Friday, July 30, 2004
Amidst cleaning out my inbox, I came across an essay I wrote about an old friend. I wonder how things would have turned out if she was still around.
Kristine’s swing
If you happen to pass by a street called Sampaguita in Mandaluyong, please give it a kiss for me. That was where I spent a most memorable childhood.
Our old neighborhood in Mandaluyong was anything but posh, a big contrast to the village to which we transferred when I was 9. In spite of that, I loved everything about that neighborhood. Perhaps it was the only place where I truly felt at home.
Whenever I think of our well-manicured village, where houses are surrounded by walls built twenty feet high, ensuring everyone keeps to themselves, I look back on my days in Sampaguita with much longing. See, our old neighborhood was like one big family. There, everyone knew everyone. We all knew each other’s names down to the children, the yayas, and even the vendors who regularly hawked wares on our street (like Mang Jimmy who bellowed “Taho!” at 8 in the morning and “Balut!” at 8 in the evening).
But what made my stay in Sampaguita special were my friends, my old gang. I remember us playing patintero, langit-lupa or piko after school, eating halo-halo on lazy summer days and caroling during the Christmas season. Sadly, I can hardly remember anything else about my former friends.
There is, however, one person I can still clearly recall. My friend Kristine. She lived right across our old place and, even though she was four years older than me, she became my partner in crime. Or rather, I became her partner in crime.
To tell you the truth, I don’t know how Kristine and I became friends because, aside from the age gap, we didn’t have much in common. She was loud, freespirited and tomboyish while I was just the opposite. Our choice of Bioman characters (a popular TV show among kids back then) would show the difference between us—I wanted to be Pink 5 while she chose to be Red 1, which she considered the strongest.
When my parents gave us matching Barbie dolls for Christmas, I tended mine like a prized pet while she discovered another use for her doll. “Bakit mo kinulam yung Barbie doll mo?” exclaimed Kristine’s mama one morning, when she discovered a dozen pins stuck on the poor toy.
One time, she climbed the bayabas tree on our backyard and fell down. She broke some bones and spent a lot of time in bed. When she was better, the first thing she did was set out to climb the bayabas tree again. She said she wanted to master every branch of the tree so she wouldn’t fall again. I wouldn’t let her, but it was very difficult to persuade her once she set her mind. She promised to be careful instead. Kristine never fell from that tree again.
It didn’t take much time before I began to take part in Kristine’s schemes and adventures. I was the same scaredy-cat, play-it-safe girl, but with Kristine around, I knew somehow that things would be alright. If worse came to worst, Kristine would protect me. She was a strong girl.
So our adventures began. Together, we would go hunting for salagubang at the nearby bangin and collect spiders found in the basement of our house. Our other friends considered such activities icky. Kristine and I though they were icky, and together we would laugh until our bellies ached.
Sometimes, our adventures took us beyond our street. One day, we found ourselves walking all the way to the munisipyo, where there was a huge playground. We spent the whole afternoon climbing the monkey bars, going up and down the see-saw and slinking down the slide. But it was the swing that captured our attentions, so much so that the moment we got home, we started pestering our parents to get us our own.
Pretty soon, it became a habit to walk all the way to the munisipyo and spend time at the playground until dusk. But that practice soon stopped on Kristine’s next birthday, when her papa gave her a special gift. It was a beautiful white swing. That swing soon became Kristine’s pride and joy, partly because she was the only one in the neighborhood who had one. And I was as ecstatic as she was—it seemed that we had our private playground right in Kristine’s backyard. From then on, our trips to the bangin and munisipyo lessened and we would, instead, waste our afternoons taking turns at Kristine's swing, rocking back and forth and pushing ourselves as high as we could.
One day out of the blue, Kristine told me she was soon leaving for America “to get well.” She had leukemia, she said, a sickness I had never heard of then. I was not a bit worried. Kristine was a strong girl.
When would she be back? She said she didn’t know. But while she was away, could I please take care of her swing?
The swing is still with me up to this day, 14 years later. Kristine never came back.
Sometimes, I sit on it (even though it is a bit small for me now) and imagine I am 8 again. I close my eyes, sway back and forth, and remember Mang Jimmy, who sold taho in the mornings and balut in the evenings. I remember my old gang and the games we played after school. And I remember Kristine and the adventures we had together. And how she loved her white swing. And how I loved her. And how I never saw her again.
posted by melich on 23:31
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Korean heart-throb helps detente
Justin McCurry in TokyoWednesday
June 30, 2004
The Guardian
His face is one of the most recognisable on Japanese television, but Bae Yong-joon is an unlikely heart-throb.
Not because, at 31, he is slightly on the old side for an industry that worships youth. Nor because he has a chubby face and wears wire-rimmed spectacles. It is because of his birthplace, South Korea.
After decades of ambiguity - and occasional hostility - towards its closest neighbour, Japan is opening its doors to all things Korean.
The actor should take much of the credit for this unlikely cultural detente, which has taken hold despite Japan's brutal 1910-45 occupation of the Korean peninsula and the political mudslinging that has characterised the countries' relations ever since.
"It is often said that Japan and South Korea are so close, yet so far, in that people in both countries do not understand each other," said Takayasu Nakamura, an associate professor of human sciences at Osaka University. "But with more Japanese television personalities speaking Korean on TV, and the drama boom, perceptions are changing - and that can only be good."
Mr Bae stars in a popular drama, Winter Sonata, a tale of rekindled puppy love that has left many Japanese women hankering for an age when their own men were as sensitive and attentive as the Korean actor. Now in the middle of a third successful run on Japan's national broadcaster NHK, Winter Sonata has spawned an industry worth an estimated £56m. The show, and its imitators from across the Sea of Japan, have led to several magazines filled with glossy images of the stars of Korean film and TV.
Viewer numbers received an extra push when NHK decided to use material from the drama for its Korean language course. Sales of a textbook to accompany the language programme rose by 90,000 to 200,000 in the past year as fans brushed up their Hangul.
They aim to be ready to join the tours of Winter Sonata locations that have begun in Seoul. The besotted even try to look like their hero. In the past month, they have snapped up hundreds of wigs modelled on Mr Bae's unisex mop, at £65 apiece.
To his tens of thousands of fans, Mr Bae represents a caring, sharing version of masculinity lacking in many of the men of modern Japan. Few think of him as someone with whom they would like to share a night of passion, but perhaps as the man they secretly wish they had married.
Even his latest incarnation, a scheming lothario in the film Untold Scandal - a Korean remake of Les Liaisons Dangereuses - has failed to dent his image. The film, which drew a reported 40,000 people to its opening a month ago, is expected to rank among the year's box-office hits.
posted by melich on 07:36
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