Tomorrow I start work for a start-up marketing company. Or more accurately, I start to officially work for a commonly-owned and managed enterprise.
As you can probably guess: it's a worker's cooperative. A group of artists decided to band together to establish a business that they themselves will run and manage. I'm not an artist, of course, nor can I ever pretend to be one. I'm just coming in based on the strength of a hack writing job I did for them. Apparently, they have a need for writers, so any hack writer, my person included, might do.
It's a prospect that fills me with excitement and trepidation.
I believe that this cooperative has a lot of potential for growth and that I could contribute to such growth, given my background and knowledge of the cooperative business. But I also seriously doubt my writing prowess and thus, I fear, I'll come short of their expectations. As I said, I do believe I'm only a hack writer, at best; not an artist like them. The best I could come up with is perhaps a decent phrase or two.
There's a lot of uncertainty involved. They still have to get their systems in place. A few equipments are still being acquired. Heck, even my job description is a bit vague (Imagine: having been asked by my "boss" to help in drafting my own job description? It's a moral dilemma. On one hand, I could take advantage of it to have less things to do or be responsible of, but on the other, my conscience wouldn't let me shortchange them. In the end, I simply declined.) Even the pay isn't that good. It's even lower than my previous salary as a factory worker.
I could, however, render flexible working time. Or tele-commute. As long as I meet the targets then I'm good. This is what attracted me to the job. Of course, another plus factor is the potential for growth. The company is expanding rapidly and is poised on proving the viability of the worker's cooperative as a viable and sustainable enterprise. As a cooperative advocate, that prospect excites me. Alas, we can be free from the yoke of corporate slavery. There are no real "bosses" at the company, at least, not in the traditional sense. And we pay for our own salary and bonuses...based on output and equity considerations. Plus, the office is near U.P., thus, technically, still within my comfort zone.
Honestly, though, should my application for a certain corporation be approved, I would probably leave this new job in a heartbeat. I've been so used in rendering regular hours of work, in having concrete rules, and definite hierarchies that I find my new company's work ethics to be quite disconcerting.
I feel like a domesticated rat whose cage has finally been opened. Everyone yells at me to flee. That freedom is to be desired.
And yet all I know, in all my life is the certainty of comfort in my own little cage.
Showing posts with label manggagawa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label manggagawa. Show all posts
Monday, August 31, 2009
On Looking For A Job and Selling Banana Que
With my separation pay from my previous job being almost depleted, I had no choice but to seriously look for a job these past few weeks.
This time with more desperation than ever.
Yup, desperate enough to consider selling banana-que...or eating my words.
A college professor once admonished us to take up masteral studies in Political Science because, otherwise, all we were good for, as BA undergraduates of the said course is "selling banana-que". The good professor, I believe, does not really denigrate those who sell banana-que---at least not consciously. But those who do sell them, she would say, are undergrad students, too. "Go ahead, ask them." We all laughed, of course, thinking how much a kidder the professor can be.
Well, after graduation, I sort of realize how true her words can be. Let me put it this way:
What's one sure way to turn up negative results in a job search engine? PUT IN THE WORDS "POLITICAL SCIENCE" THEN PRESS "ENTER".
If my said professor had low regard for banana-que vendors in UP, then she had a LOWER regard for call center agents. I didn't teach you political analysis just so you could all be "telephone operators", she would say.
"That wouldn't happen to me," I would mutter. After all, haven't I chosen factory work and labor service above and beyond the lure of easy money in a call center? Yes, I did. I even told a friend, half-jokingly that I might as well sell banana-que before I consider working for a call center.
I've always imagined myself working for an Non-Government Organization after graduation. I wanted to continue serving other people. I wanted to nurture my social advocacies while providing for my necessities. And so I submitted a few applications to certain NGOs just after graduation.
And then I waited. And waited. And waited. A friend from the labor sector told me to wait some more because there's definitely going to be a job opening in the labor advocacy center soon. So I waited some more.
Unfortunately, my funds are fast running out. I didn't get much separation pay to begin with, in the first place. And I had to provide for my needs in the meantime.
And so, suddenly, the prospect of getting a call center job didn't seem all that bad. After all, some of my friends are working as call center agents and they're doing mighty fine, aren't they? And didn't they say, getting a call center job would be a cinch?
In short, I ended up eating my banana-que laden words: I applied for a call center job.
I'm putting this in my blog to remind myself to always be humble. To not let the prejudices of some other people affect my future decisions. And to not let myself forget that whatever I achieve in life... I'll always be factory worker.
Which is about as decent a job can get---as decent as the banana-que seller. Which, in the end, is way better than a politician or congressman, right? (Oops, here I go again.)
This time with more desperation than ever.
Yup, desperate enough to consider selling banana-que...or eating my words.
A college professor once admonished us to take up masteral studies in Political Science because, otherwise, all we were good for, as BA undergraduates of the said course is "selling banana-que". The good professor, I believe, does not really denigrate those who sell banana-que---at least not consciously. But those who do sell them, she would say, are undergrad students, too. "Go ahead, ask them." We all laughed, of course, thinking how much a kidder the professor can be.
Well, after graduation, I sort of realize how true her words can be. Let me put it this way:
What's one sure way to turn up negative results in a job search engine? PUT IN THE WORDS "POLITICAL SCIENCE" THEN PRESS "ENTER".
If my said professor had low regard for banana-que vendors in UP, then she had a LOWER regard for call center agents. I didn't teach you political analysis just so you could all be "telephone operators", she would say.
"That wouldn't happen to me," I would mutter. After all, haven't I chosen factory work and labor service above and beyond the lure of easy money in a call center? Yes, I did. I even told a friend, half-jokingly that I might as well sell banana-que before I consider working for a call center.
I've always imagined myself working for an Non-Government Organization after graduation. I wanted to continue serving other people. I wanted to nurture my social advocacies while providing for my necessities. And so I submitted a few applications to certain NGOs just after graduation.
And then I waited. And waited. And waited. A friend from the labor sector told me to wait some more because there's definitely going to be a job opening in the labor advocacy center soon. So I waited some more.
Unfortunately, my funds are fast running out. I didn't get much separation pay to begin with, in the first place. And I had to provide for my needs in the meantime.
And so, suddenly, the prospect of getting a call center job didn't seem all that bad. After all, some of my friends are working as call center agents and they're doing mighty fine, aren't they? And didn't they say, getting a call center job would be a cinch?
In short, I ended up eating my banana-que laden words: I applied for a call center job.
I'm putting this in my blog to remind myself to always be humble. To not let the prejudices of some other people affect my future decisions. And to not let myself forget that whatever I achieve in life... I'll always be factory worker.
Which is about as decent a job can get---as decent as the banana-que seller. Which, in the end, is way better than a politician or congressman, right? (Oops, here I go again.)
Monday, June 22, 2009
Story of a Genuine Worker's Coop
In a meeting with coop leaders in Metro Manila ostensibly to discuss the Implementing Rules and Regulations (IRR) for the newly-minted RA 9520, otherwise known as the Philippine Cooperative Code of 2008, I happen to decry my distaste for all these pseudo-cooperatives posturing as worker's cooperatives; which where in fact, really nothing more than employment agencies.
Former senator Agapito "Butz" Aquino was in that meeting and although he left early, his secretary approached me to ask for an article in the upcoming issue of the Philippine Cooperative Center's newsletter, The COOP VOICE.
I shared a story about a cooperative which I had a hand in organizing: the Pinagkaisa at Nagkakaisang Manggagawa ng R. Hortaleza Multi-purpose Cooperative.
Here is the article:
Former senator Agapito "Butz" Aquino was in that meeting and although he left early, his secretary approached me to ask for an article in the upcoming issue of the Philippine Cooperative Center's newsletter, The COOP VOICE.
I shared a story about a cooperative which I had a hand in organizing: the Pinagkaisa at Nagkakaisang Manggagawa ng R. Hortaleza Multi-purpose Cooperative.
Here is the article:
From Crisis to Opportunity: The Story of a True Worker’s Cooperative
by Arnel Abeleda
It is the shared nightmare of the working class: reporting for work one morning and finding out that the company has closed shop. This is what happened to some 300 workers of a popular chain of beauty supply and vaciador shops one fateful morning in July, 2007. A working class nightmare they soon collectively transformed into a working class dream.
On July 1, 2007, the workers of R. Hortaleza shops suddenly found themselves out of work as all of their branches in Metro Manila, Cavite and Laguna were closed down and padlocked in the night. A paltry sign was posted in each of the shops saying the shops were closed due to bankruptcy. The two labor unions, namely the Nagkakaisang Manggagawa ng R. Hortaleza, representing the supervisory personnel and the Pinagkaisang Manggagawa ng R. Hortaleza, representing the rank-and-file personnel immediately called for a unified general assembly, filed a case at the labor department for illegal dismissal and then went on strike. It was a harrowing experience for them and prospects for the future were, at that time, certainly bleak.
The picket line was also thinning as the days went by. The workers, caught unawares either had hardly any savings or were in debt and thus had to find other sources of income in the mean time. Some of their members went back to their home provinces.
Their usual customers or ‘suki’ were also caught unawares. They brought their knives, coping saws and nail clippers to be sharpened only to find there’s a picket line outside the shops. Some enterprising vaciadors, seizing this opportunity, sharpened the objects themselves, albeit manually.
Eventually, the idea to take over the business left by their erring employer started to take root. After all, they have the requisite skills of seasoned vaciadors, they knew the suppliers and more importantly, they have earned the trust of their customers or ‘suki’ for a great number of years. All they needed was capital to get the business going.
Some money lenders were even offering to finance select shops. But they decided to manage the shops themselves. It was at that point that they toyed with the idea of forming a cooperative. A genuine worker’s cooperative that would be owned, managed and run by the members themselves. They would report for work, conduct their business and set their own salaries and incentives.
This was the genesis of the Pinagkaisa at Nagkakaisang Manggagawa ng R. Hortaleza Multi-purpose Cooperative.
Starting with a capital of twenty thousand pesos (P20,000.00) borrowed from the lifetime savings of one of their members, they bought supplies at Divisoria and started their trade. They wanted to retain the loyalty of their existing customers but could not afford the pricey rentals of their branches’ former locations so the Cooperative decided to ply their trade in less pricey locations but always at a place near their former place of business. They borrowed almost half a million pesos from various sources in order to rebuild their business in five branches---out of the total twelve branches originally---in Metro Manila and Laguna.
Running their own business, they admit is not a walk in the park. In 2008, they had to close their branch in Singalong, Manila due to poor sales. Their four remaining branches in Blumentritt (2454 Rizal Ave. ext., Sta. Cruz, Manila), Sucat (8292 PDRC Bldg., Dr. A Santos Ave., Parañaque), Alabang (354 Romicar Bldg., National Road, Alabang, Muntinlupa) and Biñan, Laguna (Kris 100, Sto. Domingo St., Biñan, Laguna) are still going strong. In fact, they have almost paid their loan obligations and are seeking to expand in other areas.
Aside from sharpening services of a vaciador, their shops also supply products for beauty parlors and they have recently ventured into production of nail files and nail pushers after getting a grant from the Department of Labor and Employment in the form a production machine. Ably headed by Board Chairperson Ms. Fe Floralde, Vice-chairperson Mr. Chito Doluntap, and Manager Mr. Denes Evasco with Ms. Cristina David as treasurer and Ms. Shirley Protacio as Secretary, this cooperative serves as a model worker’s cooperative.
So what is their trade name, you ask? It’s called “Worker’s Control Beauty Supply & Vaciador ng Bayan”.
Truly, the coop sector’s answer to the working class dream.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Bumped off by Aling Dionisia
On the Last week of April, I attended a Labor Center’s press conference on the upcoming Labor Day mobilizations.
The venue was a newly-opened restaurant in front of the ABS-CBN headquarters in Quezon City. I arrived half an hour early so I decided to help out in setting up the banners and what-not for that planned mid-morning press con.
There was a smattering of print journalists and one broadcast journalist from a giant TV network. When it was about 11 o’clock, the press con finally started. I was asked to pinch-hit for the leader of the Association for Displaced Filipino Workers who couldn’t make it to the said event.
I sat at the farthest end of the table. The cut-out cardboard name I sat in front of wasn’t even mine. I tried to look all serious and pensive---thinking that is what my whole participation that morning shall require. I will just sit there and somebody else will do all the talking.
Then they told me I should prepare a statement.
The press-con began. The Labor Center president started to read his prepared statement. Then, the TV reporter approached the table, not even bothering to listen to half of what he said and asked: “can you just get right on the part about your planned nationwide mobilization? It’s nationwide, right?”
“Uhm, yes.”
Apparently, he wasn't really after the story about the current travails of Philippine labor. What he needed was some quotable quotes, a soundbite. He doesn't need to listen, I rationalized to myself. Maybe he thinks everything we have to say is included in his press kit. The reporter then adds: “can you also raise your fists so we can take pictures?”
After taking the perfunctory pictures, the TV crew hurriedly left. Other reporters left as well. Only a couple of print journalists stayed long enough to listen to what we really have to say. (They were still eating, anyway.)
I was the last to say my piece. At that time there was only one tabloid reporter left. But it didn't matter. I simply stated what I felt as a worker displaced by the current economic crisis and how I view the palliative measures in which the government tries to solve the problem: by staging job fairs during Labor Day.
It was a pretty good speech, I believe, mostly because the words were wrenched from my gut. I did not talk about workers as an abstract group; I talked about what I felt and experienced.
Later that night, I tried to catch the early evening news and the late night news, hoping to catch the few seconds they gave us to air our announcement regarding the Labor Day rallies.
Of course, there was no mention of it.
I tried to rationalize that maybe there are other more news worthy stories out there that night. That is until I saw the inordinately long series of feature stories on Manny Pacquiao's mom, Aling Dionisia on that day: Aling Dionisia arriving in the US; Aling Dionisia being welcomed by her cousin, Aling Dionisia going to the hotel where Manny stays; Aling Dionisia arriving at the hotel; and Aling Dionisia being welcomed by Manny with a kiss even if he was really tired and sleepy by the time she arrived.
It's a good thing Philippine TV newscast knows its priorities.
The next morning, I woke up late because of staying up late for the late evening newscast. I scanned the tabloids, but alas, I found no mention on the front page. Maybe it's on the inside pages, I reckoned or one of the tabloids that were already sold before I went there. Maybe.
What does Philippine media deem important? Isn't the plight of Filipino workers more newsworthy than the first trip to America of Manny Pacquiao's mom? It's only a few more days before May 1 but there's hardly any mention of the current condition Filipino workers being battered by the economic crisis.
I felt guilty for eating at that restaurant. It was supposed to be a breakfast buffet but it turned out to be a brunch for us, participants. That press con must have set back the already cash-strapped Labor Center and for what? Neglible media coverage. I have resolved, therefore, never to sit in front of press conferences in the future to face the media. Unless I can get drag Aling Dionisia to the same table, of course.
The venue was a newly-opened restaurant in front of the ABS-CBN headquarters in Quezon City. I arrived half an hour early so I decided to help out in setting up the banners and what-not for that planned mid-morning press con.
There was a smattering of print journalists and one broadcast journalist from a giant TV network. When it was about 11 o’clock, the press con finally started. I was asked to pinch-hit for the leader of the Association for Displaced Filipino Workers who couldn’t make it to the said event.
I sat at the farthest end of the table. The cut-out cardboard name I sat in front of wasn’t even mine. I tried to look all serious and pensive---thinking that is what my whole participation that morning shall require. I will just sit there and somebody else will do all the talking.
Then they told me I should prepare a statement.
The press-con began. The Labor Center president started to read his prepared statement. Then, the TV reporter approached the table, not even bothering to listen to half of what he said and asked: “can you just get right on the part about your planned nationwide mobilization? It’s nationwide, right?”
“Uhm, yes.”
Apparently, he wasn't really after the story about the current travails of Philippine labor. What he needed was some quotable quotes, a soundbite. He doesn't need to listen, I rationalized to myself. Maybe he thinks everything we have to say is included in his press kit. The reporter then adds: “can you also raise your fists so we can take pictures?”
After taking the perfunctory pictures, the TV crew hurriedly left. Other reporters left as well. Only a couple of print journalists stayed long enough to listen to what we really have to say. (They were still eating, anyway.)
I was the last to say my piece. At that time there was only one tabloid reporter left. But it didn't matter. I simply stated what I felt as a worker displaced by the current economic crisis and how I view the palliative measures in which the government tries to solve the problem: by staging job fairs during Labor Day.
It was a pretty good speech, I believe, mostly because the words were wrenched from my gut. I did not talk about workers as an abstract group; I talked about what I felt and experienced.
Later that night, I tried to catch the early evening news and the late night news, hoping to catch the few seconds they gave us to air our announcement regarding the Labor Day rallies.
Of course, there was no mention of it.
I tried to rationalize that maybe there are other more news worthy stories out there that night. That is until I saw the inordinately long series of feature stories on Manny Pacquiao's mom, Aling Dionisia on that day: Aling Dionisia arriving in the US; Aling Dionisia being welcomed by her cousin, Aling Dionisia going to the hotel where Manny stays; Aling Dionisia arriving at the hotel; and Aling Dionisia being welcomed by Manny with a kiss even if he was really tired and sleepy by the time she arrived.
It's a good thing Philippine TV newscast knows its priorities.
The next morning, I woke up late because of staying up late for the late evening newscast. I scanned the tabloids, but alas, I found no mention on the front page. Maybe it's on the inside pages, I reckoned or one of the tabloids that were already sold before I went there. Maybe.
What does Philippine media deem important? Isn't the plight of Filipino workers more newsworthy than the first trip to America of Manny Pacquiao's mom? It's only a few more days before May 1 but there's hardly any mention of the current condition Filipino workers being battered by the economic crisis.
I felt guilty for eating at that restaurant. It was supposed to be a breakfast buffet but it turned out to be a brunch for us, participants. That press con must have set back the already cash-strapped Labor Center and for what? Neglible media coverage. I have resolved, therefore, never to sit in front of press conferences in the future to face the media. Unless I can get drag Aling Dionisia to the same table, of course.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
My so-called UP Education
On my third year as an undergraduate student of political science at the University of the Philippines, I went AWOL.
My parents couldn’t send me to school. My parents were jobless at that time: my father after suffering from a heart attack/stroke couldn’t pass his seaman’s physical exam anymore and my mother couldn’t find work as a teacher after having been a domestic home-maker for a number of years (the schools were looking for fresh and nubile graduates---or those with political connections). UP may have comparatively low tuition fees vis-à-vis other tertiary institutions but for us then, even my transportation expenses became a burden.
I decided to find work. I took on odd jobs until I got a job at the local factory. I never flaunted my being a UP student. That was, to me, more of a stigma than a badge of honor. I could imagine people talking behind my back: “if you really were a UP student, then what are you doing working here doing manual labor in a lowly factory?”
My work at the factory wasn’t bereft of grief or misfortunes. I was assigned to one of the most physically taxing jobs in the factory. But I focused on my work. I was never late nor absent and I did more than what was expected of me. A fortnight after my contract expired, they re-hired me. I was to become a regular factory hand. And for ten years, I was. (In a sense, I believe I shall always be that lowly factory hand no matter where I work).
Eventually my co-workers got to know my UP background but never from me. This was after I took helm of the cooperative and was elected as one of the top leaders of the labor union. My UP background therefore, did not really figure at all in the campaign. The best anyone can say about a product of UP education, I have gathered is that that person is “smart” or “matalino”---and that can either work for you or against you.
The best thing I got from my so-called “UP education” gave me is social concern. Concern for my fellow workers. I started to read the collective bargaining agreement and the company rules. I learned how some rules are made to stymie dissent and worker’s rights and I tried, in my own small way, to find ways around that; to explain the rules to my co-employees and to seek for better, fairer and more humane work conditions.
I think I have learned more from my factory work than from my two years of “UP education”.
Nevertheless, after a long hiatus, I decided to continue with my formal studies. My siblings have already finished college by then and I have no living parent to support anymore so I have run out of excuses not to. I may have learned much from my factory work but a diploma that hangs on a wall is, I have come to believe, the only piece of ‘education’ that is universally recognized by Filipinos. It’s funny though how people in the academe thinks the same way also. They would ask: “why did you stop studying?” when they meant to say why I stopped going to UP. I would just smile and refuse to answer or answer indirectly but in back of my mind, I would reply: “No, I have never stopped studying.”
And so here I am finally a graduate. But not before I lost my job due to the economic crunch and lost my position as a coop and union leader in the process. This was definitely not how I pictured my world will be after graduation.
Still, my spirit is undaunted. My hands will always be the hands of a laborer. My heart will always strive to serve the people. My mind will always be eager to learn.
So watch out, world: my education will continue.
My parents couldn’t send me to school. My parents were jobless at that time: my father after suffering from a heart attack/stroke couldn’t pass his seaman’s physical exam anymore and my mother couldn’t find work as a teacher after having been a domestic home-maker for a number of years (the schools were looking for fresh and nubile graduates---or those with political connections). UP may have comparatively low tuition fees vis-à-vis other tertiary institutions but for us then, even my transportation expenses became a burden.
I decided to find work. I took on odd jobs until I got a job at the local factory. I never flaunted my being a UP student. That was, to me, more of a stigma than a badge of honor. I could imagine people talking behind my back: “if you really were a UP student, then what are you doing working here doing manual labor in a lowly factory?”
My work at the factory wasn’t bereft of grief or misfortunes. I was assigned to one of the most physically taxing jobs in the factory. But I focused on my work. I was never late nor absent and I did more than what was expected of me. A fortnight after my contract expired, they re-hired me. I was to become a regular factory hand. And for ten years, I was. (In a sense, I believe I shall always be that lowly factory hand no matter where I work).
Eventually my co-workers got to know my UP background but never from me. This was after I took helm of the cooperative and was elected as one of the top leaders of the labor union. My UP background therefore, did not really figure at all in the campaign. The best anyone can say about a product of UP education, I have gathered is that that person is “smart” or “matalino”---and that can either work for you or against you.
The best thing I got from my so-called “UP education” gave me is social concern. Concern for my fellow workers. I started to read the collective bargaining agreement and the company rules. I learned how some rules are made to stymie dissent and worker’s rights and I tried, in my own small way, to find ways around that; to explain the rules to my co-employees and to seek for better, fairer and more humane work conditions.
I think I have learned more from my factory work than from my two years of “UP education”.
Nevertheless, after a long hiatus, I decided to continue with my formal studies. My siblings have already finished college by then and I have no living parent to support anymore so I have run out of excuses not to. I may have learned much from my factory work but a diploma that hangs on a wall is, I have come to believe, the only piece of ‘education’ that is universally recognized by Filipinos. It’s funny though how people in the academe thinks the same way also. They would ask: “why did you stop studying?” when they meant to say why I stopped going to UP. I would just smile and refuse to answer or answer indirectly but in back of my mind, I would reply: “No, I have never stopped studying.”
And so here I am finally a graduate. But not before I lost my job due to the economic crunch and lost my position as a coop and union leader in the process. This was definitely not how I pictured my world will be after graduation.
Still, my spirit is undaunted. My hands will always be the hands of a laborer. My heart will always strive to serve the people. My mind will always be eager to learn.
So watch out, world: my education will continue.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Yet Another Sad Day (Sad Days Part 2)
A day after the company closed, the place turned into unfamiliar terrain like some B-movie horror film---with the townsfolk all turning zombies. The familiar smiles, greetings and small-talk one encounters as you go inside the factory in the morning were gone. All the cheerfulness, drained. The people just go there to mechanically get their social security certificates, certificate of employment and what-not.
The newly-assigned guards made us sign on logbooks, surrender an ID and wear an ID card that says “GUEST” on it, without even a glance up. For ten years, I saw that place like a home, a stomping ground. And suddenly, I was being treated as a “guest”. Funny, but such treatment never made me really feel like one.
I drag my feet towards the union office. There are a few things the union has to do before it closes shop so the union officers will have to decide and where else could we meet but in the union office which, unfortunately, happens to be located inside Zombie-land.
In the few short years I was a union officer, I bore witness to its exceptional transformation. From being an insular, factory-centered organization, it became more active in regional and national labor concerns (while still maintaining its independent nature). From being a traditional reactionary labor organization that threatens mass action for every perceived labor infraction, the union became mature enough to engage the management in constant dialogue and participative means in dispute resolution thus resulting in industrial peace and having no labor cases nor strike being filed at DOLE. From being dependent on members’ contribution, the union sought alternative means of fund-raising thus enabling it to offer additional services to the union (like memorial assistance) and at the same time raise its fund for the first time in its more than 20 year history to more than a million pesos. The union was also able to form a performance group that sang/performed in big rallies or intimate support mobilizations that lifted the sagging spirits of striking workers.
The union has to audit all its books, disburse the accumulated union funds to all the present members, and dispose of its assets. It was only a few months ago that the management approved the expansion and renovation of the union office. Now it is the union’s job to tear it all down. The union was given 15 days to vacate the premises.
The first two tasks: auditing the books and disbursement is a breeze. The union only had a few accounts and transactions. The photocopies of the passbooks and books of accounts were periodically posted at the union’s bulletin board.
On the disposal of the union assets, I balked at the suggestion that the union officers themselves be given the chance to buy the union office equipments. Some officers reasoned that they don’t have the time to gather the union members for a public auction like what I had suggested. And that even if we can contact some of them we do not have the contact numbers of all of them.
I shot down all their fallacious arguments. Not without small effort, I might add, for it takes an inordinate amount of skill to argue on the floor and, as you catch your breath, still maintain objectivity in writing the minutes of the meeting as it transpires.
It was familiar territory. I was the designated devil’s advocate of the union particularly when it comes to the union’s collective bargaining tactics. Usually, in protracted debates like this one, I am able to convince my closest allies to side with me---the key person being the union president. It was not unusual that my initial apprehensions or disagreement with a proposal becomes the union stand after an exhausting and detailed explanation on my part.
Nobody took my side. At the end of the day (after I have used every trick in the book including delaying the “division of the house”), it was me against everyone else. The union officers shall be allowed to buy the assets (i.e., computer, chairs and cabinets) of the union depending on the salvage price as determined by the audit officers themselves.
I grumbled but could not blame them. It was the union members who first turned their backs to the union officers.
Since the company declared closure, I watched helplessly as the values I hold as a worker, a labor leader, a unionist, all seem to crumble beneath my feet.
Everybody are zombies now. Everyone looks out for number one.
==========================================================
It was supposed to be a night of thanksgiving.
It was the night when the union will gather all its members in one place to reminisce about the good old times. It was a night for happy moments of remembrances of past union leaders and unforgettable struggles. But it was also the night when the disbursement of the union funds were to happen and as one might expect, that part made rent the other parts asunder.
I picked out a most auspicious place. A turn-of-the-century bahay-na-bato that is a favorite wedding reception venue in Marikina. I used my cooperative network contacts to secure the place for a song. A sumptuous buffet table was laid out, with candle lights for every table, even a karaoke machine at the side.
The union president requested that I become the master of ceremonies right before the ceremonies started. At first, I was hesitant but since nobody among the union officers are willing to stand up and address the crowd, I quixotically agreed . The union president co-hosted the event.
The union president and vice-president recalled the history of the union, paying respect to all the past union leaders, even Mr. Sleaze-bag. But of course, Mr. Sleaze-bag wouldn’t have any of it and wanted to have the last say so he grabbed a microphone and basically told the audience that we were all crooks and we divided all the union assets among ourselves.
This didn’t sit well with the other union officers and a shouting match ensued. Soon other union members and officers joined both sides of the fray and I was caught in the middle. As a dutiful union officer, I have to stand by the decision of the majority. I could not even say that I didn’t take part in it.
My more pressing concern was to regain order in the proceedings and to keep the hotheads at bay---one of which happens to be my co-host. As the evening dragged on, it became apparent that Mr. Sleaze-bag orchestrated the whole attack; even the sequence of speeches of the agitators. It was a trap ostensibly to fight for the rights of the members but in reality designed to malign the current union officers en masse.
In the end, I prevailed upon the union members to accept their fair share according to the union’s explanation.
Mr. Sleaze-bag was one of the first to accept his share. By painting us as the evil culprits, he was at last able to divert attention away from the shady dealings he had at the past. In short, he laughed all the way to the bank.
No thanks came the way of the union, only recriminations as if the union officers had not done anything in the past but the reprehensible bidding of union assets.
Still, I held my head high and thanked everyone for coming, shaking their hands as they leave. One member says that it was a good thing, the two of us---including Mr. C, a union officer---did not take part in the union assets fiasco; that we objected and stood by our principles. But it would have been better, I thought, had Mr. C. actually expressed his objection during the debate and not kept his decision to himself. I just smiled; a pained approximation of a smile.
I tried to drown some of my sorrows later that night in a couple of beer bottles but I found the attempt quite unsuccessful.
The newly-assigned guards made us sign on logbooks, surrender an ID and wear an ID card that says “GUEST” on it, without even a glance up. For ten years, I saw that place like a home, a stomping ground. And suddenly, I was being treated as a “guest”. Funny, but such treatment never made me really feel like one.
I drag my feet towards the union office. There are a few things the union has to do before it closes shop so the union officers will have to decide and where else could we meet but in the union office which, unfortunately, happens to be located inside Zombie-land.
In the few short years I was a union officer, I bore witness to its exceptional transformation. From being an insular, factory-centered organization, it became more active in regional and national labor concerns (while still maintaining its independent nature). From being a traditional reactionary labor organization that threatens mass action for every perceived labor infraction, the union became mature enough to engage the management in constant dialogue and participative means in dispute resolution thus resulting in industrial peace and having no labor cases nor strike being filed at DOLE. From being dependent on members’ contribution, the union sought alternative means of fund-raising thus enabling it to offer additional services to the union (like memorial assistance) and at the same time raise its fund for the first time in its more than 20 year history to more than a million pesos. The union was also able to form a performance group that sang/performed in big rallies or intimate support mobilizations that lifted the sagging spirits of striking workers.
The union has to audit all its books, disburse the accumulated union funds to all the present members, and dispose of its assets. It was only a few months ago that the management approved the expansion and renovation of the union office. Now it is the union’s job to tear it all down. The union was given 15 days to vacate the premises.
The first two tasks: auditing the books and disbursement is a breeze. The union only had a few accounts and transactions. The photocopies of the passbooks and books of accounts were periodically posted at the union’s bulletin board.
On the disposal of the union assets, I balked at the suggestion that the union officers themselves be given the chance to buy the union office equipments. Some officers reasoned that they don’t have the time to gather the union members for a public auction like what I had suggested. And that even if we can contact some of them we do not have the contact numbers of all of them.
I shot down all their fallacious arguments. Not without small effort, I might add, for it takes an inordinate amount of skill to argue on the floor and, as you catch your breath, still maintain objectivity in writing the minutes of the meeting as it transpires.
It was familiar territory. I was the designated devil’s advocate of the union particularly when it comes to the union’s collective bargaining tactics. Usually, in protracted debates like this one, I am able to convince my closest allies to side with me---the key person being the union president. It was not unusual that my initial apprehensions or disagreement with a proposal becomes the union stand after an exhausting and detailed explanation on my part.
Nobody took my side. At the end of the day (after I have used every trick in the book including delaying the “division of the house”), it was me against everyone else. The union officers shall be allowed to buy the assets (i.e., computer, chairs and cabinets) of the union depending on the salvage price as determined by the audit officers themselves.
I grumbled but could not blame them. It was the union members who first turned their backs to the union officers.
Since the company declared closure, I watched helplessly as the values I hold as a worker, a labor leader, a unionist, all seem to crumble beneath my feet.
Everybody are zombies now. Everyone looks out for number one.
==========================================================
It was supposed to be a night of thanksgiving.
It was the night when the union will gather all its members in one place to reminisce about the good old times. It was a night for happy moments of remembrances of past union leaders and unforgettable struggles. But it was also the night when the disbursement of the union funds were to happen and as one might expect, that part made rent the other parts asunder.
I picked out a most auspicious place. A turn-of-the-century bahay-na-bato that is a favorite wedding reception venue in Marikina. I used my cooperative network contacts to secure the place for a song. A sumptuous buffet table was laid out, with candle lights for every table, even a karaoke machine at the side.
The union president requested that I become the master of ceremonies right before the ceremonies started. At first, I was hesitant but since nobody among the union officers are willing to stand up and address the crowd, I quixotically agreed . The union president co-hosted the event.
The union president and vice-president recalled the history of the union, paying respect to all the past union leaders, even Mr. Sleaze-bag. But of course, Mr. Sleaze-bag wouldn’t have any of it and wanted to have the last say so he grabbed a microphone and basically told the audience that we were all crooks and we divided all the union assets among ourselves.
This didn’t sit well with the other union officers and a shouting match ensued. Soon other union members and officers joined both sides of the fray and I was caught in the middle. As a dutiful union officer, I have to stand by the decision of the majority. I could not even say that I didn’t take part in it.
My more pressing concern was to regain order in the proceedings and to keep the hotheads at bay---one of which happens to be my co-host. As the evening dragged on, it became apparent that Mr. Sleaze-bag orchestrated the whole attack; even the sequence of speeches of the agitators. It was a trap ostensibly to fight for the rights of the members but in reality designed to malign the current union officers en masse.
In the end, I prevailed upon the union members to accept their fair share according to the union’s explanation.
Mr. Sleaze-bag was one of the first to accept his share. By painting us as the evil culprits, he was at last able to divert attention away from the shady dealings he had at the past. In short, he laughed all the way to the bank.
No thanks came the way of the union, only recriminations as if the union officers had not done anything in the past but the reprehensible bidding of union assets.
Still, I held my head high and thanked everyone for coming, shaking their hands as they leave. One member says that it was a good thing, the two of us---including Mr. C, a union officer---did not take part in the union assets fiasco; that we objected and stood by our principles. But it would have been better, I thought, had Mr. C. actually expressed his objection during the debate and not kept his decision to himself. I just smiled; a pained approximation of a smile.
I tried to drown some of my sorrows later that night in a couple of beer bottles but I found the attempt quite unsuccessful.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Gary Granada Songwriting 102 & 103
Matapos kong marinig ang protesta ni Ginoong Granada sa net, ipinaskil ko ang MP3 niya sa blog na ito at pinadalhan ko siya ng sulat bilang suporta. Bunsod nito, regular na akong pinadadalhan ni G. Granada ng mga 'update' ukol sa kaso. Pakinggan po natin ang binansagan niyang Songwriting 102 at 103.
FREE LESSONS IN SONGWRITING
Dear friends,
Mas marami pa yata ang nakinig dun sa mp3 na "Gary Granada vs GMA Kapuso" kaysa lahat ng taong bumili ng kanta ko sa buong 30 years ko sa music industry hehe. Kaya bilang pasasalamat sa inyong suporta, gumawa ako ng dalawa pang karugtong nun, at para na rin mas liwanagin kung ano ba talaga ang totoong nangyari.
Songwriting 102: Tungkol sa Isang Salita 4:38
Songwriting 103: Tungkol sa Isang Linya 5:51
As you listen to these recordings, please bear in mind that GMA Network insists that the only thing I can claim I (and I alone) did was change one word. Pinalitan lang yung salitang "pagpupursige" ng "pagpupunyagi".
Maiikli lang ang mga ito kaya tiyagain nyo nang pakinggan. Palagay ko rin makakatulong ang mga ito sa mga gustong matutong mag compose. Magandang learning aid din siguro sa mga klase sa literature, creative writing, music and even arithmetic. Wala rin po sigurong subject na ganito sa law school, kaya I dedicate these recordings to all my lawyer friends.
Enjoy!
(at pakipasa na rin pag nag-enjoy nga kayo)
Gary Granada
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Sad Days (part 1): Lawful Demise
I have pretty much hit rock-bottom the last couple of months starting when I was fired from work.
Actually, it wasn’t just me whose employment was terminated: it was everyone else’s. The Japanese owners of the factory where I work decided that it wasn’t worth saving the Philippine manufacturing plant considering the downturn in the US economy---our main customer---whose consumer demand constitutes about 80% of our monthly exports.
The truth is, it’s not really me I’m worried about. I’m fairly young, sharp, and have re-tooled my skills by going back to school while working full time. There’s a considerable chance I can find employment elsewhere. I’m more worried about my co-workers. Many of them are too old to be considered for gainful employment and most have not honed any marketable skills aside from the factory work they have mastered through the years. As I listened to the spontaneous wails and cries of disbelief as the announcement was being made, I came to realize something which I may have known for years but nevertheless have taken for granted: these people meant more than mere co-workers to me.
They were my family.
Maybe that was the reason why I refused to leave the company (with its pittance pay which I get every week that I have derisively referred to as my “allowance”) even if other employment opportunities abound---like those ubiquitous call centers.
“Anak (son), what will I do,” asks a middle-aged woman. She calls me anak because I happen to be a name-sake of her son. “Don’t you worry, ‘Nay (mom), everything will turn out for the better,” I assured her, not really knowing what I mean. Another woman sidles up to me, tears welling in her eyes and says: “Arnel, both me and my husband work here. What will happen to our children?” Her voice broke and I could not do anything but hug her.
She was, after all, my mother, too.
I may be an orphan but under the roof of my own little factory I have found many mothers and fathers. It took a single day for the company to spring the unwelcome surprise. To bid us all---mothers, fathers, sons, daughters---goodbye and good riddance. The vice-president says they commissioned a third party to compute the severance pay and we could get them on that same day. A battery of lawyers, accountants and Department of Labor representatives suddenly swooped down from nowhere to bear witness to the “lawful demise” of the factory. Don’t worry, we were assured, we can still come back the next day to get our things.
After the announcement, I approached the mic and told the assembly: “Hold your heads high, as you go out of this place. You are workers with dignity, and we have worked for years in this place with grace and dignity.” As a union officer, I also appealed for them not to take the severance pay on that same day. The union will have to meet to plan the next move and we have to remain united in the next collective course of action.
The former union president stood up to declare he’s going to be the first to get “his money” and that I was in no position to tell anyone not to get the money due them. If I were you, he says, I’d get the money since the factory is closing anyway, and the offer may not stand for long.
Everyone knew the real color of that sleaze-bag and that is why he was repeatedly rebuffed during the local elections. But on that day, the people chose to follow him.
As I watched my friends and colleagues, form a queue to get their severance pay, I felt as though a thousand daggers have pierced my heart. I felt numb. Like being orphaned a hundred times over.
It was a sad, sad, sad day for me.
==========================================
The next day, the company allowed us to retrieve our personal belongings. What I took liberally were pictures, instead. Like a madman, I took pictures of every nook and cranny. I was trying to freeze-frame my decade-long memory of the place. The factory, like Willy Wonka’s, had been a special place for me, too.
I took shot after shot even under a light drizzle---something I got to rue later because it ruined the digital camera.
Meanwhile, the rest of the union officers decided to capitulate. The company deviously included the salary for that week into the computation of the severance pay. And since we practically have no more money just before pay day, the check would really come in handy. “Look at it this way,” a fellow union officer opines, “at least the management paid up unlike other companies that closed shop”. Still, I was not convinced.
I was still hurting from the stab wounds I got yesterday.
Then the union president and vice-president talked to me. I, the union secretary, was the last hold-out. They told me it’s a war I can’t win. The people have already surrendered. I knew that, of course. I knew when to accept defeat but maybe, I just needed someone else to spell the same for me.
Finally, as I approach the severance pay counter, I can hear the Department of Labor vultures and their minions heave a sigh of relief as they patted themselves on the back ostensibly, for another job well done. After I signed the check, the Japanese president, sitting at the far end of the table, extended his hand to shake mine.
I turned my back and quickly walked away.
Actually, it wasn’t just me whose employment was terminated: it was everyone else’s. The Japanese owners of the factory where I work decided that it wasn’t worth saving the Philippine manufacturing plant considering the downturn in the US economy---our main customer---whose consumer demand constitutes about 80% of our monthly exports.
The truth is, it’s not really me I’m worried about. I’m fairly young, sharp, and have re-tooled my skills by going back to school while working full time. There’s a considerable chance I can find employment elsewhere. I’m more worried about my co-workers. Many of them are too old to be considered for gainful employment and most have not honed any marketable skills aside from the factory work they have mastered through the years. As I listened to the spontaneous wails and cries of disbelief as the announcement was being made, I came to realize something which I may have known for years but nevertheless have taken for granted: these people meant more than mere co-workers to me.
They were my family.
Maybe that was the reason why I refused to leave the company (with its pittance pay which I get every week that I have derisively referred to as my “allowance”) even if other employment opportunities abound---like those ubiquitous call centers.
“Anak (son), what will I do,” asks a middle-aged woman. She calls me anak because I happen to be a name-sake of her son. “Don’t you worry, ‘Nay (mom), everything will turn out for the better,” I assured her, not really knowing what I mean. Another woman sidles up to me, tears welling in her eyes and says: “Arnel, both me and my husband work here. What will happen to our children?” Her voice broke and I could not do anything but hug her.
She was, after all, my mother, too.
I may be an orphan but under the roof of my own little factory I have found many mothers and fathers. It took a single day for the company to spring the unwelcome surprise. To bid us all---mothers, fathers, sons, daughters---goodbye and good riddance. The vice-president says they commissioned a third party to compute the severance pay and we could get them on that same day. A battery of lawyers, accountants and Department of Labor representatives suddenly swooped down from nowhere to bear witness to the “lawful demise” of the factory. Don’t worry, we were assured, we can still come back the next day to get our things.
After the announcement, I approached the mic and told the assembly: “Hold your heads high, as you go out of this place. You are workers with dignity, and we have worked for years in this place with grace and dignity.” As a union officer, I also appealed for them not to take the severance pay on that same day. The union will have to meet to plan the next move and we have to remain united in the next collective course of action.
The former union president stood up to declare he’s going to be the first to get “his money” and that I was in no position to tell anyone not to get the money due them. If I were you, he says, I’d get the money since the factory is closing anyway, and the offer may not stand for long.
Everyone knew the real color of that sleaze-bag and that is why he was repeatedly rebuffed during the local elections. But on that day, the people chose to follow him.
As I watched my friends and colleagues, form a queue to get their severance pay, I felt as though a thousand daggers have pierced my heart. I felt numb. Like being orphaned a hundred times over.
It was a sad, sad, sad day for me.
==========================================
The next day, the company allowed us to retrieve our personal belongings. What I took liberally were pictures, instead. Like a madman, I took pictures of every nook and cranny. I was trying to freeze-frame my decade-long memory of the place. The factory, like Willy Wonka’s, had been a special place for me, too.
I took shot after shot even under a light drizzle---something I got to rue later because it ruined the digital camera.
Meanwhile, the rest of the union officers decided to capitulate. The company deviously included the salary for that week into the computation of the severance pay. And since we practically have no more money just before pay day, the check would really come in handy. “Look at it this way,” a fellow union officer opines, “at least the management paid up unlike other companies that closed shop”. Still, I was not convinced.
I was still hurting from the stab wounds I got yesterday.
Then the union president and vice-president talked to me. I, the union secretary, was the last hold-out. They told me it’s a war I can’t win. The people have already surrendered. I knew that, of course. I knew when to accept defeat but maybe, I just needed someone else to spell the same for me.
Finally, as I approach the severance pay counter, I can hear the Department of Labor vultures and their minions heave a sigh of relief as they patted themselves on the back ostensibly, for another job well done. After I signed the check, the Japanese president, sitting at the far end of the table, extended his hand to shake mine.
I turned my back and quickly walked away.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Gary Granada vs GMA Kapuso
My heart bleeds for Gary Granada, and for all other artists who find themselves in the same predicament.
I know some comix artists gets commissioned by these giant TV networks to design the costumes for their superhero primetime programs and then gets zilch for their effort or waits for an inordinately long time to get paid. It doesn't matter if the artist devoted 15 minutes or 2 days to draw the costume design (or in Gary Granada's case, to compose it), they should be properly acknowledged and peremptorily compensated for their work.
It's high time for these companies, not to mention for all Filipinos, to respect the rights of artists to their work.
We can thank these artists by respecting their rights.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Araw ng Pasko
(Para sa mga kapwa ko manggagawa na naapektuhan ng krisis pang-ekonomiya.)
Sa pagdating mo, / O araw, na inaasam-asam,
Bakit binalot ang puso/ ng pag-aagam-agam;
Halip kasabikan/ pangako mong kasiyahan,
Ako’y nakatanghod,/ tulala sa kawalan;
Kung sweldo sana’y sapat, / bibili ng krismas tri,
Isasabit sari-saring/ ilaw na patay-sindi;
Noche Buenang sagana/ sa sebo at halakhak,
Sapatos at mumunting/ damit na busilak;
‘Di ako, butihing araw,/ sa ‘yo nagrereklamo,
Ang tanging hiling/ nitong pobreng obrero
Ay turuang ipaliwanag/ kalagayang aba
Sa aking bunsong/ may mata ng pag-asa.
Sa pagdating mo, / O araw, na inaasam-asam,
Bakit binalot ang puso/ ng pag-aagam-agam;
Halip kasabikan/ pangako mong kasiyahan,
Ako’y nakatanghod,/ tulala sa kawalan;
Kung sweldo sana’y sapat, / bibili ng krismas tri,
Isasabit sari-saring/ ilaw na patay-sindi;
Noche Buenang sagana/ sa sebo at halakhak,
Sapatos at mumunting/ damit na busilak;
‘Di ako, butihing araw,/ sa ‘yo nagrereklamo,
Ang tanging hiling/ nitong pobreng obrero
Ay turuang ipaliwanag/ kalagayang aba
Sa aking bunsong/ may mata ng pag-asa.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Ako ay Isang Mabuting Pilipino
Madaling sabihin na kapag nagra-rali ka, mahal mo ang bayan higit sa sarili. Ngunit ano nga ba ang ibig sabihin ng pagmamahal sa bayan?
Sa loob ng mga rali, naka-daupang palad ko ang mga intelektwal, mga lider-manggagawa at pisante, mga idealistikong mag-aaral: lahat sila ay may mga makatwirang iginigiit sa ilalim ng umiiral na dominanteng sistema. Lahat sila ay mahal ang bayang ito at naghahangad na bumuti ang kalagayan ng bawat isa. Hindi ko matatawaran ang mga sakripisyo nila, maliit man o malaki, bunsod ng desisyon nilang bumatikos sa gobyerno at sistema.
Subalit heto si Noel Cabangon, isang musikero at aktibista, na nangahas magtanong sa gitna ng dambuhalang anti-CHA CHA rally sa Makati noong Biyernes, Disyembre 12, 2008; kung sila nga ba ay "Mabuting Pilipino"?
Ipinataas ni Noel ng kanang kamay ang mga nasa rali---maging ang mga pulitiko tulad ng mga senador na dumalo na sina Chiz Escudero, Loren Legarda, Ping Lacson at Mar 'PI' Roxas---at inudyukang manumpa sa saliw ng musika (na ayon sa kanya ay tila panunumpa sa Panatang Makabayan o sa watawat) sa pamamagitan ng pag-uulit sa mga inuusal niya. Ang simula:"hindi ako mangungurakot".
Hagikhikan ang mga tao. Aba'y hindi lang pala mahusay na kompositor at mag-aawit ang dyaskeng si Noel, tuso rin pala.
(Walang nais mag-ilusyon na paninindigan ng mga nabanggit na mambabatas ang sinumpaan nila sa harap ng pagtitipong ito kung sakaling mahalal sila bilang pangulo o anupaman sa taong 2010 subalit sa maikling sandali kay sarap isipin na napahinuhod ng mga ordinaryong mamamayan ang kanilang mga makakapangyarihang pulitiko.)
Hinikayat ni Noel Cabangon ang mga tao, halip na pangaralan. Ako ay sumusunod sa batas-trapiko. Ako ay Mabuting Pilipino. Ako ay hindi nanunuhol. Ako ay mabuting Pilipino.
Ako ay Mabuting Pilipino.
Minsan, may nakipag-talo sa akin kung ano nga ba ang magagawa ng isang tao para mabago ang mundo. Wala naman daw magagawa ang mga pagra-rali rali na 'yan dahil hindi na magbabago ang sistema.
Ang sabi ko: huwag maliitin ang magagawa ng isa. Hindi kami nag-iilusyong magaganap ang pagbabago sa isang kisap-mata. Tumitindig kami para sa susunod na henerasyon.
Kung gayon, anas niya: umaamin kang wala kayong magagawa sa henerasyong ito kundi mag-rali at mag-ingay sa kalye.
"Hindi ka naman parang isang tao na haharap sa buhawi", sagot ko. Hindi ka naman isang nawawalang manlalakbay na tataghoy lang sa kakahuyan. Kung nais ko man baguhin ang lipunan, batid kong nagsisimula ang pagbabago sa aking sarili. Hindi dapat sinusukat ang tagumpay sa mga makasaysayang mga pangyayari lamang tulad ng pagbagsak ng Berlin wall subalit sa mga maliliit na bagay din tulad ng pagta-tangi-tangi ng iyong mga basura sa bahay.
Ilan ito sa mga binanggit ko:
1. Nagbabayad ako ng tamang buwis. Maging sa pagbabayad ng sedula, hindi ako nagpapanggap na estudyante o walang trabaho para makatipid.
2. Humihingi ako ng resibo sa mga bahay-kalakal o bahay-kainan para masigurong nagbabayad din sila ng tamang buwis. Mabuti na lang at may "Premyo sa Resibo" raffle promo ang BIR kaya lagi akong may dahilan.
3. Hindi ako nagkakalat ng basura. Tanging sa basurahan lang ako nagtatapon o kung sakaling walang basurahan, sa bulsa o sa kamay ko muna. Naisaloob ko na ang kampanyang "Munting Basura, Ibulsa muna" ng lungsod ng Marikina.
4. Inihihiwalay ko ang basura sa bahay: may lagayan sa mga papel at karton, sa mga PET bottles, sa mga plastic at sa nabubulok. Nagdadala rin ako ng plastic bag kapag maggo-groseri.
5. Bumuboto ako sa eleksyon ayon sa aking konsensiya.
Kung sakaling maraming naniniwala sa maliliit na pagbabago sa buhay, tiwala ako na susunod na ang daluyong ng pagbabago sa lipunan.
Hindi ko masasabi na perpekto ako. Marami akong pagkukulang sa lipunan man o sa sarili subalit sa mga maliliit kong pagsisikap tulad ng nabanggit sa taas, sinisikap ko pa ring maging isang mabuting Pilipino.
Araw-araw, ang pagsisikap kong ito; para taas-noong kong masabi: "Ako ay mabuting Pilipino."
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