My father will turn 85 on May 9. I expect him to get up before dawn, turn on the radio as he is wont to do and listen to the early morning blaring of raspy-voiced radio commentators preaching in the backwaters of Southern Leyte. This has been his wake-up ritual for as long as I can remember, since I was a kid still learning my ABCs.
He would also wryly comment about the pleasures and displeasures of birthdays. I imagine him relapsing to his usual complaints: “It’s a privilege to live on… but oh the burdens of creaking knees! Or an independently-willed systolic blood pressure and, not the least, the frustrations of dealing with the illusions of people 20 or 30 years younger than me.” He’s a natural-born philosopher with a deadpan tone.
But May 9 will also be a different birthdate for my father as this country turns its eyes on hundreds of desperate, trying-hard aspirants vying for various positions in this archipelago. The radio reports in Leyte that usually recount the latest parochial interests and bloody crimes in the Visayas would be more hyper than usual, and not surprisingly since May 9 is the day when the wet dreams of the Santiagos, Dutertes, Poes, Binays and Roxases, etcetera, would either break, collapse, dissipate, and—for the ultimate victor, come true.
I wrote ‘wet dreams’ since there is something pornographic about this year’s elections, or Philippine elections in general. And I don’t only mean the dirty old tricks, mud-slinging and cheap promises, but also the way both the voted and the voter went into town with their electoral choices and duties. In this long acidic phase of showmanship and persuasion, the trapos literally showed the back of their tongues. In Filipino we have a more apt expression: “Kita ang ngala-ngala.” How to translate that into King’s English? “Their tonsils are in full view”?
Fortunately only their tonsils are showing, not their brains; granted that the latter watery organ has not dried up in this summer of electoral madness. For the discerning voter, there is not much in the voting menu. As I mentioned in an earlier column: walang mapag-pilian. It’s a Sahara Desert out there when it comes to intelligent choice. Why go for fast-food when there is healthy cuisine? Our problem is that these wannabes are all fast-food choices. Okay, there are choices galore when one is frustrated. So, guys, vent our frustration.
Why not just scribble the name of waiter Allan Carreon? Not really a bad choice. Who wouldn’t want free Wi-Fi from Jolo to Batanes? At least he is being honest about his simplistic platform of deliverance for millions of Filipinos. Forget his bad choice of a CV summary as “Ambassador of Intergalactic Space”—the guy is simply truthful, and in my barometer of truthfulness I would rather be waited on by someone with a hint of absurdity than by a type of absurdity that is anchored on dishonesty. Or worse, the lack of integrity which is the middle name of most of the presidential wannabes.
Carreon bragged about aliens as his advisors. Credit him for having the temerity to admit that his choice of wisdom is way off the beaten track. There is nothing intrinsically wrong with that and I’m sure if we probe into his records we wouldn’t find skeletons of moneyed financiers, untaxed bank accounts, terminal diseases or stowed-away mistresses that grate on our collective moral, political and cultural inhibitions.
The problem with elections or a popularity contest is that we often project our dreams and expectations on wannabe candidates, while knowing all along how callous they are, and how their sense or lack of integrity often hits the rocky bottoms of the Marianas and Surigao Trenches. There is no redemption for such callousness in those unlit depths. I wouldn’t go as far as to vote for Carreon’s other rival who goes by the name of Archangel Lucifer. I have nothing against Lucifer, Lucy or Cifer, but I would draw the line when there is a malignant suggestion of a shameless, 18-karat poseur. But again, in our current menu all names are poseurs, albeit in various shades of luciferian gray.
Don’t we have the DoT slogan that “It’s more fun in the Philippines”? That’s advertising truthfulness, if you ask me and a rarity in these days of slick and skin-deep promotion, these halcyon days of twittering banality.
Don’t send Carreon back to Wendy’s. A long time ago when our islands was as disparate as the natural environment, the archetypes of Carreon were seen as shining beacons. Never mind if the beacons of light were shining out from the depths of their armpits. They possessed a built-in purpose. It is only in our cynical age and hyper-consuming societies that we distrust the absurd. And in the scale of unprogressive mutation the quirky archetypes such as Carreon may even prove to be much more benign than the least malignant Binay.
How I wish I can celebrate with my father on his birthday. I would ask him to switch off the radio and take a break from the static noise and madness of popularity contests. I would ask him to share his nuggets of wisdom, and we can turn our eyes to the distant peaks of mountain ranges cutting across Central Leyte. For all we know, perhaps the alien links of Carreon are beaming from those heights their benevolent and shining vibes on us, dwellers of this benighted archipelago.
It’s a comforting thought, much more comforting than dictatorial scenarios, of secret bank accounts and shady alliances.
Joel Vega is an award-winning poet who now lives in the Netherlands.