty. With a job that requires people to per-form acts that they think should be in pri-vate, the RH Bill is a chance that we want to have. I know it will take some time.

I can only hope that we will be able to find a way.

December 24, 2010

It is the day before Christmas.

It is exactly three

weeks since his family accepted our relation-ship.

I do not really know how we managed to do it. All I know is that I decided to stop being an activist in public. What I mean is that I no longer join rallies and various

movements for the pro-motion of the rights of the masses. I do not know why but I really regret doing so. I mean I should be happy since

his family finally ac-cepted me. But I am not.

It is like I am letting myself under their con-trol.

I really wish that this feeling will end.

March 19, 2011 Two weeks after my

wedding date. Two weeks after I de-

cided to end things with him.

It was awful. I could not let myself

be a slave to their rules that I do not believe in. I want to be with a per-son that respects me.

And he does not.

I could not let myself fall deeper into the trap where the rules of soci-

ety are binding me tighter to the rule of those who are in power. Those are those who know nothing of the real state of the society. I know better than that. I

realize that now. The argument we had

a month before our mar-riage was the breaking point. Yelling at me be-cause I want to use con-

traceptives was below the belt. It is not about religion! It is about pro-tecting me from dis-eases that I may have. It is about my health. It is not about the teach-ings of the church. It is about a woman who wants to live.

I guess I cannot have everything I ever wanted. However, I have always been an independent person. Who know what might happen?

I just might get my happily ever after some-

day. #

5

Dear Diary, World PMS Day ba

ngayon???? Oo, as in World Premenstrual Syndrome Day!!! Hay nako, para kasing wala na akong nakasalubong ni isang babae na nasa magandang mood ngayon.

Pagkagising ko sa umaga, tinalakan na ako ng inay ko. Bakit daw may virus ‗yung computer namin. Ako lang naman daw ang laro nang laro run.

Bakit daw masisira ‗yon kung hindi dahil sa‘ken.(Ah, tatlo nga pala kaming magkakapatid. Ako ang bunso at nag-iisang lalaki. At lahat

kaming magkakapatid gumagamit ng com-

puter na yon.) Gusto kong isigaw sa inay,

―Tanungin nyo si Ate, sya kahuli-hulihang gumamit nyan eh!!!‖ Pero wala, narindi na lang ako sa talak ng Inay. Lalo lang naman siyang magagalit kung sumagot pa ako. Kaya ang ginawa ko na lang, lumapit kay computer at tiningnan ang prob-lema. Napaisp ako, Sus, madali lang „to. Ipagawa ko na lang sa kaklase kong techie.

As usual, hinintay ko si Irene sa may LRT station. Aba, nang nakita ako...hindi ako pinansin! Habol naman

ako sa kanya at napan-sin ko na umiiyak sya. Bakit daw hindi ko sya tinext kagabi. Kung kailan daw nya ako kailangang-kailangan

tsaka ko naman daw siya iniwan sa ere. Mag

-break na lang daw kami kung hindi ko

lang din daw siya papa-halagahan. Sinubukan kong mag-explain na pagod na pagod ako kagabi dahil sa pag-gawa ng prototype ng thesis namin kaya na-katulog na ako agad...pero wala. Yung itsura nya, seryosong-seryoso at para bang sobra ko syang nasak-tan.

Yung classmate ko namang babae, galit na galit sa‘ken. Hindi ko raw ginawa ang part ko sa group report namin. Eh kasalanan ko bang madukutan ng flash

drive. Oo, pati flash drive...dinudukot na ngayon. Seryoso. Seryosooooo.

Siguro nga mag-kakaro‘n na ang inay

ko, si Irene at ang classmate ko. Hintayin

ko na lang na matapos na ang PMS nila. Mood

swings lang nila ‗yan. Sabi nang prof ko, may mood swings daw ta-laga ang mga babae pag magkakaro‘n na sila eh. Malas lang ng mga lalaki dahil kailan-gan nilang magtiis. Hay nako, talaga naman.

-Samuel

Samuel, Sira na „yun nang

ginamit ko!!! At ikaw ang gumamit no‟n bago ako no! Kaya wag mo

isisi sa‟ken ang nan-gyari sa computer!!!!

At nga pala, hindi to PMS. At si Inay, meno-pause na „yun.

-Ate #

World PMS Day

ni Calypso

After the release of grades for our third grading period, on our second-year in high school, I received mine, like all my classmates,

and went home, placed it on the top of the living room table, where my mom often sits when she does her office work.

Grades were usually written on white cards - one with boxes allocated for four grading periods per year, a space for comments from the ad-

viser, and the back space for the signature of the parent. That spe-cific grading period, the space for comments of my card was filled with

words that angered my mom.

“Your son‟s grades are fairly high, thanks to his exams and projects. But I am quite alarmed by

the shift in character your son showed, he now often spends the break times alone, away from his classmates. He rarely talks inside the

classrooms or during gatherings. I am won-dering if something,

perhaps, has happened at home that caused him to act this way. I would very much appre-ciate to talk to any par-ent if possible.”

Perhaps this comment

by my adviser caused my mom to wake me up at 11 in the evening, shouting things like: ―Who does you adviser think she is? Is she

blaming me?! Wait until I report her to the prin-cipal for accusing me of not raising my child well!”

Things did happen like

that; on the day I re-turned my card, I had my mom with me. She

stormed towards the principal‘s office and called for my adviser; I went to our classroom.

Mom: This teacher, Mr. Principal, accused me of not being able to

raise my child well. She blames me for the anti-social and dull character of the boy. Well, let me tell you, dear adviser, I have five children, all

studying, I have two jobs just to make sure that these children eat and have a home to

Turn to next page

Signature by Sulatkamay

6

Signature From the previous page

come to, I don‟t have the time nor the energy to bother myself with how my son acts to-wards his classmates, as long as his grades are high!

Adviser: Ma‟am, I was not trying to imply such ideas in my comment, I was only concerned for your child, he seems

very lonely every day, and his classmates told me that he was not like this before; he used to laugh and play with them after classes. This was until, they told me, the problem with you and your husband hap-pened. Your son seemed to have said this to one of his closest friends, and that you kept drink-ing at night. That is why I am concerned as his adviser; perhaps the environment at home is not good for the child.

Mom: My separation with my husband and how I cope with it have nothing to do with this, nor with your job! Your job is to make sure that my son‟s grades remain as high as they are! Now, if you please ex-cuse me, I don‟t have much time to spare for petty things like these, I have work, I have to feed my children, things you won‟t understand dear adviser!

My adviser returned to our classroom, and said

that my mom wanted to take me home right away. I took my bag and carried my books. I wanted to return the card to my teacher, but found out that my mom did not sign it, so I just walked away. My ad-viser then took the card from my hands, and signed her name at the back, she smiled hum-bly, and so did I.

If only that signature was actually supposed to be there. #

You hold a pen in your hand and let it waltz on empty sheets.

You could have liked to write something beauti-ful, something like a sugarcoated story to de-scribe the events in your life. Your hand leads the way, as thoughts attempt to pour into black and white; but you do a double-take, know-ing you would rather write truths, even though they are menac-

ing pieces, too hard to bear.

They think of you as a flimsy thing, akin to a scrawny kid forbidden to ride a bike. Because of

this, you are prohibited a lot of things. They gather everything for themselves, even the extremes, and leave nothing for you and your

kind. They are like the big bad bully in school, but the difference is that

they can do whatever they want, sometimes without punishment if ever they get caught. All of these are suppos-edly because you are the weaker species.

Yet they like your fragility. They project it romantically and lay flowers upon your feet. They write you down in fairy tales sitting on top

of the highest tower with golden hair; sleep-ing placidly amidst utter disarray and the pande-monium of time; as beautiful with blood-

painted lips, raven hair, winter-colored skin and gentle eyes, needing waking up—a kiss, that is it. That is what they think you need. But

even if you are a prin-cess put on top of

twenty mattresses and twenty feather beds, even when they seem to give you everything you need, you could feel there is something

wrong. You feel the tiny pea, lying underneath all the sheets. They think it should be insignifi-cant, what you deem is unjust, but you feel it is there, ever present and its mere existence both-ers you…and so you are restless. They serenade you with whimsical notes, draw you bril-liantly on canvas and

marvel at you at the wall, offer you whatever you want, except to be free and be whatever they are themselves. You are only a piece of the puzzle, used to

cover an empty space, not the entire picture that can stand still, even if one piece is missing.

Everybody looks

down upon you. Even members of your own

kind know their place and it should never be ambitious, not at the top of the game where the opposite species resides. You are a spectator,

watching the game from the stands; a member of the support team, whose words aim to up-lift the spirits of those who are there in the game, not your own. The field is never leveled enough.

You know these and you know more.

You hold a pen in your hand and you are capable of doing some-thing with it. You write what you know, for other people to know, what is missing or what they refuse to see. With

this pen, you know, you could cease to be seen as a feeble, hopeless thing. #

A pen in your hand

by Polaroid

7

As I stepped on the stage and had my hands on my diploma, I could-n‘t help but smile as I panned my eyes over the familiar faces before me—faces that made me who I am today. At the center were my batch mates who were grinning at me as if to say ―Congrats, you have successfully graduated from hell. Time to go to the next level!‖ on the sides were our ever-supportive parents,

teary-eyed with video cameras on their shak-ing hands, and upfront were our teachers and mentors, confidently smiling back at me.

Among the faculty mem-bers, the one with the warmest smile and the most assuring nod was from my favorite teacher.

Ma‘am TR, as we of-

ten call her, is not the usual favorite teacher with soft and silky long hair, friendly face and pleasant mood that for-gave us for not prepar-

ing our home works. On the contrary, she was initially feared by all stu-dents because of her strong personality and strictness when it comes to academics; but she became the most influ-ential teacher to our batch. She was our ad-viser, our mother and our best friend in our four years in high

school. I remember the first

time we met her—first meeting of Social Sci-ences 1. We got scared the moment she entered the room. A 55-year-old-teacher with wide-r i m m e d s q u a r e d glasses, high-pitched voice and white hair growing all over her head. Who wouldn‘t be terrified of the teacher that raised her brow so high every time a stu-dent interrupted her train of thoughts? Yes, we were hell scared of her not knowing how she would change our lives.

She did not have a family on her own. No husband, no kids. Just her career as a teacher and her 4 cats in her house. She had been

teaching at this school for 15 years and every year, she managed to create a new family. Even if she came too strict and strong on the first meeting, eventually

one would be comfort-able as soon as she flashed a smile after a sarcastic remark or a playful joke. She made sure she was respected

but not feared, be-friended but not abused.

She was the best ad-viser. When we were in our second year, we had her as our homeroom teacher. Of course, we were required to clean the whole room and our mini garden every morning. We were obliged to apply floor wax and polish the floor

every week. But never-theless, the sweat paid

off! We were awarded the cleanest room every month and she would treat us some ice cream afterwards. If some of us fails a subject, she made time to teach us extra lessons without anything in return!

She was a mother to all of us. When we were in third year, Ma‘am TR would always make sure we had our breakfast before going to class. For those who are hard-headed, she made sure they get punished. She would cut the hair of those boys who felt like

rock stars with their long and untidy hairdo while the girls who wore too bright or neon-colored undergarment get reprimanded. Those

caught loitering were sent to her office to en-joy an hour of sermon.

Who would ever for-get the time when she caught us cheating? She made the whole class

clean the whole student pavilion for one whole month. That stopped me from cheating, I must say! How about when she caught two of my

classmates at the mall during class hours? Trip to the library every after class to dust away and arrange the books was their sentence. These may sound tough, but they made us into better students and stronger individuals.

Personally, she was my best friend. She al-ways knew if I had prob-

lems or if something was bothering me, and

the best part was, she always knew what to say. There was a time when I was struggling with family problems, she sat with me through lunch and gave me ad-vices. Whenever I fought with my boy-friend, she was there to give us the ―logic‖ why couples fight. At the end of the day, she would always remind me that there will always be a place to run, and that place is God. She helped me get through life and made me better and stronger to face another

day. As I smiled for the

camera while holding my diploma, I could not help but wonder how life would be after high

school without the hope-ful faces of my class-mates, the support of my parents, without the reassuring faces of the teachers, without Ma‘am TR. My smile slowly

faded until I caught a glimpse of my favorite teacher behind the cam-era. There she was, beaming at me like a mom to her baby guid-

ing and giving her rea-sons to smile so she could look good in the picture. I looked at her warm and familiar face and truthful eyes, and I was assured that there was nothing to worry about. Truly, the world always looks brighter from behind the smile of my favorite teacher.#

Behind her

Smile by Patalipat

8

Look at her. Look at how her eyes spar-kle in the sun, dazzling in themselves. You become mesmerized. Listen to the pulchri-tude of her laughter—the warm feeling creeps up inside of you and suddenly, you know the meaning of sublime. Take her hands into yours. No-tice that even with the rough lines on them, you take comfort in the gentleness that you hold, something

that is able to give more than it should.

She is beautiful, is she not? One look and you are enchanted. To see her in pain would break your heart. But would damaging her be less tragic if she were any less beauti-ful, if her skin were any shade darker, if

she were not soft-skinned and pale? Is her beauty the only reason one should hesitate? Alas, that is not and should never be the case. Even if her hair was withered dreary and her skin dark as chocolate, it should always be wrong, the deepest form of mistake, to lay a hand that shall cause bruises on her skin, no matter what color it is.

It should always be wrong to force her to step out of her clothes, or even if she does so willingly at a cost, on a moonless night, in a dark, damp room where cheap curtains block it out from the rest of the world. It should al-ways be unbearable to cause her fear so in-

tense that she would give in to your caprice. Fear that would cer-tainly get her anxious in dark alleys at night. Fear that would keep

her mouth shut, screaming only in thoughts for if she ever did make a sound or try to refuse, you would lead the way to

her grave.

Draw her portraits, even with her clothes on. Think not about when they are off. Think instead of who

she is, the same as you, though differ-ent in many ways. Marvel at her beauty, but do not

ever force her to do some-t h i n g sh e would never want to. Blame her not for

what they do to her. Help remove the shackles that bind her to the dusky lurking

of a petrified world that is abused, but is left to feel scared and humiliated, as if eve-rything is its fault.

Do not let her turn into a faint-hearted one. That is not who she is. She is stronger than what you might think; but even so, let her recognize how ca-

pable she really is.

Her fears are the fears of many. Her tears not only one can shed. Her miffed state is the state of several others who have not yet experienced physi-cal cruelty in the hands of people like yours, but know so much about the pain,

the desolation of it all.

Look at her. Look at who she is right now. She is many things. She is many people. No matter

what the case, no matter what she looks like, never hurt her. For if you should, you would harm the rest of the world. #

She

by Polaroid

9

Joanne Michelle Lara

Chairperson

Michael Ryan Miranda Vice Chairperson

Maria Fatima Doce Publications Committee

Head

Francess Anne Yangyang Development and Membership

Committee Head

Ferozza Della Simbulan

Outreach and Finance Committee Head

Rayla Marie Recci Castillo Publications Committee

Assistant Head

Jeo Angelo Elamparo Development and Membership

Committee Assistant Head

Members:

Maureen Denice Alfonso Aubrey Nicole Arboleda

Priscilla Bacungan Johnry dela Cruz Xylona dela Cruz

Allana Ruth dela Peña

Yodhim Gudel Gepty dela Rosa Muhammad Muktadir Estrella

Dan Misael Gambe Jenina Ruth Juganas

Vivien Medidas Karen Christine Moroño

Maria Nelia Arianne Ong Thatcher Pancho

Kiveli Venz Paneda Pia Charis Pojas

Bryan Angelo Puerto Nomar Postre

Venus Marie Roxas Adrian Sampang

Jesse Nicole Santos Dennis Sirios

Romina Kara Sotto Catherine Tan

10

UP Panitikan AY 2010—2011