MO4.L09 - POTENTIAL AND LIMITATIONS OF FORWARD-LOOKING BISTATIC SAR
MO4 Group 2 Anthology
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Transcript of MO4 Group 2 Anthology
Shooting the Breeze Micheal Gotamco
Ramon Vincent Javier
Piel Marie Olayta Mendoza
Isabel Santos Roces
Eric Roxas
Carmela Dominique Uson
The day was glaring and cloudless, the heat magnified by the
layers of his officer's uniform. At least there will be air conditioning
inside, he thought. He had been called multiple times to the Principal's
Office in years past, all of them due to ailing academics. But it's different
this time. This time it isn't about grades, it's about-- “The Assistant
Principal will see you now.” A secretary interrupted him.
Opening the door rewarded him with a blast of cold air, and
moving forward felt like walking into a different world as the cold
surrounded him. The room was lined with posters along the walls, from
“You can do anything” to the posters of various colleges, many he has
never heard of. Across the room was a long desk, with a computer at one
end and a plaque with the Assistant Principal's name on the other. Behind
the desk was a stocky man around his 40s, his skin was vibrant white, and
his hair was matted and brown. “Come in, come in, sit, sit!” His voice was
deep, yet he managed a cheerful tone. “Morning, sir.” Said the boy who
looked like a soldier as he pulled up the chair in front of the plaque. “How
are we today, Michael?” “I'm okay, sir,” the boy replied nonchalantly. He
was too busy reading the certificate underneath the glass that covered the
table, “Doctor of Psychology,” it read. Shit. He's going to read me like a
book.
The conversation started the same way all conversations with
faculty in Xavier started, with
“How's your family?” “We're fine.”
“No problems or things you want to talk about? No arguments?” “None”
“Well, who do you like most in your family?” “My mom.”
“Who do you hate most?” “My sister.”
“Why?” “Well, there's only three of us, so I'd have to choose one or the
other, right?” Feigned outbursts of laughter erupted from both players in
the game.
The Assistant Principal looked to his computer and started typing,
slouching in his chair, and kept up a cheerful smile. “Do you know why
you're here?” He's baiting me. He's acting casual so I'll be at ease and
naïve or something. Baiting me. “I don't know.”
“It's about the rumours spreading in the school, about you and your
Chinese teacher.” Your chinese teacher. “Do you know these rumours?” “I
know of them, I think.” My throat feels knotted. “I'm here to find out about
the truth of them.” It isn't fair. He's a doctor.
“They say you and your teacher are in a relationship.” Your teacher. He's
trying to distance her by not saying her name, is he baiting me to say it? If
I say her name, what does it mean? On the other hand, does it mean
something if I don't say it? “I'm here to protect you, Michael, from all
these rumours, but I have to know which of these are truth and not truth.”
Lies. But I'm here to protect her. I have to. Maybe lies won't get me out of
here, but half-truths might be enough.
“Did you like your teacher? I mean, when I was your age, I had
my own share of crushes on my teachers as well,” he asked, chuckling
through the question. No use lying about this one. “Well, yeah, but she
always turned me down, hahahaha.” “I'll have to commend you for the
effort anyway, I never had the guts to actively pursue a teacher,
hahahahaha.”
“Did you text your teacher?” “Well, yeah, but we stopped.” “Did
you know that teachers aren't allowed to give their students their personal
cellphone numbers?” “That's actually why we stopped, though.” “But it
shouldn't have started in the first place.” “The teachers that came from
China weren't given a copy of the handbook until recently.” The Assistant
Principal's brow furrowed. I got him. And I blamed the school. That has
got to be some extra points for me, right?
“Did the two of you ever go out together?” “Once, but it was
entirely my fault. I gave her no choice.” “Tell me about it.” It's the same
smile, but it looks more like an imp's to me now rather than a friend's. The
boy-sergeant smiled ear-to-ear. “Well, it was on the rainy days of July, just
after my birthday, if I remember right. I stood outside of the dormitories of
the teachers in the middle of a storm, I called her, but she refused to come
out and meet me. I waited in the middle of the rain, while the road turned
into a river around me.” Shit. Shitshitshit. They're going to think it's her
fault I stood in the rain. “She really didn't want to see me, and she herself
said that we shouldn't see each other outside of school,” he added quickly.
“But I just stood there and waited for three hours, until she finally cracked
up, met me outside with an umbrella, and we ate at North Park.” There.
See? It was my fault. She never forced me to wait in the rain, I did it
willingly. But you people will try your best to put the blame on her, to say
that she caused a student to stand in the rain. Fuck this. “Funny, isn't it?”
The Assistant Principal picked up a piece of paper and chuckled
loudly, “Well-- I know this is a bit personal, but-- have you two had sex?”
“WHAAAAAAAAAT?! No way, are you really asking that?
HAHAHAH!” “Well, it's here on the list of rumours, hahaha.” “I
think it's just the students, being in an all-boys school and thinking that a
relationship like this happening, you know? They'll do anything to add sex
into the equation, hahahahaha.” “You're probably right.” Probably. He
doesn't believe me. “And that's the last of the rumours, you're free to go,
sir.” The Assistant Principal salutes the student. He stands up, the combat
boots do what they can to hold him up. I did it. My knees feel like jelly, but
I did it.
He opens the door. I won this, right? I took all the blame, and kept
her out of it, that's enough. He is half a step outside, when the Assistant
Principal calls to him from behind, “Remember, Michael, we're on your
side.” His stomach sunk. He knew what that meant. If he's on my side.
"How do we educate our children to take their place in the
economy of the 21st century given that we can't anticipate what the
economy will look like at the end of next week? How do we do that?" That
was a quote from Sir Ken Robinson from his talk about how our present
education system is not fit for the present generation. I am convinced that
our present education, specifically in that of the Ateneo, is flawed in
several ways but three of them which I consider need the most attention
are that education teaches us more things we don't need rather than what
we do need. Education no longer promises a bright future nor is it needed
to achieve it, and it deteriorates creativity.
The other day I was a watching the television and there was a
game show called “Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader?” If you are
unfamiliar with the program, basically it’s a game show wherein the
contestants are adults and they are bombarded with the simplest of
questions that are asked in primary and middle school levels and if they
get them right, they could go home with thousands of dollars. Naturally,
one would think an adult, having gone through the whole system of
education, is already working, and has a whole lot of life experience would
be able to answer such basic questions such as “Which planet takes the
least amount of time to orbit the sun?” but surprisingly, many contestants
have failed to give the correct answer to these simple questions that most
kids in grade school can answer. Also, if you didn’t know, the answer to
the question is Mercury. This show got me thinking about how these
educated adults with decent homes, families and jobs manage to go on
with their lives without easily being able to answer what most kids are
expected to know and learn in grade school. While watching the show I
also realized that I couldn’t answer some of the questions myself but these
kids on the show could. The problem was most of the questions asked
struck me as trivial. Does that mean most of the time and effort we gave in
school, which took years of our lives, was spent to learn trivial things that
might only prove useful to us in case we wind up on some game show
many years later?
This brings me to my first point, we are often taught things we do
not need rather than things we do need. As a student of the Ateneo, I still
remember what I've learned back in grade school and high school or
rather, I don't. I remember I have taken up a lot of history and science and
other subjects but I do not specifically remember each and every detail
asked in tests which have made up my grades which got me here in the
Ateneo college. This isn't just me of course. Other students here also agree
that they cannot recall half the important names and dates taught in
history. They cannot recall equations and terms from physics and
chemistry yet my generation is expected to take their places in the
economy in a few years to come. The present education system requires
you to complete years of levels of education. People in my batch of
students have spent the last 13-14 years in school yet in some of these
years, we were taught lessons which we will never apply in our lives and
eventually forget though we were instructed to learn them and study in
school and at home so that we may pass dreaded tests on these matters.
Does that mean many years of a student's life goes to waste learning
lessons he or she will soon forget and never apply? There are bound to be
people who will find physics or chemistry useful to their lives but compare
it to the number who won't. Will it still be a necessity to educate every
child about it just because a few of them will use it much later on? In 13-
14 years, people can learn and achieve so much but our education system
insists that students learn all these assorted bits of information which
might only prove useful to pass a test certifying that they have learned that
particular lesson. Is it important for a fifth grader to know that the planet
in our solar system that takes the least amount of time to orbit the sun is
Mercury? How many people on earth have found that information useful
other than being asked in a game show or a test? If there are, is it
absolutely necessary to teach it to thousands of students year after year? If
not, then there should be no point in exerting the effort, time, and money
into teaching our generation something that will only serve them as trivial.
Often students complain, "I'll never need to know this in life," and
the question is, will they really? Sir Ken Robinson said in one of his talks
that back then, if a student works hard and does well, he or she would have
a job but today's generation does not believe in that and they are most
certainly right not to. You are better off having a degree than not but it is
no longer a guarantee of a good job anymore and especially if the route
you take to it marginalizes most of the things you think are most important
about yourself. According to Anthony P. Carnevale, director at the
National Center on Education and the Economy, "We live in a society
where you don't go anywhere unless you don't go to college." 70% get into
college. One fourth of those get a four year degree and only about 35% of
them graduate. The rest never get into college or never finish. However
even those with a degree are not assured of a good job. This is because
every year, less and less jobs are offered, the demand of jobs outweigh the
availability of job openings and the standards and requirements of jobs
become tougher. Many graduates end up getting a job if they're lucky but
they're not doing what they love to do and that's because there's no other
choice left.
Many individuals have become successful without finishing
school. Tom Cruise is one of the most highest paid actors and did not go to
college. Bill Gates is the former CEO of Microsoft and is considered to be
one of the world's wealthiest people and he is a college drop out. Mark
Zuckerburg, the founder of the social networking site, Facebook, is one of
the youngest billionaires and is a Harvard drop out. These are only some
of the many examples wherein individuals pursue what they are good at
despite not going to or dropping out of school. This paper does not aim to
advise every individual to drop their books and go out and do whatever
they want. This just goes to prove that school isn't as important and
necessary as it is viewed to be. Many of those who have changed the
world did not finish school.
The last point is that education deteriorates creativity. Any school
system will teach you a hierarchy of subjects. There is math and science at
the top. Then there is Language and Literature. After that are humanities
and at the bottom are the arts. There is no school system that will teach
arts as often and as thorough as math and science. We do not teach
students arts with the same importance and way we require them to learn
their Math and Science. Math and Science have great value but so do the
arts but why are some subjects treated as more important than the other?
Sir Ken Robinson says that one of the reasons for this is that people do not
see the economic value in the arts. It is often that a student is driven away
from what he or she finds passion and importance in and then driven
towards what adults claim to have more value later on such as becoming
an engineer, doctor or lawyer. This mentality of our school system
consequently divides subjects into necessary and unnecessary subjects.
The problem is that our current education system was designed and
modeled in the age of the enlightenment. We are taught a standard set of
different subjects and lessons. We also separate students by batches. There
are students who excel far more than other students in different disciplines
but our education system is standardized as if we are trying to bring up
only one model of student by the time they reach college. If we are to
maximize the potential of each individual, we shouldn't educate our
generation with a standard production line mentality. This links to the first
point where in so many lessons of which education claims to be important
to teach yet later on becomes of no value to most. Many people end up
unsatisfied with their lives because what they had passion for and what
they excelled at was not valued in school. This would have been the case
of Gillian Barbara Lynne, a dancer. She claims that as a child she did
horrible in school. She would always fidget and she could not concentrate
on her studies. It was later on discovered by a specialist that there was
nothing wrong with Gillian. She was a dancer. So her parents took her to a
dance school and there her passion was nurtured. She excelled and had a
career in ballet. She was a choreographer of the play CATS. She
eventually graduated from the dance school and founded her own dance
company. She has entertained millions of people with her passion and is
now a multi-millionaire. The education system would have wanted to tame
her and study math.
Education is valuable but our current system might not prove fit
for our current generation anymore. We unconsciously brainwash our
children to move towards a goal many others are striving for because the
future of that path looks to have promising economic value. Unfortunately
in this process, we might also be shunning away their talents and fortes
and end up not maximizing the amazing potentials of individuals.
I was still in the throes of sleep – I had just arrived from a five-day
educational tour when my mother woke me up with such urgency. I tried
shaking her off so that I can catch up with more zzz’s but to no avail. She
again tried to rouse me with every trick she had tried all throughout my
grade school and high school days. Just when I thought she’d give up, she
uttered those words: “ACET results are out”. With that I bolted right out of
bed and went straight to the computer and logged into the official Ateneo
website. My hands were cold and clammy and my legs were shaking as I
waited for the screen to show me the results. It wasn’t that I didn’t think I
passed – I knew I did – but it was because I was anticipating the status of
my scholarship. As the page slowly loaded, the feeling of breathlessness
overcame me. My name and status (accepted) along with my first course
choice were already shown – my scholarship status was the only thing that
still needed to load. I was shaking my legs more this time already and I
was nervously clawing at the old ratty shirt I was wearing to wipe off the
sweat off my palms. Suddenly, my stomach dropped and my palms were
wetter and clammier and my legs stopped shaking altogether. I was
waitlisted. I tried to lift the corners of my mouth to show my parents that I
wasn’t that much affected but in truth it was difficult to do so. The
scholarship was the only way my parents would allow me to study in
Manila – not because we needed the financial assistance but because the
scholarship guarantees them that I am dead serious in studying here, that I
am here for a reason other than to be close to my boyfriend who would
eventually study in that school in Taft. My parents then noticed that I was
fixed on the computer screen, as if staring there unblinkingly would
magically change the outcome of the results. My father, who is more
perceptive than I’d give him credit for, told me that being waitlisted isn’t
permanent; he told me that I could still be accepted if I were to write a
Letter of Appeal to the Office of Admission and Aid. I did write a letter
only because my father told me to and not because I believed that I’d be
given a shot to study in one of the Philippines’ prestigious universities.
Days and weeks passed and I still couldn’t get the thought of
being waitlisted off my mind. For years my parents paid for my tuition
fees (along with my younger siblings’) to one of my province’s elite
schools and I wanted to give them a break from it. I would show people
that I wasn’t that hung-up about being waitlisted but in truth I spent every
night praying the rosary and saying the novena to our Mother of Perpetual
Help. Every Sunday after Mass, I would go light a candle and say a prayer
or two at the Pea. One could say that Heaven might have drowned from
my constant pleas. So that I wouldn’t come off as someone who wants
everything in life, I made a pact with God – if I didn’t get the scholarship,
I would willingly study in Legazpi City, my hometown. But if I were to
get the scholarship, I would pack up my bags and prepare myself for the
Big City. That being said, the die was cast. I told my parents this and they
told me that they’d be willing to send me to Manila either way because
they’ve seen how hung up I’ve been over the whole matter. I politely
turned down their offer and decided to stick with my guns.
As the time for reconsidered scholarships came nearer and nearer,
I began having doubts whether I made the right decision of turning down
my parents’ offer to send me to Ateneo minus the scholarship. I prayed
harder for that was the only thing I could do – I felt helpless over the
situation. That was the only time that I realized that I had gambled a major
decision that could influence the entire course of my life but what could I
do? I couldn't go and take back what I said to my parents! They would see
that as a sign of immaturity so I stood my ground in fear for the outcome.
Time passed and I’d let chances to go to other colleges go by and that was
the time I truly felt afraid. I didn’t send any form of my confirmation of
my slot to other universities. This pissed off my parents saying that I’ve
gambled a lot for just one school which wasn’t my dream school at all. At
this rate, they said, I should get that scholarship or else I was going to end
up in my hometown. That didn’t help at all.
It was just like any other day on the fifth of April 2011 so I
decided to go out with my best friend. In one way, I viewed it as a
consolation in case I didn’t receive a scholarship and so I vowed to tire
myself out so that I’d be too tired to cry when I got home. We were about
to enter the KTV room when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket.
Thinking that it was just another group message, I didn’t expect anything
out of the ordinary. Being nonchalant didn’t help at all for as soon as I
read my father’s message saying that I got a full scholarship, I shrieked at
the top of my lungs causing people to throw irritated glances our way. My
best friend didn’t even have to ask– it was that apparent to me that I, Piel
Marie Aguilar, a plain promdi was on my way to studying in the Ateneo
de Manila University.
My case isn’t an unusual one – plenty of people get in the Ateneo
because of scholarship grants. As of Academic Year 2008-2009, fourteen
percent (14%) of the total college population enjoyed financial assistance.
Around seventy percent (70%) of them received full scholarship grants,
twenty percent (20%) were given dorm support while the other twenty-
eight percent (28%) received book and transportation allowance. Over the
years, those figures increased making fifteen percent (15%) of the total
college population scholarship grantees. One would think that scholarships
in the Ateneo aren’t given freely but in truth, the Ateneo is one of the
schools in the Philippines that do. The University offers a variety of
scholarship grants like the Ateneo Freshman Merit Scholarship (awarded
to the Top 30 students who did well in the ACET), San Ignacio de Loyola
Scholarship (awarded to public high school students who got in the Top 10
of the ACET), Academic Scholarship (awarded to Valedictorians and
Salutatorians of Jesuit and Science High Schools), Athletic Scholarship
(awarded to student-athletes who are good in both athletics and
academics), Financial Aid Grants (the most common scholarship grant
awarded to financially-challenged students and also the grant with the
most number of scholars. It offers hundred percent, seventy-five percent,
fifty percent, dorm, book and transportation scholarship grants) and the
University also accepts Government and Private Scholarships.
Although the university offers a wide array of scholarship grants,
it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t have any standards – in fact, if you read up
on scholarship grants given by the Ateneo, one common phrase you’ll
encounter in all of the available grants is “potential and greater service in
the future”. The Ateneo doesn’t only look at the present academic standing
of the student but it looks deeper and assesses whether the student would
prove to be an asset or a liability to the University.
But, what happens now that you’re a scholar? Once you get pass
the ACET, which by the way, is the easiest test you’ll go through under
the Ateneo, and get your scholarship request granted, you are indebted to
the University just like any scholar in just about any school both here and
abroad. But unlike other schools, the Ateneo only imposes ten (10) service
hours to Financial Aid Scholars per semester which is a lot lighter than an
average of a hundred-twenty hours of work per year required by other
universities. Ten hours of service hours per semester is light enough for
scholars to still focus on their academics but enough to make them
remember that nothing is for free.
The high percentage of scholars from all walks of life with diverse
backgrounds and personalities who were hand-picked especially by the
Office of Admission and Aid prove that the Ateneo is an elite school
which is not necessarily elitist. This also proves that anybody who is
willing to give their best and set on competing with the best may just be
given the chance to reach their dreams provided they work hard enough to
achieve these – oh, and also, a little prayer wouldn’t hurt.
It was the 19th of November, 2011. A Saturday like any other.
Well, except for the fact that my aunt and uncle from the States were in
town. But anyway, I woke up at my usual time of about 8 am. Headed
downstairs for breakfast, where I found myself eating by my lonesome
self. This is not unusual either, though. My dad goes up to Baguio
practically every weekend to check up on a little inn my family owns up
there. This weekend was no exception. My mom and my aunt Karla had
gone out to drop off my sister to school. She had an outreach she was
required to participate in. Then, my mom left Aunt Karla in the parlor to
get her hair and eyelashes done. Yes, you read that right, eyelashes. She
wanted to place extensions on them. After finishing my breakfast, I took a
bath and got dressed. My mom called me on my cellphone to get ready.
She was picking me up so I could go to the parlor too. I, apparently, was in
desperate need of a haircut. As much as I did not feel like getting one, I
had to agree with her. My hair was getting far too long and out of hand.
Not to mention, the horrible split-ends I had developed from not getting a
trim every 3 or so months, just as the hairstylists had advised.
The hair salon we regularly go to is called Aura Salon in
Katipunan. Though it takes us around 20 minutes to get there, we have
been going to Aura for years. This is the very same salon I had my hair,
make-up, and nails done for my uncle's wedding in 2008, my grade school
(2007) and high school (2011) graduation. When I get there, I have my
hair washed. Then, I sit down on one of their extremely comfortable chairs
and wait until Jessica, the hairstylist who usually cuts my hair, comes
over. When she arrives, I mention to her that I just want a trim to get rid of
the nasty split ends. She suggested, however, that she cut my hair 2-3
inches shorter. I agreed. After all, she knows best.
It does not take long until Jessica is finished with me. By
this time, my mom had come back with my sister. My sister insisted on
getting a haircut too. Since, my aunt was not done – they were still
applying her false eyelashes (man, is that a long process). My sister had
time to get her hair done. So I sat back down and relaxed, waiting for all of
them to finish. Thankfully, I was not going out of my mind with boredom.
I had brought my copy of “How to Read a Page” by I.A. Richards in
preparation for English class the following Monday. I looked up from the
page I was reading from, for no apparent reason, when bam!
This drop-dead gorgeous guy plops himself in the seat directly
across mine. My eyes became giant saucers. I could not stop staring at this
guy. I was speechless, gobsmacked. At the same time, I had never felt so
shallow in my life. Here I was, utterly bewildered, over some guy's looks. I
cannot explain it. I do not know why he brought out such strong emotions
from me. He somehow had a hold on me.
To avoid looking like a complete bimbo, I decided not to look at
him at all. This may sound silly but I knew that if I looked at him again, I
would not be able to take my eyes off of him. So I tried keeping myself
busy. But the moment he stood and turned his back on me to have his hair
washed, I had to look at him. I turned to my mom, pointed at his direction
using my eyes, and mouthed to her that that guy over there, getting his hair
washed was really, really good looking. This was something I had never
done before. I do not share anything boy-related to my mom – until now.
This guy was just too handsome not to mention to anyone. I had to tell
someone.
After a while, I could not stand it anymore. I had to look at him.
Discreetly, of course. It was frustrating, though, because all I wanted to do
was memorize every detail of him. But how could I do that without
coming off as a creep? So, I chose to focus on what he was wearing, and
his movements. Not his face, obviously, in case we made eye contact. I
was searching for something that would give away his age or the school he
attends. All I saw, though, was this dark blue baller on his wrist. As if that
told me anything helpful. I could not even make out what the print said. I
moved on to his hands. He was carrying an iPhone. He would always be
texting on it or glancing at it every 5 minutes. I had a sinking feeling then,
that he had a girlfriend. After all, a guy like him, it was impossible not to
have one.
An hour passed, we were all set and ready to go. By this time the
guy had already left and I was ready to just about forget him, when my
sister comes over and tells me that there was this guy who kept glancing at
me. What?! Could it be that guy – that guy I was hoping so much it would
be? She said yes! Inside, I was brimming with kilig-ness.
I guess you can understand why I find this whole situation poetic.
Anything concerning attraction, desire, admiration, infatuation, and I dare
say, love –though, I highly doubt that is what is coming into play here, in
this situation. One of the most powerful poems ever written are about
people and the emotions they awaken inside a poet. A person is enough to
fuel a blaze within a poet. It is enough for a poet to keep on writing poems
that will remain timeless.
Aside from what I think is an obvious reason I chose this moment,
what I find poetic is the fact that this moment was unexpected. It caught
me off guard. It is true that in each day something that was not anticipated,
happens, but how many of them have caught you off guard? How many of
these unexpected moments really shook you to your core, that years down
the road you will still remember these occurrences. You will still
remember how it feels like. Those moments do not happen every day.
This situation is poetic in the sense that the day started out so
ordinary and even, not so promising. What I mean by “not so promising”
is that it felt like any other day, where I go through life not truly
remembering any of it; having no impact on me. Yet, this one small
instance changed all of that. Now, that day turned out to be worth
reminiscing to me. Though, it was just a few moments of my life. Sad to
say, the odds of me seeing him again are against me.
Something magical happens at the most surprising of times. When
we least expect it and whether we know it or not, when we need it most. It
is true that awful things, also, take place in an unanticipated time of our
lives. But, we learn from those moments most. That is what I think is
poetic. When life can change its course at any second. Where, in a
seemingly ordinary day, something extraordinary can be in store for us.
The “un-expectancy” of it all makes it all the more poetic. I can go hours,
days, weeks, months going through the routines of my daily life and not a
single thing stands out; touches me. Out of the 365 days in a year how
many do I remember? I read once, that “we remember moments, not
days.” I cannot even pinpoint, sometimes, what makes a moment so
special that it is burned in my mind, destined to be remembered until the
day I die. The thing is we do not know why but is not that the point? It
may be nerve-wracking but the important thing here is, it happened and we
remember it did.
John Marston rides across the Wild West in his ever-trusty
stallion, a ten-year old black War Horse. He’s a bounty hunter. That means
he ties criminals up and brings them to the sheriff’s precinct in the town he
got the bounty order from – or if necessary, he kills them. That’s how he
makes a living. As he rides on his horse across the vast deserts, prairies,
mountains, valleys, glades, forests, defiles, ravines, and all other terrain
found in the United States during that era, where the first cars were just
being invented. He occasionally finds beavers, squirrels, coyotes, rabbits,
foxes, cougars, buffalos, bears, and other animals he hunts down – and
skins for valuable meat and fur he can sell to general stores.
The above paragraph is a brief description of a video game I have
at home on my Microsoft Xbox 360, a gaming console. In the video game,
Red Dead Redemption, you play John Marston. It has a story of pretty
much killing people who did bad things to you and those you love, in
order for you to be reunited once again with your wife and child. You
might now be wondering why I picked this video game as the (changed 'a'
to 'the') topic of my personal essay of what I found poetic. There are
several reasons. The first is that playing this video game has brought me to
the realization that institutionalization can make zombies of people.
There is a side story in the game where John Marston has to kill
zombies because an insidious zombie disease has spread out in the whole
country. I can quaintly and humorously parallel that supposed “disease” in
our modern lives - institutionalization. Because of the daily grind of Math
long tests to study for, Accounting quizzes to burn the midnight oil for,
English papers to labour on, Lit stories to read, and all other labours of
school, to see life beyond the next school requirement can be difficult
sometimes. Playing this video game as John, in a way, kills or at least tries
to kill the “zombie consciousness” that is taking over me when I fail to see
the big picture when I am absorbed into the tiny pinhole of school
requirements.
In the game, you can do whatever you like and no one tells you
what to do. Now, I am not saying that we should kill people, because you
can do anything at all, even kill people. What I am saying is, because of a
fast-paced life in the modern era, and especially because of the
institutionalization of our way of life through school and other similar,
repetitive, and mechanistic activities, we tend to take for granted our
freedom. I mean, take a look at our lives in school. We spend each day
taking up the same classes we took yesterday, talking to the same people at
the same time each day, in the same place. Sure, this approach to learning
may make us memorize things quickly, but we also forget them quickly,
and the sameness is simply boring.
I’m not saying that institutionalization is all bad though. It has
given us a rigid and reliable system to produce experts in different fields
with a minimum standard of know-how. With it, we can be sure that we
have fairly the same curriculum as other lawyers/doctors/engineers/(insert
occupation here).
What struck me in the video game is that John Marston does not
have the word, “institutionalized” in his dictionary. He lives life the way
he pleases, going where ever in the United States, even if it is several
hundred miles away. He sleeps on the sand, under the stars, having no
qualms about sleeping beside a horse and a thousand other species of wild
animals. He kills the criminals or catches them because he wants to earn a
living, and because that is his understanding of justice. Every day, the life
he leads is not like any other. At least, that is what I made his life to be.
This experience of living the life of another person; making him
walk, talk, see, feel, touch, hear, and do whatI tell him to do using the
controller , it makes me wonder whether I really am free too . How would
we know if we are not just brains floating in a nutrient-rich vat of
chemicals, being sent electrical impulses from a computer through
electrodes attached to the neurocortex which make our brain have
sensations, experiences, and memories? How would we know if our lives
are not just video games for people or people-like things in a higher realm
of consciousness? Maybe we are just zombies that think that we can walk,
talk, see, feel, touch, hear, and do what we want, but in truth someone on
the other end of a TV screen has a controller making us do those things?
This query is epically poetic, no doubt. Well, if so, at least I control this
guy, John Marston, in this realm of consciousness.
Does John Marston know that he is just a character in a video
game, wandering about and living out a story which game developers
wrote for him? It kind of makes me wonder if our lives are predetermined
long before we even existed. Are we just actors in a game whose story is
final and unchangeable?
The second reason I think this game is poetic, is that it has
reminded me that the world is bigger than the few square kilometres I
inhabit in my daily life. As I have mentioned, John Marston travels the
world as he pleases on his trusty and agile stallion across all kinds of
terrain, encountering all kinds of people and animals, and experiencing a
whole gamut of things. I have travelled a bit in the past, myself.
Traversing some parts of Asia, Australia, and the United States, but
because of how school can sometimes make us busy, unable to travel, I
forget how big the world is.
This gives rise to a new musing: Where does John Marston live?
Is it within the machine which we call the Xbox 360? Is it in the minds of
the game developers and players who cannot get enough of him? Or is it in
some other place entirely, where John can live in peace without human,
divine, or whatever kind of intervention ? Now, you might be thinking that
this is a simple question about technology and that once the Xbox 360’s
memory unit is destroyed, John Marston and all he stands for would
already be dead and forgotten.
How are we so sure of that, though? If you are familiar with the
story, “Sophie’s World,” by Jostein Gaarder the protagonist , Sophie, said
that she will live on even if the story is finished and the book is put down.
Increasing evidence has been found by quantum physicists that millions of
parallel universes or dimensions exist in the same space which we inhabit
right now. That means at the same time, at the same place, but in a
different parallel universe or dimension, some other thing is happening.
Maybe in one of those parallel universes, John Marston lives on - or
maybe he lives in a higher or lower dimension.
Maybe we are just thoughts in the mind of another consciousness,
and that consciousness is what we call, “God”. Now, we can see this
clearly because we have played “God” in the life of John Marston and
countless other characters which we have made from the creativity of our
minds, developing these characters, emplotting their life stories, and
making them live through the hands of eager video game players. If we
really are just being “controlled” by a higher consciousness, I do not think
we should be angry because we ourselves our doing it to these virtual
people we create.
This meta-analysis of life afforded me by this video game has
worked wonders to my grasping the fact of my smallness and my
ignorance of how little I really know about life. I do not know how my
consciousness was created, just like John. I do not know for certain the
composition of my maker/s, just as John does not know the faces of his
game developers. I also do not know what befalls me in the future, just as
John does not know what awaits him in his predetermined life.
The third poetic thing I saw in this video game is the resurrection
that takes place each time the character is killed. As we all accept and have
come to believe, once we die, we go someplace else than this physical
realm. For some people, it is hell; some, heaven; some in a place full of
light or darkness, etc. The bottom line is a lot of people believe it is some
other place than here, and we are going to be without a physical body. In
the game, when John dies, he comes back to life at the last save point or
the last time you save the game.
However, this makes me ask, “How are we certain that we do not
come back to life once we die?” Now that I have introduced the concept of
parallel universes, we can imagine that when one dies an untimely death in
Universe A, s/he can be resurrected in Universe B – which is similar to
Universe A, so that her/his life is basically the same entity as in Universe
A - sometime before s/he died, so that s/he can live and have that
possibility of surviving the death when the point in time of her/his
untimely death in Universe A comes again. This reminds me of that movie
where Jake Gyllenhaal, using a machine called the Source Code, relives
over and over the life of a passenger in a train which exploded in order to
find out who the bomber was.
If the aforementioned definition of resurrection were real (and we
have no way of finding out but for us to die ourselves), then we are
doomed to relive our lives until we achieve the purpose or storyline which
our “game developers” have set out for us. The lives we live now maybe
resurrected ones, after we accidentally stepped into a vat of boiling oil,
forgot to turn off the gas, looked down from the car which hit us while we
were crossing the street, etc.
If resurrection were real, I would live my life to the fullest every
single day. I would confess my immense love to my crush, try to capture
the world’s most wanted criminals, engage in deep sea diving, embark on
a dangerous naval journey across the world, skydive daily, run blindly into
the streets just for the fun of it, etc. If I do not like the outcome of my
actions, I can just sleep in a car turned on and poof. I can do all of those
things again.
As unsettling as these ideas sound, we never really know what
comes after death, unless someone from the other side comes back and
tells us Maybe we get resurrected to the same save point that our Maker/s
or Player/s determine for us. Maybe we are living in one of the many
multitudes of parallel universes in reality. Maybe we are just brains
submerged in a vat. Maybe we are just zombies. Maybe.
It is funny how much a simple video game can make one think
about life.
For the first few months of the year 2010, St. Luke’s Hospital was
my home. It was in those stark white halls, the scent of disinfectant
permeating the air, that I did my homework, had my meals and spent most
of my time after school. I was such a frequent visitor that I could name
every dog on the canine unit by the entrance, and nurses and members of
the staff welcomed me like family.
My grandfather was always in and out of the hospital it was
practically routine. We were used to him asking us to take him to the
hospital for an overnight stay. St. Luke’s to him was what a day spa is to a
normal person. He would go there to reenergize, rejuvenate and revitalize
himself. So on the morning of the 30th of March, no one thought it peculiar
when he once again asked to be admitted… although this was far from his
usual hospital visits.
At first my sister and I were oblivious to the seriousness of his
situation. We knew that he had to stay longer than his usual one to two
nights visits but apart from that, nothing more was said to us. In the
morning, the driver would take us to the hospital to accompany grandpa
and in the afternoon, he would take us back home. Nothing seemed to be
out of the ordinary. We could not have been more mistaken.
Our family, for years, has been keeping a secret. A secret that not
even my sister and I were privy to. In hindsight, they did it to protect us…
or should I say to protect me… from myself.
Although older in age, I was more delicate, more fragile than my
younger sister. I could never bear to watch people suffer. While she was
sympathetic to the people around her, I was more empathetic. Unlike my
sister, who so neatly packs and stores her emotions into little containers
and manages to keep her composure, I crumble and drown in the sea of
mine. Instead of dealing with my emotions like any normal person, I
would shut it off completely and lock myself in a bubble of my own
world, a world where nothing went wrong, where everyone was healthy,
where everyone was full of life.
I knew something was amiss the moment the
phone rang at 7:30 on the night of April 3. My sister and I had been home
for an hour, two hours tops. It was our mother on the other line, urging us
to get dressed and back to the hospital as quickly as possible. From that
moment on, the next few hours seemed to tick by excruciatingly slow.
When we arrived, the room was packed. Apart from our family,
there were two doctors there and a nurse. We were informed by grandpa’s
doctors that his vital signs were not good. He was slipping deeper and
deeper into a coma. His heart was hardly beating, his lungs were barely
working, his eyes he could not even open. My grandmother was faced with
a terrible decision: she could opt to have a tube inserted into my
grandfather’s throat or choose for him to just stay connected to an oxygen
tank. The chances of the ventilator prolonging my grandfather’s life were
not high. The doctors could not promise us that he would survive until the
end of the upcoming week, even on the ventilator. What they were sure of
was that once the ventilator was in, grandpa would no longer be able to
eat, no longer be able to speak, and he would no longer be able to breathe
without it. The options were heartbreaking. How does one choose between
two things of equal destruction? In the end, she opted to let my grandfather
live the remainder of his life as comfortably as possible. She chose the
oxygen tank.
An hour passed and we were faced with another problem.
Grandpa’s blood pressure was much too low. Without medication, he
would not survive. So my grandmother gave the go signal to inject an IV
through his arm.
Once the problem regarding his breathing and his blood pressure
were addressed, another issue arose. His body could no longer process the
minerals and vitamins in his body. So another bag of medicine was added.
All in all, my grandfather was hooked on to 4 IV bags. He needed more
but he had already reached the maximum number of bags a body could
take. The nurses even had to schedule which bag would be connected to
him since he needed another 2 more. Seeing him that way was almost too
much to bear. The person in front of us was no longer my grandfather. His
illness had robbed him of almost all of his senses. He could not speak, he
could not see, he could not move. He was trapped in a shell, caught
somehow between life and death.
Six hours. We waited six hours by his side. All eyes were glued to
the monitors attached to my grandfather. He was alive, yes, but he was no
longer living. The doctors informed us that however he was doing then,
that would be how he would always be. His body could no longer pump
blood on its own, could no longer absorb the oxygen and release the
carbon dioxide, could no longer digest. Instead of the drugs simply aiding
him, they were controlling him. My grandfather, although not medically
dead, was living an artificial life.
It was within those six hours that I realized how much time I had
lost. I was taken 9 months back, when everything started going downhill.
Initially, we thought my grandfather’s gout was simply acting up.
He started having difficulties walking. When the pain worsened after a
week, my family thought it best to visit his doctor. His doctor passed him
onto his oncologist. His cancer, which was hidden from my sister and I,
had metastasized. It had travelled to his spine which resulted to his losing
control over his legs. First his right leg, then his left. It was not long until
he required the use of a wheelchair. He not only lost his ability to walk
when his cancer resurfaced, he also lost his independence. He lost a part of
himself, a part of his spirit. Once gregarious and the life of every party,
grandfather now spoke significantly less. I felt I had lost him that early on.
I failed to see that although my grandfather was broken, he was far
from irreparable. He was a fighter after all. Our family was what kept him
going on all those months and it was during those moments when all I
could do was stare helplessly by his side, that I realized just how much I
had let him down.
Doctor Bella, a family friend, dropped by to assess my
grandfather’s situation. Upon seeing bag after bag on the IV stand, all the
warmth on her face was instantly replaced with a stoic expression. She
took my grandfather’s vital signs, jotted down notes on her clipboard, and
reviewed my grandfather’s charts.
She informed us that at that point, there was nothing more we
could do. Death was already knocking on my grandfather’s door. He
should not even still be alive at this point. In the gentlest manner, she told
us that it was time to let go. My grandfather’s body technically had. It was
we, his family, who refused to let him finally rest.
My grandmother, mother, and her siblings were obviously, at this
point, sobbing hysterically. We all were. How could we simply allow my
grandfather to die just like that? Were not we all raised to be against
euthanasia instead of agents of it? In a calm and levelheaded manner,
Doctor Bella patiently explained to us the complexities behind euthanasia.
Euthanasia is a practice frowned upon in most, if not all societies.
In our country where Catholicism is the most common religion and the
Church, one of the strongest bodies in the society, euthanasia is considered
to be taboo. The horror expressed on my loved ones’ faces when we were
faced with this was extreme given that we were all devout Catholics.
Euthanasia comes from the Greek words eu- (good) + thanatos
(death). Put together, euthanasia quite literally means “an easy and happy
death”. In the modern age, however, euthanasia is often referred to as
“mercy killing” or “physician assisted suicide”.
Several negative emotions are brought about by the mere mention
of euthanasia. What people do not know, however, is that there are several
classifications and types of euthanasia. Euthanasia could be executed with
the patient’s consent (voluntary) or without (non-voluntary), or even
against what the patient has explicitly stated (involuntary). Euthanasia can
also be executed by action (intentionally bringing about death through an
action) or through omission (deliberately failing to provide the patient’s
basic needs such as food and water).
These basic facts we knew, of course. What we did not know, and
what few people know, to be honest, is that an action can only be
considered euthanasia if there is the intention of killing the person who
still has the chance and capability to live. The act of stopping treatments
which have proven to be ineffective or refusing to supply medicine which
would be dangerous to the patient’s health, then, are not considered to be
forms of euthanasia and are therefore considered legal and acceptable.
This is even mentioned in the Doctrine of Euthanasia that was released in
May 1980. According to the Church, "When inevitable death is imminent
in spite of the means used, it is permitted in conscience to take the
decision to refuse forms of treatment that would only secure a precarious
and burdensome prolongation of life, so long as the normal care due to the
sick person in similar cases is not interrupted" (Part IV).
The truth was hard to swallow but after learning
about euthanasia through a physician’s eye as well as through the
Church’s, we were finally able to arrive at a conclusion. My family made
the difficult decision of not adding any more bags to my grandfather’s IV
stand. Once all the drugs were used up, that was it. No second batch, no
round two. If my grandfather’s body was meant to survive through this
ordeal and had gained enough strength from half a day’s worth of
medicine, he would survive. If not, it just meant that his body simply could
no longer take it. So we watched on, our hearts breaking a little more as
each drop fell, as the liquid gradually receded and the bags became less
full by the minute.
Once the final drop of medicine fell, the countdown began. How
long would he last? Would he live to feel the sun’s warmth seep through
the curtains and greet him with a new day?
Three hours. For three hours his heart continued to beat. For three
hours his blood continued to flow. For three hours his lungs continued to
expand, then contract. Expand, contract. Expand, contract.
The nurse came in to check his vital statistics. He shone his
penlight at my grandfather’s right eye, then his left. We watched on and
we could all see that his eyes were hardly responding, the pupils hardly
dilating. “It won’t be long now. He’ll be gone before sunrise. I’m sorry.”
He said the words we all knew were true but all refused to accept.
We each found a place around my grandfather’s bed; my mother,
my father, my sister, my two aunts, my uncle, his wife, my grandmother
and I. We all held on to my grandfather, refusing even for a moment to let
go.
They say that a person’s hearing is the last sense to go. And on
that night, I can safely say that that is true, for during my grandfather’s
final moments, we all said the things that were kept unsaid. All the
apologies, the recollections, the happy times, and the sad. We talked about
how lucky we were to have been blessed to be a part of his family and how
thankful we all were. We watched his heart rate steadily decrease. 60 beats
per minute. 53 beats per minute. 41 beats per minute. 35. 28. 12. 3.
Nothing could stop the tears from flowing, the pain inside multiplying a
thousand fold. As if on cue, we all bit back the tears and murmured our
last “I love yous”. He heard us, I know he did, for the moment those words
left our mouths, his heart jumped back to life, beating at 30 beats per
minute. Then it dropped to 18. To 9. To 5. 0. Then, just like that, he was
gone... forever.
The year 2010 taught me several things. How life truly is too
short. How we cause ourselves pain. How much the things left unsaid
matter. How it is never too late to turn things around. 2010 taught me the
importance of family, of hope, of faith. It taught me to remember to hold
on to the things and the people in life that matter. It also taught me to let
go when the time was right.
2010 to me will always be the year of realizations. Of redemption.
Of forgiveness. I will look back and always see how much I havegrown in
my weeks spent in St. Luke’s. How I emerged a different person the
morning I left those stark white halls, the echoes of “I love you” still
resonating in the air, on the morning of Easter Sunday, April the 6th.