Game over

To the Ateneo student who continues to harass me about the P50-peso class fund from seven years ago.

I’ve already explained to the best of my recollection where that class fund goes. If you tell me who you are maybe I can explain better what your class required as far as funds are concerned. But now that I know that your classroom allowed me to do powerpoint presentations, then do find out how much it cost to do those presentations, inclusive of internet fees, electrical bills, and use of my personal computer for those lectures. Contrary to what you might think, Ateneo does not pay for any of that, nor do our salaries cover those additional expenses to be a teacher.

That class fund of P50 pesos for the semester, which would mean P100 pesos for a whole school year of Literature classes, covers all that plus readings, worksheets, handouts, collaterals. If you don’t remember getting enough, then do put together that computation and tell me what you’d like to do then.

Know that if I was made aware of any discrepancies at that time, if anyone had complained about any irregularities, that it would have been dealt with accordingly. I’d really rather not blame anyone at this point for what you feel is an injustice. But that injustice would’ve been better raised and dealt with then, not seven years hence when there is no way of figuring out what went wrong with the system.

You could’ve emailed me privately, but you’ve chosen to do this publicly, making accusations that are slanderous. I had hoped you would realize that my not publishing your comments protected you from lawyers who will tell you that this is criminal.

I’ve engaged and taken the time to respond to this because I could. That’s no longer the case. Do what you feel you must, but not on this blog.

Here’s to the friendship
that could have been ours:
wife of my lover,
lover of my husband,
lover of my lover.

For women at both ends
are always rivals:
smiling for points
at a beauty contest,
icing the cake
at a cooking competition,
sprinting for the gold
as they race to a man’s heart. (more…)

Six months since she’s arrived
And yet she does not speak.
She must have been chained;
This I guess from the bruises
On her wrists. But she will not
Let me touch them.
She trembles at the sight
Of tall men, more so at those
With shadows on their lips. (more…)

I.
You are the earth and all that earth implies:
The gravity that ballasts me in space,
The air I breathe, the land that stills my cries
For food and shelter against devouring days.
You are the earth whose orbit marks my way
And sets my north and south, my east and west,
You are the final elemental clay
The driven heart must turn to for its rest. (more…)

… mourn a woman’s
bitter lot: to give birth to men
who kill and are
killed.
                              Grace Monte de Ramos

                                              That morning alone
he had sunk ten warships, downed four planes,
marched countless armies across unseen
territories, borders mapped only in his mind.
Gunpowder and ash stained his arms and shirt,
across one chubby cheek, a brave streak of red. (more…)