The then

how is one supposed to feel when you lose a beautiful memory? a friend and i have recently parted ideals and found out that our concept of time and waiting are very foreign to each other.

i have very little idea of the metamorphosis. a few exchanges of bitter words, and then giving up. i wasn't sure if i was the one who gave up. i always thought friendship is a very quaint liaison. but i never thought there could be an end of it. i feel like getting a wrench and pounding it on my head, maybe something good will come out of it, save whatever is left of the remains of what once was.

how is one supposed to feel when you lose a beautiful memory? unless somebody reminds you that you did lose it, it's never forgotten. is that the way it goes? or is it it's never even remembered?

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Maybe because of the Lozada factor?

I myself remembered a fundamental truth about courage. Which is that courage is not the absence of fear. It is the presence of fear, often a most crippling one, but a fear that is overcome by a heroic act of will, or by the recognition that one has no choice but to do what is right. That is what Rodolfo Lozada has done.
- Condrado De Quiros

When I was young, my father ran for councilor in a small town where our surname was a household name. My fondest memories are of those when we visit the "barrio" and it would seem like major celebrities just paid them a visit. During that certain election year, I vividly remember parading around our green beat-up Volkswagen and giving out candies and hand-printed flyers. My father had the slogan "Maka-Diyos, Maka-Tao" and it was cool for me back then because it rhymed with our family name. So I kept on shouting it when we do little political soirées at the town plaza.

My father didn't have stickers, large banners and fancy gimmicks. He rode the carabao and went house to house. We were almost certain he would win. My clan owned more than half of the land there, most people were indebted to my Lolo and Lola, and most of all, people liked him because he is sincere and hardworking. But then he lost.

There were talks of cheating, but my father accepted the defeat. He was told to run again in the next election, but he didn't. He never ran ever again. Years later, I would learn that the people my father expected to vote for him were bought by the other inept candidates for a measly P20.00. It was my first taste of how politics can be.

So I think I acquired an unconscious political phobia. In school, I disliked the mere mention of my name in class election nominations. I never voted for myself either. When I win, I sulk then I do a lousy job. I'm so weird. It's the notion that I won because somehow I cheated with having more friends in the classroom, or my mother donating the new curtains, or being the teacher's pet, or simply because most of the kids were afraid of me (I was a big girl afterall). It just stuck on my mind that winning in an election constitutes cheating and we eventually elect inept individuals.

I look at Jun Lozada now, with the people dragged in this controversy and the many controversies before that, and cannot help but to think if I'm right? And because I have too much time on my hands, I was able to watch the senate probe on Lozada's alleged kidnapping. I look at the pool of the senators and some of them ask funny, inappropriate, and almost stupid unrelated questions. I look at the slew of government officers being dragged in controversies one after the other, as if it was another day at the office. I wonder how many of our government officials actually do their work?

School days suddenly remembered. Did we vote for a certain person because he was a friend? He was good-looking? He was an award-winning actor? Paid us P500? Donated curtains?

Looking at the government that we have now, I ask a question: have we failed, then?

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