My LiteratureMarch 21, 2008 12:44 pm

One Day in a Call Center Office

One day, a gay friend related a Cherry-Gil Moment or in other words the taray moment he had with his boss few days ago. He said that his boss in the call center company he is working in told him to see him in his office.

This friend of mine followed his boss’ instruction and so he went in the room. Just as soon as his first foot got in the door, his boss yelled at him so loud saying: Putang Ina Mo! (Roughly in English is “Your Mother is a Bitch”). My friend replied calmly yet with shine and sparkles in his eyes and said:

Ang Ina ko ay hindi Puta, Mananahi Siya.

(My Mother is not a Bitch, She is a Seamstress.)

The underling went out and left his boss in static jaw and comical-looking shocked face.

And I conclude that iba talaga ang one-line, Patok!

My Literature 6:05 am

Did you know that Lent came from Old English word lencten and related to the Old High German word lenzin?

Lent means literally : the 40 weekdays from Ash Wednesday to Easter observed by the Roman Catholic

Provenance: m-w.com

This Lenten Season may we all take time to reflect on how near are we already from the Lord. May this time make us all remember how much the Lord Jesus has done to save me, you and all the people you know. Have a blessed Lenten.

Peace. 

My LiteratureMarch 20, 2008 9:00 am

Cooking My Dinner
By Denver E. Torres

Fuck!
Shit!
Why did you have to do that?!
Go to hell!

What the fuck?

Damn it!
I stepped back a little.

These parading anathemas
I shouted, scolding the
Escaping cooking oil globules from the heated pan.
The escapees were like envenomed spits from the sting bees
When they landed on my skin: electrocuted
My poor pores and done millions of continuous mini-pinches
To my skin. Some of my skin became swollen and red
Like the tocino I am frying.

The rebel oils seemed to have
Made fun of me, done foolery, 
Teased me more and added up to
The stressful day I had:
My Boss babbling bullshits inside my ears,
The Clients-Over-the-Phone who need a dictionary
For every word I say,
The terrific traffic taxing three hours of my already taxed day,
The pestering rain,
This oil,
Among others.

Oh, the day-long rain today meant that
My partially dry clothes from yesterday’s laundry
Will stench, like a rotten-egg, being denied of the right light
And from the hugs of the Sun.

Worst was that the doings of the rain mired
The virgin whiteness of my
I-saved-up-for-two-years-before-I-was-able-to-buy
Lacoste shoes.
My shoes now looked like a toiling carabao that just
Rested from the muddy farm.

And you, cooking oil! You seemed to have
Conspired with the other urban evils.
But your game and victory has ended already
As the cured pork cuts are now cooked.
And this, heated argument we have would finally end as well.

The viand’s starve-more smell insisted
That I leave my long day (stress) to the kitchen sink.
And so I ate my dinner, chewed the meat and rice like a King,
Took my time like a Queen and savored the tasty meal
Like a Commoner would, the meal that I have labored hard.

I burped.
And thanked God…
Smiled.
I went back to the kitchen sink
To wash the dishes
And along I flushed my day’s stress down the drain.

 

My LiteratureMarch 19, 2008 12:01 pm

I kiss my cheeks

Denver E. Torres


I cry in my shoulders.

I pat my own back

I hug myself.

I kiss my cheeks.

 

I do.


I love myself.

 

 

I have never felt unhappy

Since I started to

Meet with me,

Date with myself.

Court myself,

Say Yes to myself

And make love to

Myself .

My LiteratureMarch 18, 2008 1:09 pm

Dan Nogawa
By Denver Ejem Torres

I learn that Dan Nogawa
Drinks. He drinks
Beer. He tells me beer.

I say lucky beer
Bottles. They, the bottles
Kiss Dan’s ah
Lips. Ah, his Japanese lips
Remind me of their flag’s
Centerpiece.
His lips are like teasing cotton candies,
Supple and sweet, yet just not for me.
His lips are for the lucky girl or girls
But not to someone like me.

Even I am not a Hindu,
I will believe in Life Two.
And if I shall be reborn,
I like to be a bottle,
A beer bottle held
In neck or body.
Then given kisses
And more kisses
By Dan’s ah lips as he drinks my beer.

I will wishnot to be
His lucky girl or woman though
Because that is different.
I will kill my love if so I wish.

That love is no longer mine,
My love that is queer they term.
This love is almost similar
To the love they all commonly know.

The difference only is I love Dan
But he cannot love me.
His mother tells him so, yes.
She is a control freak, harsh and
Unfair and at all times mincing.
To some, like me, us.
Her name is Society.
She’s a stage mother.

My Contacts, Personal JournalMarch 17, 2008 4:25 pm

laxity is a sign of stressed individual

Glossie ReviewMarch 13, 2008 12:42 pm

This page is under construction. Please keep posted. Don’t loose hope. Alright? It will soon be filled. : )

My Literature 10:54 am

Carlo and Samantha
by Denver E. Torres

Carlo and Samantha have been together as lovers for four years now. The time they have been together is obvious in the way they hold each others hands and the way they look at each other’s eyes. The two look so sweet, as sweet as the red strawberry flavored lollipop Samantha is sucking. And the passers-by can’t help but drop a stare at the ant-inviting and beautiful couple.

Inside the University campus, under the shade of a gargantuan tree, they sit quite comfortably and relaxed while chatting and watching some guys play soccer from a few distance. Their lounging around seems to be the antithesis to the goings-on in the University. The teachers, like celebrities are on chase by their students, begging them for some academic mercy. On the other hand, the students are queuing up in the Finance Office tellers. Other students seem “parkouring” from one building to another to catch up with their concluding classes and to beat the semestral deadlines. Some are sitting down yet busy on pounding to their heads the lessons that they are told to come out in the exams. Yes. It is Friday, the last day of the regular school days and the Finals is to start on the following Monday.  

That afternoon, the 3 o’clock bell rings as sometimes the bell fails to when the controllers fall asleep; Samantha stands up and kisses Carlo a snappy kiss. She bids goodbye and hurry off to her classroom. Carlo on the other hand has to go to the Library to fetch some photocopied materials to study on for the exams. The parting is the usual stares of I-miss-you-already-baby. While on his way to the library, Carlo’s feels his phone vibrating in his pocket.

Before the 6 o’clock class ends, Samantha receives a text message from Carlo saying: we will dine together. See you in an hour at the benches in front of the University Chapel. Samantha excuses herself from the class and go outside to send a reply to Carlo’s message. The text says: Ok. See yah! Mwaaah!!! : )

By 8 o’clock the couple is done with their dinner. Carlo says that he has to go home early to finish up some projects for his major’s class. Chivalric and gentleman as ever, Carlo accompanies her girlfriend to her pad and to make sure she goes home safe. Carlo takes a ride back to Divisoria from Macasandig where Samantha’s pad is situated. Samantha is not from Cagayan de Oro but from Malaybalay Bukidnon while Carlo is an Iliganon.

While in the motorela going to his destination, he sends a message to someone listed in his Phonebook as Friend: Wer r u? Wer will we meet? My rate is P 1500. Deal? A reply comes a minute later. The text says: Ok. Deal. Just make sure that y0ur peNis s as BIG as y0uR r8. Go to Al Fresco Café here in DVsoria. I am wearing a green Lacoste shirt. C u! : )

It is 5 minutes past after Carlo enters the Café; he spots a man in late 30’s puffing a cigarette near the foyer. He is the only one wearing a green shirt. Carlo flashes a smile and approaches the fellow. “I am Carlo,” he says confidently. “I am Jake,” the excited man says. “You are tall and have a nice face as well. Do you play Basketball?,” Jake asks. Carlo replies with nods and smiles.

They talk for a couple of minutes and go out. Jake whistles a cab. He walks near the driver and discretely says: King Henry’s Inn? The driver nods to indicate yes. The cab disappears in the dim corner and the darkness of the night kept Carlo’s surreptitious business.

My LiteratureMarch 12, 2008 9:20 am

This is to acknowledge that parts of this essay were taken from Literature Network. It cannot be placed intext as the site refused such format.

My Literature 8:51 am

The poet, Emily Dickinson. This photo is from http://poetryfoundation.org/harriet/emily-dickinson.gif

Because I Could Not Stop for Death

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;                       
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labour, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then ’tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.
Literature Network » Emily Dickinson » Because I Could Not Stop for Death


http://www.online-literature.com/short.php/443?term=i%20could%20not%20stop%20for%20death&upsid=681203608777Forum

My Literature 8:50 am

Death in the eyes of Emily Dickinson by Denver E. Torres and Nguyen Van Dinh

In this paper, we will attempt to analyze Emily Dickinson’s poem entitled Because I Could Not Stop for Death using the Biographical perspective. We will proceed by giving general remarks on the poem and discuss each stanza.  The general sense and subject of the said poem that is to be revealed in the following paragraphs will be used to highlight the importance of Emily’s real life experiences that helped her write this poem and possibly all her poems. But the focus of our investigation is only on this poem.

 

Death, Immortality, centuries (Time) and eternity—these words found throughout the poem Because I Could Not Stop for Death are but perennially present both in theological and philosophical books. To talk about these matters is but requiring not only a mature mind but intelligent, deep and critical mind altogether. Also, in this work of Emily Dickinson, one can see her spiritual temerity; this poem hints us of Dickinson’s direct and indirect social milieus, her life’s experiences and mental construct.


 

More importantly, this poem reveals the poet’s pains. Palpably, the poem speaks much of the author’s view on death and mortality. Here, Dickinson shows both her recognition and reception of the transient existence of human thus including her brother, parents and some important people to her. And the poem itself serves as proof of that pain and poignancy she feels towards the inevitable death. 


 

The poem starts with a very dramatic entrance of Death riding a carriage. It paints a clear visual of three personalities riding a carriage: Death, I (the poem’s persona) and Immortality. The poem declares that the persona died and the person narrates his own afterlife experience. The first four lines introduce us to the next scenes to happen.


 

The second stanza is telling us that the carriage is trailing a way slowly. And for allowing the no-haste travel, the persona willfully set aside the two things: labour and leisure. In this stanza, the persona is ready to leave the place.


  

The third stanza is so powerful in setting the visual mood of the reader. The words lessons scarcely done and setting sun are strong allusions to human mortality. These pictures are affirmation of the sense of “end.” Thus, speaking further of the end of the persona’s existence.


 

The fourth stanza is a necessary follow up of the scenes we saw in the third stanza. This part of the poem is supplementary to the conviction of the persona that is all earthly things will have an end. Furthermore, this stanza imposes the persona’s conviction by pointing to the fact that even things with no life such as the “house” and “cornice” will meet their eventual end.


 

The last stanza is very effective both in style and language. The words Feels shorter than the day are but terse yet effective way of saying that the time is but not the time the persona used to know. It is a different time, a new dimension. Then, the persona sees the “horses’ heads” heading “toward eternity.” This fifth stanza ends the last and short, almost fleeting experience of the persona before eclipsing into the so called “eternity.”


 

From start to finish, the poem brings us to an experience that is extraordinary, even a private experience of how the persona’s existence ended. All parts of the poem are consistent that makes the poem powerful as we elucidated above.


 

The viewpoint of the persona is very much like of a person coming from a field of religion (theological) and or philosophy. With this, we declare that this poem is undeniably a work of Emily Dickinson. This experience of death or similar experience is evident in Dickinson’s life. Emily Dickinson is a witness to several deaths in their family. We quote from our source:


 

By the early 1870’s Emily’s ailing mother was confined to her bed and Emily and her sister cared for her. Around the time her father Edward died suddenly in 1874 she stopped going out in public though she still kept up her social contacts via correspondence, writing at her desk in her austere bedroom, and seemed to have enjoyed her solitude. She regularly tended the homestead’s gardens and loved to bake, and the neighborhood children sometimes visited her with their rambunctious games. In 1878 her friend Samuel Bowles died and another of her esteemed friends Charles Wadsworth died in 1882, the same year her mother succumbed to her lengthy illness. A year later her brother Austin’s son Gilbert died. Dickinson herself had been afflicted for some time with her own illness affecting the kidneys, Bright’s Disease, symptoms of which include chronic pain and edema, which may have contributed to her seclusion from the outside world.


 

With all this witnessing of death and departure, it is not a wonder that Dickinson develops a sense of acceptance, even embracing the factuality of death.


 

But the most notable and interesting thing in her poem is the viewpoint of the persona in it. The persona shows maturity in dealing with death, the poem shows no struggle. There is this sense of calm and quite acceptance of death both as an ordinance and reality. This is similarly a viewpoint of person coming from a religious family. True in fact, Emily Dickinson hails from a Calvinist family.


 

She was a deeply sensitive woman who questioned the puritanical background of her Calvinist family and soulfully explored her own spirituality, often in poignant, deeply personal poetry.


 

Apart from her religious family, she also studies in a seminary for several months. This shows that she is person who studies philosophy, sacraments, theology and other religious studies.


 

Dickinson proved to be a dazzling student and in 1847, though she was already somewhat of a ‘homebody’, at the age of seventeen Emily left for South Hadley, Massachusetts to attend the Mount Holyoke Female Seminary. She stayed there less than a year and some of the theories as to why she left are homesickness and poor health.


 We think that the Biographical Approach is a fitting tool in studying Emily Dickinson’s Because I Could Not Stop for Death. It is so as the poem’s subject (Death) is a familiar and repetitive experience in her life. Moreover, her studies at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary offer her mature and critical understanding of death.

My LiteratureMarch 10, 2008 11:03 am

Why I Write?
Denver E. Torres

“In short, I began to write in order to get even on death. I have continued to write for many reasons. A long time ago I said I write because it is the only way I am willing to survive. Mainly, though, I write because I want to.”
                                      -from Why I Write? by William Saroyan

Unlike the Pulitzer Prize winner, William Saroyan, I began to write because as a child I was like a prisoner similar to a man in a house arrest. I was told by my father to hate things and people especially his brothers and sisters whom he had some umbrage because of a sibling disagreement which I do not have any idea on what about and when it really started. That being his imposition, it meant that I should not go out and play outside our house. That I should not because I will be playing with my cousins and to him that was not appropriate. And so, I played with my memory and imagination instead.

I was forced to go back to the very few moments and experiences of happiness (such as playing with other kids) that I was able to taste from playing with my schoolmates during the lunchbreak at school. I have some few moments as well with my neighbor-kids and cousins as well. Yes, I did, despite the explicit decree of Papa. Sometimes, I would sneak out from our house-cell when he was at work. But it would be a less-than-an-hour bliss as my yaya (nanny) would look for me. Yaya would drag me back home pinching-hooking her fingers into my ears so I could not escape. I understand her being a warden to me though as she would repetitively say that my father would fire her if I did not obey.

And so I started writing instead. The restrictions I have had forced me to leave the house not by really, physically stepping outside anymore but by imagining, accessing the past memories, observing from the door or window the kids playing the patentero or tumba lata or the dakop-dakop or the bulan-bulan and listening intently to what my Mama and Papa talk or argue about at the dinner table. I want to keep them as they are few and unique. I have to write them down or write about them. This process of treasuring, remembering, recording moments of memory became my habit. Later on, it became my happiness. There is pleasure I cannot even explain but it is there when I am doing such process. And I feel so alive. It makes me want to go on.

The glee is special really. When I was young, I am happy when I receive pasalubong (bring home gifts) from Mama or Papa or when Lola or Lolo gives me P 500 pesos cash. But later, I realized that I was more pleased when I wrote about my fear or inhibitions in the classroom and to speaking to my Crushes like Alfred or Ryan in the grade school.

And as of this writing, I can distinguish more clearly what makes me happier. I am happiest when I write as when I do so, I feel a sense of magic different really from the jollity I get when cooking pasta or hosting a small party for my friends. I am more elated by it more than the aroma of coffee. In fact, fucking does not equal the pleasure I get from it.

The years of living alone made me realized further that the world is sad. This world we live in is full of sadness. And happiness, I came to know is but momentary and fleeting as a bubble vanishing in the thin air, very limited especially to gays like me. Happiness is a state that we cannot really be on all the time. It comes and goes like the rain and like the rain it follows the natural fate on when to come and when to go. It is beyond the control of any human hands.

But with writing, it seems that I have the control over happiness. So when the twinges start to crawl from my stomach to my heart and penetrate my soul and finally make me gloomy, I write, write and write. Writing is like an Ibuprofen that eats out the invisible pain. I shall tell you as well that this essay is a son of pain. Writing makes me blissful and gives me a certain peace that cannot be found in my routines. And its produces are joys that take away any sadness. In fact, many people, known writers or not, take refuge in the act of writing, after death or a great tribulation they write to whisk away that great sadness just what Elie Wiesel or Anne Frank did. Writing is the way to coping, surviving, living, and being inspired again, being happy.

I thank God so much for introducing me my non-corporal lover that is Writing and thus, I have never been fully sad and alone since.  

Fashion, Personal JournalMarch 8, 2008 5:00 pm

I am gonna shoot whoever would say that he is not cute, hot and oh so everything..so please don’t tell me really if u still love to breath…okay? heheehehheheh…just kidding..i am so super crazy over hime…JP!!!!!

Fashion, Personal Journal 4:43 pm

Ohmygooossssshhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!! thanx to Joanna, my dear writer and lucky-girl-for-having-him friend…My Man is J.P. Calderon…Good thing this freind of mine is watching a Janice Dickinson’s show and so she spotted J.P. She delivered the juiciest news just 8 hours past..Whew! I am soooooppaaaahh happeeeeeeeee… am gonna dream of JP.hehehhehehehe. not the one ur thinking…he will be riding a horse and gonna rescue me..the Damselita in Distress…lol

My LiteratureMarch 6, 2008 1:06 pm

The Calendar behind the Door
by Denver E. Torres

 

When do I go to school, Mother? I asked her this before.
She said to me: If all the calendars in the house
Be replaced twice, Son.

Together Time and I played, waited. Learned even.
I am now graduating from grade school.
Also, I have seen my big bro lit-and-thrown firecrackers
With his close friends for many times.
I also realized that there were many times already
That my playmates and I Lit-and-thrown and danced
With the Dancing Firecrackers.
—The seasons of replacing and renewing calendars.

However, the calendar behind our main door stayed.
It has the image of a woman that has some light in her backdrop—
Not the type of light that comes from a fire, nor from
Father’s flashlight. There is a light light.
One that is friendly to the eyes.

Her eyes have some tears. The tears in her eyes are still,
Motionless as if her eyes are fated to cry perpetually.
She has a fair and white skin but not as white as my milk.
The whiteness has none to compare to.
Different really from the skin of my teachers, mother and
All woman neighbors.

Who is she? I asked in silence. I answered myself:
Ah! She’s Grandmother when she was younger?
Perhaps, she’s my auntie that is now living in America?
Is she my Mother’s relative, our relative?

But.

She is not in the albums found under the center table
In our sala. And Mother’s skin color is like my one-peso-worth
Milk Choco lollipop, also like the sugarcoated peanut I buy from
Mrs. Mila, the one-legged vendor selling candies and others
In front of my school’s gate.
I have not seen that Lady in the Calendar visit our house yet.

Who is this Lady in the Calendar posted behind our main door?
Why is that calendar not replaced while others
Were long thrown away to the garbage bin?

My LiteratureMarch 5, 2008 10:59 am

What does the rain bring?
by Denver E. Torres

When it rains, cold wind it
Brings.

Outside, in the sub-urb streets, children are
Merrymaking.

Inside our house, Grandpa’s hands are
Aching.

My Literature 7:08 am

Cherry Milley
by Denver E. Torres

Little Cherry, why wear a sad face?
Are you headed to what place?
You are donned with a happy dress!
        The little girl replies:

Mother is again in wedding dress!

My LiteratureMarch 4, 2008 1:04 pm


Makati by Denver Ejem Torres

Resign Now! Step down Evil! Moderate Your Greed! These imperatives are the loud cries of their banners. The people are in fervor; their conviction is strong that the President of the Republic be ousted.

They have arrived in Makati. All the groups coming from several points converge in lights-clad streets of the city. There are about 5, 000 of them. As they settle in the heart of the city, the same weary voices, the same concern, same conviction, same cries are uttered. The protesters are thirsty for truth and tired of trusting. Their fatigued faces tell that.

The din of their cries is not to be restrained by the thick glass walls of the Makati edifices — the commercial buildings and high-rise condominiums. The cries of the poor are everywhere, they are in the streets, floating in the air, and in the televisions, penetrating all, everything, and everyone except the calloused souls of the powers-that-be who cheer and feast on a hearty meal at the Palace-made-by-the-Poor. The protesters’ cries are to them just the sound of the irritating toads in the Pasig River banks during rainy days.

Mike presses lightly the red button of the remote control. The red pilot light blinks twice, then the screen from black flashes a million of mosquito-looking pixels flying to and fro, trapped in a tube, then the images are now clear. Mike scans the television with annoyance. The channels look all the same—Makati and the protesters, banners and bellows. He is tired of gadding from one channel to another and see all a monotony. He turns off the TV. He is pissed off by the sameness of events in the past 10 years since he transferred to his unit. He wears his headset, Then, Neyo. “I’m so over being blue Cryin’ over you And I’m so sick of love songs …” He bobs his head as the song progresses then smirks and the annoyance is gone like a bubble, now hearing only two: peace and the playlist of his favorite songs.    

My LiteratureMarch 3, 2008 10:13 am

Life behind the Door
Denver Ejem Torres

When I was a kid, our family lived in a shanty that had a door exactly like the pigpen’s door. The door’s design looked like the door of father’s hen house as well. The difference only was its dimensions. It has an alternate of wood and space and two braces on both ends. And I hated that door for it stole my blanket. Mother said that my blanket has to be used to cover the door as its design made us so accessible. In that case, she said that passers-by would not be able to see us.

And the door that stole my blanket became my friend later on when I had to hide behind it when the kids in the neighborhood bullied me. It became my surrogate Big Brother (he died before he was able to cry his first uha) and defended me from the naughty kids who want to take away the marbles that mother gave me as her gift. She said it was my balato. She would give me marbles when she went home the winner from whole day of playing cards at Lolit’s place that was three houses away from ours. It comforted me as well when my parents were in skirmish. I was assured when I hid behind it. I felt a certain peace when I am behind the door, away from the sight of everyone including my parents’.

Even the door was ugly, ordinary and mute I knew it wanted to say hi, and to befriend me. We had become friends; I wrote in his hard body using my crayons, I sat in front of it while watching my neighbors do their life. I even ate behind the door. I felt happy with the door and we were instant bosom buddies. Although it did not say a word and shared stories the way I did, still I told him my stories by writing them in its body. I loved that door as I loved my marbles. I missed that door as I missed the girl who smiled at me whenever she passed by our house. I missed the door of our house in the slum area where I once lived.

There were many changes since we left except that I still cannot walk.

My Contacts 9:34 am

I am Denver E. Torres the author of this blog. I hope that you like the contents of my blog. If you do or even you do not like what I am saying, write it, say your comment and be creative.

Just follow the format: Say I LOVE Denver Torres and send in a picture of you with that message. Be creative. After all, this is all about EXPRESSION. If you like what I say then you LOVE meh…right? emoticonLet us all love each other guys.

You may wish to email me at den_carlosmd@yahoo.com.

Or text me up: Mobile is +63 927 362 0515

Or send a letter or a gift? :) to my home address: Door 89 E, Dolores Apartments, 88 Fernandez Street, Cagayan de Oro City 9000, Philippines

My Literature 8:58 am

 

When I read an essay by Ms. Arlene J. Yandug, the editor of the Kinaadman Journal, about F. Sionil Jose, I saw the name Shirley Geoklin-Lim. Since then, I did not stop reading all the written articles about her from the Internet. I multi-task in my office, reading write ups about her and attending to my Clients online. I am studying her because I am proud of her. I know I will learn many things from her by reading what people say about her and her works.

My Literature 8:43 am

My Literature 8:15 am

Courtesy of Google Images, Men toiling in the road

Why do men tend to speak less than women?
By Denver Ejem Torres

 

IN THE FRIENDLY BENCHES along the Xavier University’s main entrance I remember those times when my girl friends and I chitchatted on everything—trends, fashion, latest cover girls, cosmetics, Prada, Gucci, Kidman, J.Lo and boys, men among others. Yes. Boys or men or males are practically the main dishes in gals and gays Roundtable. We talk about them in every detail of their existence. We constantly pose questions on why they are like this and that. And even talk trivialities like how disarming their smiles are. These discussions are so much of an excitement to us.

And among the many things we simply talk about is the what-appears-to-be a regional perception, if not national that men are laconic. They tend to speak like the old Spartans, terse. More pressingly, we should ask, is this perception true? If yes or agreeable, on what context or setting do they speak less?

In actuality, sad to say during those afternoons of chitchats the things I mention here are not tackled, maybe because they are too serious a talk for a siesta time of the day. But I was gung-ho about it and probed for satiating answers. Hopefully, my findings below will help us on answering our questions on men, particularly: why do men tend to speak less than women?

The validity and truthfulness of the said perception on men being the less talking gender can be answered through the concept of gender difference. Michael S. Kimmel, author of The Gendered Society said:

We can readily observe difference between women and men in rates of aggression, physical strength, math and verbal achievement, caring and nurturing, or emotional expressiveness; it is not also true that all males and no females are aggressive, physically strong and adept at Math and Science, or that all females and no males are caring and nurturing, verbally adept, or emotionally expressive.

Therefore, the said perception on men arises from the statistics or the number of men who speak less. The best questions that stem out are: how many men speak less? Do they outnumber the talkative men? But we are not here to address this statistical issue but instead just to explain some aspects of such perception common among us. (I hope you agree.)

Differences in men’s and women’s speech are overt and covert displays of gender.

Nancy Bonvillain, author of the book Women and Men Cultural Constructs of Gender said that. That line is supported by Kimmel who maintained that there is “differential socialization” thus we are not born different but raised or nurtured differently—masculinity and femininity.

But then again, Kimmel’s and Bonvillain’s ideas lead us to asking: Why so? Are they told to do so? Or is talking terse men’s biological construct.

Nay, men’s terse speech style is never biological; instead they are told to do so. The act of telling men to speak less may take place consciously or unconsciously, overtly or covertly. And most of the time the social practice to tell men not to be verbose will likely take place during their childhood. It happens first at home then outside. They learn it in other words.

Some cultures, like our own (referring to Western), encourage men to be stoic and to prove their masculinity.

Indeed same applies to the Filipino culture also, our culture encourages men to be masculine and among the supposed features of masculinity to Philippine culture is being less madaldal or not talking much. To Filipinos, the less you talk the more man you become.

That is how boys, men or males are raised. Hence, they adopt and act it out. Their practice of such a social requirement becomes a skill later on as they grow into adults said Ermin Stan Pimentel of XU Kristohanong Katilingban sa Pagpakabana-Social Involvement Program. He further said in an interview,

Filipino men are taught not to be talkative, not to be ostensive in talking.

It then implies that to compliment women being loquacious and vociferous men should be the otherwise. He illustrated this idea by citing the common classroom scenario in the Philippines. 

In Philippine classrooms, especially in the elementary, a teacher would often scold the boy pupil if he talks profusely especially when his opinion or answers are not asked. The teacher would commonly say, “Juan you are like Juana you talk a lot.”

Taking this particular scene, the boy child experiences humiliation and this certain feeling of shame would push the child to avoid such circumstances again by keeping his wits within him. Thus, since a child is unable to reconcile the right and wrong according to Developmental Psychology, he follows this and makes this as correct, valid and acceptable. Pimentel also pointed out that in a way men are socially abused, in terms of linguistic freedom at least.

Nancy Bonvillain supports this idea and said in her book

Children learn what is appropriate by observation of adults and overt instructions and practice of skills they will assume as adult women and men. They learn whether man or woman have equal rights to speak…to make decision. 

So, to know where this speaking-less attitude of men originates from can be traced from the familial practices that of course came from social customs. At home, in Filipino setup, men represented as fathers/heads of the family are silent and would leave the feuding siblings to mothers/women’s hands. He/Man wants his wife to talk to their children for them to stop their quarrellings. (Usually, when father interferes he does not talk, he spanks. This is later on imitated by the son.) On a more magnified discussion, such talking terse tradition is a generational legacy. And there is a continuum of this social custom so long as society permits.

Another scene where men display their being of few words is cited in Elizabeth Fishel’s book, The Men In Our Lives:

My father showed me his father’s picture as a young man, wanting me to remember him that way: dapper a debonair on a boardwalk in Atlantic City, flushed with possibilities had led where he hoped. A child of three, awed and puzzled by his silence, I circled round him and murmured to myself, “Not a word, not a word.”

This scene only proves that men do not necessarily employ words or many words to tell things and make a point. They have become effective and better when they stay quite, silent and of less words. Maybe to some degrees their being of few words is the reason why in the first place they are mysterious, at least to gays and girls.

In addition, men talking less can be explained by their economic roles.

Gender categorization may have begun in concert with an economic division of labor (Leibowitz, 1975, 1983).

Women represented by mothers belong to the world of home and fathers belong to the world of work. In a workplace, workers are expected to be productive and talking for no reason related to their work is considered a waste of time. Here, as Dr. Jane Gallamaso, former chair of the Philosophy Department, Xavier University would put it:

Men function in mathematical and objective ways. Therefore, they are concise and brief.

Moreover, men speak less because of cultural requirements and restraints. Bonvillain said, every culture has what we call social constructs of gender.

These (referring to the social constructs) are transmitted in daily interaction between men and women in their families, local communities and wider social arena. Rights to make decisions, to speak and to participate in activities are manifestations of cultural valuations allocated to people. 

To put it straight, it just so happen that our culture (Filipino) designates men to be less talking.

Speech styles employed by women and men are also often distinct. These may consist of variations in pronunciations and choice of vocabulary or grammatical constructions. Features of non-verbal communication such as gesture, smiling, eye contact, and touch may be differentially employed.

Like in most cases, if men are confronted with the question, “How are you?” the common retort is “I’m fine.” He answers this way even if he necessarily is not fine. This only shows that men are unconsciously staying away from long and lengthy conversations. The “I’m okay” line is the best statement to put everything into conclusion. Or if he stays, he’ll just listen and replies with smiles and nods most of the time. On this note, this scene is actually relative.

It is imperative to believe then that men who speak less are just conformists to their respective social standards. And to maintain their social value, men practice it in almost every aspect of their existence (in conversation, relationship, work, school, and even in gimmicks/past times, on these times they drink and smoke whereas women on the other hand can spend hours and hours of pure talking).

 

NEXT TIME around when you encounter men, try to understand that they are skilled to be not talking much. So girls, if your beau does not talk a lot, don’t nag him and piss him off with your “you-are-not-interested-with-me-anymore” lines, because it is necessarily not. It is just how he talks, terse.

(This essay is a course requirement for English 61: Language in Culture at Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan under Arlene J. Yandug, an Associate Professor. Ms Yandug is a faculty member of the Department English Language & Literature-DELL and the newly installed Editor for the internationally distributed/known Kinaadman Journal.)

Fashion, Personal JournalMarch 2, 2008 11:24 am

My Literature 11:10 am

My Literature 10:42 am

How to kill a Lit Major
By Denver E. Torres

 

 

(For Danilo Gualberto)

 

 

This semester,


 I die every other day, except the two tail-end days,
For about eight hours.
My teacher energetically gives his lecture,
To my ears it’s a eulogy of my in-comatose cells.
He does not know
I am as lifeless as the uncomplaining hard wooden stool
I am sitting on. He talks about the fathers-of-this-and-that,
The long dead people who lives only in his laboratory

And biased books.


 In the nude cabinets behind him,
The fishes and frogs flaunting what-they-have-inside,
Proud as the teacher are dying for my attention.
I, on the other hand
Like in funeral mode, silent and still,
Lamenting without tears for my wasted time.

Yet, I manage faking the interest with my senseless nods.


 

Moments of biting pencils, moments of mimicking Ninoy


 Then, like the sound of hundred beakers
Falling into the floor,
Cascading down like the waters of Catanico.
My Biology class is done. My face turns yellow and round
As the Petri dish.
I am alive again
Only to die in my next class: Chemistry.

My Literature 10:41 am

His legs were opened wide

By Denver E. Torres

 

 

His legs were opened wide

Like the eagle’s wings.

His pants, jeans, not so fit, that

Gave just a slight hint of what’s behind it.

But the bulge in the middle of the zipper

Seemingly angry that the zipper almost broke.

 

The mists of the noontime were coming out

Of his tan skin, yes, that’s the hue of his biological dress.

While his hanky and shirt, pants, and brief too drank all his mist.

 

His right leg, like a bothered child who broke a vase, also

Like a ball in motion, bouncing restlessly. Unceasing,

The said leg mechanically produced profuse sweat.

 

 

Then, his right leg stopped as the horde of passengers had to

Occupy the two ten-seater cushioned seats.

 

 

My Literature 10:39 am

I met Miguel last May of 2005
By Denver E. Torres

 

(To my amusing gay friends: Dennis Almazan and Ronnie Demetrio and to all gays)

 

I met Miguel last May of 2005
When he kindly picked up my runaway coin
That, in pesos was five.
He said hi! He smiled while extending the coin back to me.
And I said “Why?”
He did not reply and just smiled more.
In my mind, I said, “This bee,
Handsome, hot and adorable for sure wanted
To sting my other heart, my feminine heart!
Or Suck the honey
From my breast which I do not have much.
I said scornfully and secretly, “Go away!
You bee that does not z”
But what can I do?
He looked so hot, not volcanic that you would want to
Do away with but like a hot spring that entices,
Invites a cuddle, a swim-bath.
He looked like the Hollywood hunk Josh Hartnett.
(Minus the Caucasian Complexion of course)
Next thing was my cordial smile.
Next were things that you know but I must not tell.
You can ask our Beds though
I rated him 10 over 10. I gave him 100 points
For all his physical qualities. But after few days
I found out that his feet stunk and smelled
Like the Bitan-ag Creek.
When we kissed I found out that he had
A sardine-smelling breath.
From then on, I have minus-ed around 75 points
Because of many reasons, I will not write them
Here. I will not for ethical reasons. My friends
Said that “Do not kiss and tell—
It all.”
I heard what brought us together was love.
He said to me:
I love you.
My friends said we are in love, lovers.
I said, perhaps. What was love, by the way?
Was it being happy with Miguel? Yes, I was happy.
After two years and five days of happiness or love?
We are here inside this Sacred House.
The priest was delighted and excited to wed. Us
And many guests were all there.
When the wedding was done, they were told to kiss.
They kissed, and
They all clapped to cheer. And, I, had to when Miguel
Looked at me fleetingly. He winked at me and I smiled,
My jejune smile
I was sure assured him I was fine.
Then, the white and ribboned car left, away from me.
Going to somewhere away from me,
Their leaving was called honeymoon.
 

My Literature 10:38 am

Soccer

By Denver E. Torres


 Under that free floating yellow
Ball they call sun (as if tossed by
someone to perpetually stay up there),  
I wonder what happiness
There is when you kick
A ball to and fro from one

Side to the other?


 What goal there is other
Than sweating, burning calories —
Synonymous to living a
Healthy lifestyle,
The magazines say so —
Burning calories:

Today’s universal attitude?


 

I do not get it. Or I refuse to?


 Are they just using their feet?
Because they can use it?
(Is that question sensible?)
Is that game today’s fad,
Influenced by Media, the Television,
the Stars?

 Is Beckham a sort of Father,
Founder (whatever they call it)
of that Game? Why is that name

patched on every player’s shirt?


 Where does their liking
In kicking, tossing balls using feet

Come from? (Youthfulness? Perhaps!)


 From this wheelchair, I watch, sneer,
Ask, answer myself, ask, then
Watch, watch, scorn, scorn
Then shut off my sliding window,
leaving myself
In this now darkened room.

My Literature 10:36 am

Chairs
By Denver E. Torres

Cobonpue’s chair sitting in the cover page of the Architectural Digest was an eye-candy to Mila. She spotted that mag in a transparent cellophane with bold print, NATIONAL BOOKSTORE, in a fifty-something man’s grip that was wearing a Taghuer. Mila followed with her eyes that transparent bag as the man exited the store. 
 

Opposite the store where Mila was working was Our Home, a lifestyle shop; near its entrance was a large square glass panel with a mauve colored sofa sitting pretty behind it. Looking at the soft chair, Mila exclaimed secretly, “I would buy one, one day! I promise,” in a half-sad, half hopeful voice. Her sadness was caused mainly by the fact that the price of the gorgeous chair was her total annual salary. But the hope of owning a lovely chair was still there.
 

Then Marga’s voice, half-shouting from the counter was like a radio’s volume zero, one, two, three and became audible to Mila. Mila! Mila! Mila’s supervisor called her out with a sense of urgency and mild wariness. Marga wordlessly pointed a stout lady.

Dismissing her daydreams into the air, she was more conscious now of her tired feet and legs. It was the tail end of her shift. She will be off in an hour after seven hours of standing, assisting, and welcoming the walk-in customers. She went to the lady customer that Marga pointed. She wore the sweet-for-customer smile and said, Yes, Ma’am. How may I assist you? The stout lady asked immediately, “Do you have a size five and a half of this?”