ISANG PAALALA SA MGA PINOY

>              Meron akong gustong ibahagi para sa ating
> lahat na mga PILIPINO. Simple pero parang mahirap gawin ng
> karamihan sa atin.Hindi ito makukuha sa puro daldalan lang
> or walang kabuluhang pagtatalo,kumilos tayo ngayon na.
>
>              Sa ibang bansa: Pag nagkasala ang Pinoy,
> pinarusahan siya ayon sa batas.
>              Sa PINAS: Pag nagkasala ang ang Pinoy, ayaw
> niyang maparusahan kasi sabi niya mali raw ang batas.
>
>              Sa ibang bansa: Pinag-aaralan muna ng Pinoy
> ang mga batas bago siya pumunta roon, kasi takot siyang
> magkamali.
> >              Sa PINAS: Pag nagkamali ang Pinoy, sorry kasi
> hindi raw niya alam na labag sa batas iyon.
>
>              Sa ibang bansa: Kahit gaano kataas ang
> bilihin at tax sa USA okey lang, katuwiran natin doble kayod
> na lang.
> >              Sa PINAS: mahilig ka sa last day para
> magbayad ng tax minsan dinadaya mo pa o kaya hindi ka
> nagbabayad. Rally ka kaagad kapag tumaas ang pasahe at
> bilihin imbes na magsipag, mas gusto natin ang nagkukwentuhan
> lang sa munisipyo o kahit sa alinmang tanggapan.
>
>              Sa Singapore : Kapag nahuli kang nagkalat or
> nagtapon ng basura sa hindi tamang lugar, magbabayad ka ng
> 500 Singapore dollars. Sabi ng Pinoy, okey lang kasi lumabag
> ako sa batas.
> >              Sa Pinas: Kapag nagkamali ang Pinoy katulad
> nang ganito, sabi ng Pinoy, ang lupit naman ni Bayani
> Fernando , mali naman ang pinaiiral niyang batas eh, akala mo
> kung sino siya. Ayun nag-rally na ang Pinoy, gustong patalsikin
> si Bayani Fernando kahit na alam niyang mali siya.
>
>              Mga igan, ilan pa lang iyan baka may iba pa
> kayong alam?
>
>              Bakit ang PINOY, pwedeng maging ‘ law
> abiding citizen sa ibang bansa ng walang angal ‘ pero sa
> sarili nating bayang PILIPINAS na sinasabi ninyong mahal
> natin, eh hindi natin magawa, BAKIIITTTTT? ????????
>
>
>              ETO PA, “Ang Pilipino NOON at NGAYON”
>
>              NOON: Wow ang sarap ng kamote.
>              NGAYON: Ayaw ko ng kamote gusto ko French
> Fries (imported eh)
>
>              NOON: Wow ang sarap ng kapeng barako
>              NGAYON: Ayaw ko niyan gusto kong kape sa
>              STARBUCKS (imported coffee 100 pesos per cup)
>
>              NOON: Bili ka ng tela para magpatahi ng
> pantalon like maong
>              NGAYON: Gusto ko LEVI’S, WRANGLER, LEE
> (Tapos nagra-rally tayo, “GMA tuta ng KANO”) Di ba tuta
> ka rin naman.
>
>              NOON: Sabon na Perla OK ng pampaligo
>              NGAYON: Gusto mo DOVE, HENO DE PRAVIA,IVORY,
> etc. may matching shampoo pa
>
>              NOON: Pag naglaba ka batya at palopalo ok na,
> minsan banlaw lang sa batis pwede na
>              NGAYON: Naka-washing machine ka na plus ARIEL
> powdered soap with matching DOWNY pa para mabango. Alam ko mas marami pa ang alam ninyo tungkol dito, pero mangilan-ngilan lang iyan para bigyan ng pansin.
>
>              Mga Pilipino nga ba tayo? O baka sa salita
> lang at E-Mail pero wala naman sa gawa.
>

Her eye (I’m very fond of handsome eyes) Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise Flash’d an expression more of pride than ire, And love than either; and there would arise, A something in them which was not desire, But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul, Which struggled through and chansten’d down the whole. (Lord Byron, Don Juan canto I, st. 60)

Just one stare and the world melts with it. Indeed melting! Such fair that lingers in its very existence marks the coming of a goddess. It is with such marvel for a fair goddess to have such vision. A stare that can command the galaxy and dwell on her beauty. Such vision of chastity that can trap a heart to desire. The curves and corners emphasized in such detail, intensifies its radiance and beauty.

But what is in the look that makes a mortal wonder? A gaze that launches thousands of mind. Ah,yes a mind! There is just something with those eyes that questions. Is that the look of lethargy or a questioning mind of a goddess? Is she lonely, so lonely almost asking for someone to save her from such tribulation? Is she drowning in the river of aberration of mind, floating from the restless ire of the universe? Or just the simple emptiness of a world despite its assiduous engagements.

With the eyes of grief or of innocence that had been shattered by the menacle of malice in the world. And despite of its cruelties, the goddess remains to be a symbol of invincible fortitude. The eyes fears no one, she sticks out like a sore thumb against onslaughts of perversions. Stripped with rage and fire, she stood in an arrow like stillness. So still that trepidation is present upon danger’s face. Such imperilment is stabbed in the heart of chaos.

Nevertheless, she may have a fragile heart of a mortal, the goddess stands out from the normal crowd with such grace and beauty. These eyes are the eyes of a goddess. A goddess that can endure suffering and can show kindness at the same time. A kind heart that can will the wrath of Poseidon and can make the titans surrender to their knees. The eyes that can see through one’s soul, the eyes that have captured the heart of a squemish mortal.

Who Writes

TIPS FOR WRITERS AND WRITING GROUPS

by Judy Reeves

Gertrude Stein wrote, “To write is to write is to write is to write is to write is to write is to write.” Who can say what she meant (she also wrote, “Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose”), except perhaps exactly what she wrote: that writing is all and everything of it, the beginning and the end.  That to write is to write. We just do it. How to get started writing? Write. How to keep going? Write.

Sadly, for many of us it just isn’t that simple. We have trouble getting started, we have trouble keeping the pace and, too often, we simply give up or our enthusiasm and determination trickle away, like a stream petering out.

But because writing is in our hearts and souls and DNA, after a few weeks or months or even years, we’re back at it again. More determined than ever that, this time, we’ll stay with it.

Maybe we do and maybe we don’t. In my experience as a teacher, more often than not people don’t stay with it. For some, the cycle repeats and repeats.  Because we can’t keep the thing going, we begin to judge ourselves failures at writing, our self-esteem goes the way of our tossed out pages, and after a while, it becomes more and more difficult to begin again.  This is heartbreaking. Because we are writers and when we aren’t being fully and wholly ourselves — when a piece of ourselves is missing — we can never feel at home in the world or at peace within ourselves. Writing is who we are. Not all of who we are, but enough of who we are that when we’re not writing, we’re not whole.

Claim Yourself As Writer

Until you name yourself Writer, you will never be a writer who writes (and keeps writing).

Most writers I know, especially those who have not published, say, “I want to be a writer.” Or “I’m a [fill in the blank] and I like to write.” Or “I’ve always dreamed of being a writer.” But they don’t actually call themselves a writer. Think of all the other names you give yourself: man/woman, mother/father, wife/husband, friend, teacher, technician, masseuse, lawyer, gardener, chef. We take each of these names as a way of identifying ourselves, both to others and to ourselves. We are what we say we are. In some cultures, new names are assumed when character-evolving events take place. These names indicate the person has been transformed.  If you announce you are a writer, rather than simply mouthing that you want to be or you’d like to be, you may be transformed. Try it. Right now. Speak your name out loud followed by, “I’m a writer.” Let yourself experience the sensations you feel when you sound out the words.  “But I haven’t been published yet,” you might say, as if this were the thing that would give you the right to call yourself writer. After all, when you tell people you’re a writer, don’t they always ask, “Oh, and what have you published?”

Listen to this: Being published doesn’t have anything to do with being a writer! It has to do with earning money as a writer. Maybe. Getting some kind of validation and recognition, perhaps notoriety and fame. Though truth be told, the majority of published writers don’t earn all that much money or notoriety or fame. We might say, to be published is to be published is to be published. To be sure, getting published is the aim of many of us. After all, we write to communicate, and having an audience is the flip side of the communication coin. But it is not the reason we write. We write because it is what we must do. Anne Sexton said, “When I am writing I am doing the thing I was meant to do.”

Besides, once we are published, this doesn’t mean we will stop writing. We will continue to write. This is what writers do. I have this vision of me at my writing table, a fat roll of butcher’s paper at one end and a take-up reel with a crank at the other end. The paper just keeps passing beneath my pen and I just keep writing. As the old joke goes, “Old writers never die, they just keep revising the ending.”

How do you claim yourself as writer?

First, say it. “I’m a writer.” Say it out loud. Say it to yourself in the mirror. Say it to your friends and family. Say it to the next person you meet at a party who asks, “What do you do?” Say it to a stranger in line at the grocery store. Say it to your mother. Mostly, say it to yourself. “I’m a writer.”

·       Make a place for your writing, a sacred place where you go with joy as your companion, not dread or guilt or “shoulds” riding your shoulders like weights of sand. If you don’t already have a room or specific place, make one. Take up a whole room or a section of a room. Before she created her own studio, my friend Wendy used a screen to separate her writing place from the rest of the living room. If the only space you can free up for your writing is part of a table, sometimes, when you’re not eating on it, then make it a special place. When you go there for your writing, bring along a candle or lamp or some flowers, anything that transforms the space from the quotidian to the unique. Make it important and make it yours however you can. Claim the space.

·       Get the tools you need. Honor your writing with the kind of paper or notebook you like; buy your favorite pens by the box or spend a bundle on that Waterman or Mont Blanc you’ve always wanted. Have a computer that belongs to you — not one you have to share — and a good printer. It’s amazing what just printing out your writing using a laser jet printer will do to make it look — and you feel — professional. Get a good dictionary, thesaurus, and stylebook. Find books on the craft and subscribe to writing journals.

·       Hang out with other writers. Go to readings and book signings, open mikes. Communicate with other writers. Drop a note to someone whose book you admire and tell them (not in a gushy, fan magazine kind of way, but as one writer to another). Sign up for workshops and conferences. Get in a group.

·       Read as a writer. Learn from the best. Study your favorite authors, and copy passages into your notebook to get the feel of their rhythm and style.  Deconstruct their sentences, paragraphs, scenes, and chapters to discover their techniques and their secrets. Read the work aloud and discuss the books with your writer friends. Next to the act of writing itself, reading good writing will be your best teacher.

Make Time to Write

The second thing you must do to be a writer who writes is make the time to write. This is where many would-be writers fall short. Unless you make the time to write, you’ll never write. Extra time won’t just show up, and if you promise to do your writing “as soon as…” you’ll never get to it. Take it from one who knows. For the better part of twenty-five years, I was a writer who would write “as soon as…”; I had more stops and starts in my writing career than a local train. It wasn’t until I actually set aside writing time on a regular basis that I became a writer who writes.

Make an appointment with your writing self, write it down in your calendar: 2:00 p.m. Monday: Write; 3:30 p.m. Tuesday: Write; 9:15 a.m. Wednesday: Write; and so forth.

Find a time that fits you. Don’t set aside two hours if you can only do thirty minutes. Don’t set your alarm for 5:30 in the morning if you always resist getting up and hate the mornings. You may come to resent your writing as much as you resent the alarm clock. By the same token, don’t say you’ll do it at night after everything else is done if, by 8:30, you’re supine on the couch and can’t keep your eyes open. Find a time that works for you.  Take half your lunch hour. Do it right after work. Get up half an hour earlier. If you have the flexibility to make your own schedule, set aside time during the workday.

In my classes I listen to the complaints of students who say they just don’t have time to write, then I ask for a show of hands of those who watch television on a regular basis or those who surf the Web. When the rows of hands waving in the air look like an Iowa cornfield in August, I ask again, “Who can’t find the time to write?” Sheepish grins and embarrassed giggles.  Write instead of watching TV, instead of surfing the Web, instead of spending an hour or more reading the newspaper, instead of going out with friends. You have to give up something. Even if it’s only leisure time in front of the tube.

Note: don’t give up taking walks or witnessing sunsets.

You may have always heard that if you want to be a writer, you have to write every day. This is not an absolute rule. Few rules are. To be successful (i.e., a writer who writes), you do have to write several times a week — at least four or five sessions, and every day is best. Pulitzer Prize-winning author Michael Chabon swears by his 10 p.m. to 4 a.m. Sunday-Thursday routine. Part of it is the daily habit of it and part of it is the continuity. The writing will come easier with regular practice, too. You get better at something you do often. Mick Jagger said, “You have to sing every day so you can build up to being, you know, Amazingly Brilliant.”

In a New Yorker (January 28, 2002) article titled “The Learning Curve — How Do You Become a Good Surgeon? Practice,” Atul Gawande related the importance of practice. In writing about elite performers, he said, “[T]he most important talent may be the talent for practice itself.” He referred to K. Anders Ericsson, a psychologist, who noted that “the most important role that innate factors play may be in a person’s willingness to engage in sustained training.”

Like exercise or losing weight or taking a class, sometimes it’s a whole lot easier to do it with a supportive companion. Make a date with a friend for writing. If you can’t get together in person, make a phone call or e-mail one another to say, “I wrote today” or “I’m going to write at 6:30 this evening,” or “How’d the writing go today?”

Waiting for inspiration to descend before you write is like waiting for Godot. Interminable. It’s been said that if you show up at your page at the agreed upon time, inspiration will know where to find you. Someone else said, “Writing is 20 percent inspiration and 80 percent perspiration.” Besides, if writing is your daily practice, you won’t need inspiration to get to it. Imagine waiting for inspiration to rest her shining arms around you before you take the dog for a walk or drive to work.

Write

Finally, the third leg in the triangle of being a writer who writes is, of course, doing the thing. Talking about writing isn’t writing. Thinking about writing isn’t writing. Dreaming or fantasizing isn’t writing. Neither are outlining, researching, or making notes. All these may be a part of the whole milieu of the writing life and necessary to getting a project completed, but only writing is writing.

“You can’t sit around thinking,” said fiction writer David Long. “You must sit around writing.”

So every day, at the appointed time (or at some spontaneous gift of time), you sit at your desk (or your table in the café or on the grass in the park), you open your notebook or you boot up your computer, and you write.

Do this every day and I will guarantee you, you will fill notebook after notebook, you will begin and complete stories, essays, narrative nonfiction — whatever you want to write. You will have bits and pieces and wild, imaginative ramblings. You will be a Writer Who Writes.

Thank you

TRUE! – nervous – very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and
am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my
senses – not destroyed – not dulled them. Above all was the sense of
hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I
heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe
how healthily – how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once
conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none.
Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me.
He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think
it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture – a
pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my
blood ran cold; and so by degrees – very gradually – I made up my
mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye
forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you
should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded -
with what caution – with what foresight – with what dissimulation I
went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole
week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned
the latch of his door and opened it – oh so gently! And then, when I
had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern,
all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my
head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in!
I moved it slowly – very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb
the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within
the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!
would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was
well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously -
cautiously (for the hinges creaked) – I undid it just so much that a
single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven
long nights – every night just at midnight – but I found the eye
always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was
not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning,
when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke
courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and
inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been
a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at
twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the
door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never
before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers – of my
sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think
that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even
to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the
idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as
if startled. Now you may think that I drew back – but no. His room
was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were
close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could
not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily,
steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb
slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed,
crying out – “Who’s there?”

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move
a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was
still sitting up in the bed listening; – just as I have done, night
after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of
mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief – oh, no! – it
was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul
when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just
at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own
bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted
me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied
him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying
awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the
bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been
trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to
himself – “It is nothing but the wind in the chimney – it is only a
mouse crossing the floor,” or “It is merely a cricket which has made
a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with
these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain;
because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow
before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful
influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel -
although he neither saw nor heard – to feel the presence of my head
within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him
lie down, I resolved to open a little – a very, very little crevice
in the lantern. So I opened it – you cannot imagine how stealthily,
stealthily – until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of
the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture
eye.

It was open – wide, wide open – and I grew furious as I gazed upon
it. I saw it with perfect distinctness – all a dull blue, with a
hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I
could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had
directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but
over-acuteness of the sense? – now, I say, there came to my ears a
low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in
cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old
man’s heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum
stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held
the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray
upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It
grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The
old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say,
louder every moment! – do you mark me well I have told you that I am
nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the
dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this
excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I
refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I
thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me – the
sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man’s hour had come!
With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room.
He shrieked once – once only. In an instant I dragged him to the
floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to
find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on
with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be
heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I
removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone
dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes.
There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me
no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I
describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body.
The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I
dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and
deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so
cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye – not even his – could have
detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out – no stain of
any kind – no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A
tub had caught all – ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock – still
dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking
at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, – for
what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced
themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek
had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul
play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police
office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the
premises.

I smiled, – for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The
shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was
absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade
them search – search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I
showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of
my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here
to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of
my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath
which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was
singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they
chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale
and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my
ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more
distinct: – It continued and became more distinct: I talked more
freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained
definiteness – until, at length, I found that the noise was not
within my ears.

No doubt I now grew _very_ pale; – but I talked more fluently, and
with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased – and what could I
do? It was a low, dull, quick sound – much such a sound as a watch
makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath – and yet the
officers heard it not. I talked more quickly – more vehemently; but
the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a
high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily
increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro
with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the
men – but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I
foamed – I raved – I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been
sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all
and continually increased. It grew louder – louder – louder! And
still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they
heard not? Almighty God! – no, no! They heard! – they suspected! -
they knew! – they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought,
and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything
was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those
hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and
now – again! – hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! – tear
up the planks! here, here! – It is the beating of his hideous heart!”

Hello fellow English majors, what can you say about this article? It was posted by a certain Lourdes Villanueva sometime last year in Friedrich Numann’s site, but I think it would still be nice to talk about it.

“Filipino vs. English as the medium of instruction”

A petition has been filed in the Supreme Court challenging the government?s policy of using English as the medium of instruction in our schools. According to those who filed the petition, the push for the use of English in our classrooms will only lead to further deterioration of what?s already been described as a rather inferior quality of education.

Those who support the 2003 Executive Order filed by President Arroyo on the other hand argue that doing away with English as the medium of instruction will inevitably hurt the country and our people more because they believe that a less competitive workforce will emerge.

I find myself a bit torn with this issue.

3 months ago, I would have been right on the side of government. Having had the opportunity to travel and study abroad, I fully recognize the value of being able to speak and write fluently in English. I know that it was due in part to my English proficiency that I didn?t have as much difficulty in trying to find a job as the rest of my ‘international’ friends. I didn?t have to enroll in ESL classes which could have delayed my program for another year. I didn?t get lost around town as much and I was able to meet and make friends easily because there was no language barrier. So, I really benefited a lot from learning English in my grade school and high school years.

But then three months ago, I also didn?t know much about the state of education in the Philippines. Fortunately, since I returned, I?ve learned quite a bit about the ?ills? of our public education system. I guess this is why I find myself torn.

I recognize that learning to speak and write in English in this age of globalization is necessary especially if we would like to be able to compete in the knowledge-based world. Such a training can best be done in a classroom. But if we look at things realistically, it seems like our public education system is just not set up for this yet.

And so I just can?t help but wonder? should we really impose a certain language as the primary medium of instruction? I understand that standards are needed and must be met. But couldn?t we perhaps just be a bit more liberal with our views? Shouldn?t teachers be allowed to use the most effective communication tools that will allow them to articulate their lesson plans best? Wouldn?t that, in the end, help their students to grasp the material better and truly learn?