Bite

"But I did try my best to write you based on what I perceived through your writing. My wish is that my bio did give you justice." 

It was one of those easy projects to pluck on Upwork. The job was to write a short bio. It won't even reach 500 words, given today's collective memory retention. She said, she would be using it for her social media accounts, as well as her website's about page. She provided a link to her Instagram and set the deadline for submission.

I will be earning $30 for the writing job.

The client lives in the Middle East. She appears to be a vlogger and a social media influencer. She reaches out to her audience in Arabic. While it was a challenge using Google Translate to convert her thoughts from Arabic to English, I enjoyed reading her Instagram posts. She appears to be well-off, well-read and advocates respectful parenting in a region where disobeying parental commands is taboo. She promotes conscious living, as well as self-care and healing. "An amazing lady," I thought. And so I wrote her introduction like I would write it for a friend, or a person you would look up to. I knew it was perfect.

It took her weeks to reply. There was no feedback or a request for revision for such a commissioned work. Her account was even suspended for reasons Upwork will never tell. And when she got back, her first words were, "I'm sorry, this isn't what I'm looking for." She then terminated my contract and requested that I return the money held in escrow.

But I didn't take her treatment sitting down. I told her it was unfair that she didn't allow me to offer revisions or at least provide an acceptable explanation as to why it wasn't the bio she was looking for. She told me that she requested samples from different freelancers and that some of them just went with creating and some asked for more clarifications and questions to perfect their sample. She apparently picked a freelancer who worked closely with her.

Remember that she wasn't around when I submitted my draft? Worse even, she didn't tell that she had asked several freelancers to do her bio and then, pick one that she thinks would best represent her carefully curated social media image. I didn't even know that it was a long-term project. None of these were mentioned when I sought more information about the work.

She did try to compensate by asking for my Paypal email. She planned to send a token for my efforts and hoped this dispute would get resolved. Knowing what she was up to, I was already in communication with Upwork's friendly customer support. I told them what was happening and that, payment outside of Upwork is considered a violation of their Terms and Conditions.
An email sent to me days later reported that they have taken action against her violation.

"Thank you for this opportunity to write your bio and even though I won't understand your vlog or your Instagram in my local language, please know you're being appreciated."

While I can let go of the $30, I was shaken that I was dropped off, like a hot potato and without a good reason that I can live with. Moreover, I felt deceived that her social media accounts never captured what a jerk she is. I am still not a good judge of character, it seems. I suspect that the price she offered was too steep and that, an Arabic freelancer can do the job better. She just didn't have the face to admit that she made a wrong decision when she accepted my job proposal and that, it was too late to back off.

The dispute was resolved when Upwork decided to return her money, while also paying for the job that I have completed. While there was no denying that I would have preferred that she didn't get any refund, I understood that she's too valuable for Upwork to lose. What mattered is that I stood my ground and bit back when she thought I was a pushover.

Truth is, I didn't walk out unscathed. There was a price to extract for standing up for what you believe is unjust. Apart from the trauma of getting her as a client, I have also noticed that my Job Success Rate went down from 97% to 92%. It appears she left a bad remark that affected my score. A customer service rep assured that this can be corrected by getting more jobs. But after this short stint, I will stick with my 2 contracts and make sure my clients are both satisfied. 

I can earn enough.

Playroom

Consider this a "mema" entry; a flexing of the mind while contemplating the narratives to publish. Unplanned, but written with thoughtful consideration, I am left grappling for words to collect the contents of my head while Diego, now a seven-year-old boy, decides to bring his wooden bricks into my quarters and make it his temporary playroom for this evening. 

Of the four kids we are now raising, he would persistently make attempts to extend his zone of control into my room. In fact, earlier today, he was knocking at the door and calling for the Weatherman's name hoping he would be let it. I didn't pay attention, and instead, trailed my gaze on the petty fights and wokeness hell that is happening on Twitter. 

This evening, he succeeded. Maybe, I was just too unbothered while he made those incoherent play sounds, such as "woooooahhhhh ahhh ahhh," or "tshhhh, tsshhhh," while tapping the wooden cabinet beside him to make louder noises. On normal days, I would just tell him to play elsewhere, but I don't know why there's a sudden relaxing of the rules this time.

All I know is that I was meant to write about another story, but here I am writing about the most mundane stuff while admiring my nephew's gift to recreate scenes only he could appreciate.

And as I lay down on my bed while trying to shun the garbled words and the incessant "shhhsss... shhhhhsss..." out of my head, Diego continues with his bricks play. I then come to a realization that this sudden decision to let him take his toys and play with very little restrictions (he cannot put his wooden bricks on my bed), must be drawn out from a very early memory, when it was I, doing those silly sounds and recreating my imaginary worlds in someone else's room. 

There's comfort in remembering. 

I have the entire night to toil for money, and anytime soon, another distraction (or dinner call) will put this child's play to rest. This pause, however, while purely accidental, is much deserved.

Selfie

Twitter has always been the medium to express ones' strong opinions about subjects that netizens might find inappropriate and sensitive on Facebook, where one's blood and real-life relations connect with one another. A slight to one's beliefs can spill over during family reunions and social gatherings resulting in awkward conversations and untoward snide remarks.

Meanwhile, Twitter affords relative anonymity and most people are identified with ideologies and fandom; if not online personas carefully curated to increase one's clout and make-belief popularity. It has been this way ever since the blogs fell out of fashion, and for the most part, Twitter netizens are united when it comes to calling out the pervading social ills or incompetence on the part of the government.

We only cross those who are perceived as trolls and paid hacks, or public online figures who perversely speak out in defense of the regime or help proliferate fake news.

But in the months past, a trend I once paid little attention to has become a source of dread and disappointment. The behavior I once saw as a mere "tea spilling" among individuals and groups, who might have "regrettable histories" has become an everyday phenomenon, that no longer I found Twitter a safe space to speak out my mind. Sure, the shady and witty banters were a source of entertainment, and it was fun dragging strangers who carelessly parade their privilege, entitlement, and unpopular opinions. However, when this collective online stoning happened to a dear friend, (like what Twitter did to @econcepcion), I realize that it's time to become critical of individuals who spend so much time and energy spewing hate, believing such acts are still within one's right to call out another person.

Take for example how the Netizens reacted when it was James' turn to post what he had in mind.

The tweet, which normal individuals would pay little attention to, triggered some sensibilities that he was called out and was asked to change his tone. A tone policing. They said it was preachy, and that, he should mind his own business, rather than pick on tourists who would spend so much time trying to take a perfect selfie instead of appreciating what's in front of them. Worse, someone had to dig James' Instagram to reveal that he too, had some selfies when he traveled abroad.

Bingo.

The torrent of hate came without warning.

 

Personally, I am no fan of selfies and I measure people's need for self-validation by the number of selfies posted on his or her social media accounts. And like James, I would be totally annoyed to see someone taking a selfie instead of appreciating an exhibit or a vista. But I would keep these thoughts to myself knowing that others' sense of appreciation will not conform with mine. 

James might have his reasons, and like Ethel's (@econception) petty take on her dating standards, the vitriol they received from people who know very little about them and their humanity showed how we have turned Twitter into a cesspool of hate; where people on the same side stab one another for likes, and where sorry individuals flex their gift for insult throwing hoping to shame another. What made things uglier is that it was the Generation Z - the post-millennials  - who had a mouthful to say. There was so much disconnect that one with a sane mind could no longer bear the absurdity of the spectacle.  

No wonder, netizens are beginning to reject the wokeness of Twitter and that, there's a growing call to cancel the platform's pervading call-out culture. I wouldn't be surprised when individuals would turn their accounts private one day and that the once vibrant social media space would become a mere echo chamber for "influencers" who still believe that clout makes them royalties of this virtual anthill.

Time Space Warp

Consider this, not a homecoming, but an attempt to make use of the L'Heure Bleue. While the desire to pursue long-form writing died ages ago, it appears, faint glimmers of expression found its way on medium other than this blog. It may have been distilled in form and rushed to publication, but there exists, remnants of the old voice trying to resurface and be heard. That voice deserves recognition. So until nostalgia catches up or the desire to abandon social media becomes so powerful, that I will make my absence felt, this blog will serve as a repository of musings I penned elsewhere. Temporal in purpose and candid in style, I claim this space once more and make stories run full circle.

Taking The Wheel (Last Part)

Previously: Taking The Wheel (First Part)

Cruising the SCTEx at 100 kph, motion slows down in one's perception while speed remains unchanged. While I do not understand the physics behind the phenomenon, it happens, especially on an empty highway with little road features to get your mind distracted. But the nippy breeze coming down from the mountains was a welcome relief. The Caraballo flanks the right side of the road when you're going to Subic, with the very pillars of the expressway, planted along the foothills. Being close to the uplands, the wind carries the scent of the mountains, of undisturbed forests and razed fields, tended and watched over by the Aetas who have lived off the land for generations. Across the metal barrier to the left is the lowlands of Pampanga. The plains are a sight to behold and while visible signs of civilization point to an ever-changing landscape, the sight of Arayat shrouded in clouds, reminds you that some things will never change. 

Getting there was a journey in itself and I have a lot to be grateful. It has been two years since the Favorite Aunt thought of giving away her Toyota Revo so that my mom would have a car to use. I returned to the driving school to sign up for a refresher course. While I have always known how to drive a car, histories and the lack of confidence on the road kept me from taking the wheel. It didn't help that I have always found joy in commuting and Manila, the city that I've always known, is walkable, especially when cars are non-moving. But I could not stand having to chase taxi cabs during rush hours only to be declined to get a ride when I am with my aging mother. The indignity was unbearable, and the inconsideration of taxi drivers, even when you're with a senior woman with a disability makes your faith grow less in humanity. It didn't help that car-sharing apps like Grab could not be relied on so there were times I had to push my mom's wheelchair long distances just to find a ride home.

In the beginning, I would have wanted the Favorite Aunt's other car - the Toyota Altis. It was compact and in my head, thought, it was far easier to maneuver than a cumbersome AUV. While I have driven something bigger - like my dad's FX - I have always wondered how I would steer those family-sized automobiles with motorcycles cutting you from blind spots. And so, I let my thoughts ran across, even telling my aunt that I'd be happy to buy her Altis. But my mother's sister had other plans and looking at hindsight, wisdom sprung from her decision.

For the household had multiplied since Baby Diego was born. He was followed by Baby Castro and just last year, Baby Bella became my sister's fourth child. A five-seater car would not fit a family of 10 and this became evident last Christmas when I had to bring home four kids and four adults from my Favorite Aunt's place.

Baby steps. That was how the first days were when I finally mustered the courage to take the wheel. When my mother had to stay at my aunt's place for a week, I did my first solo practice driving and ended up at a nearby church. It was a milestone, followed by a long drive from Santa Mesa to Bicutan the next day. My aunt's driver guided me as I cruise the Skyway. 

They say that in driving school, you only get familiarized with the machine and learn the traffic signs you find along the road. Real learning comes while stepping on the gas, crossing intersections with fast-moving cars and getting to destinations on your own. And so I did, despite the setbacks of the past and in spite of the near misses that I still carelessly commit. I have been to places I would never get on foot - to Mt. Purro in Antipolo, to take the Weatherman to his retreat, to my mother's social engagements whether with friends or family, to the Manila Doctors Hospital, when Baby Bella was about to be pushed out of my sister's womb.

I have been to destinations, too many to even mention. And in every place I step my foot on after parking the car, I always carry the thought that the journeys I have been were once-upon-a-time aspirations. Whether it be that late-night cruise, days after the NLEX Connector Road was opened to the public, or that trip to Santa Clara one early morning while I did my practice driving, all I know is that there's a time and place for everything and 19 years after sneaking out my father's Toyota FX while he slept soundly in the master's bedroom, I've finally arrived at my destination.

Weeks before the first drive to Subic, I often check Google Maps to chart the next possible destination just outside the city. I was cautioned not to venture too far for I am driving a 17-year-old car. But the Weatherman had to attend a wedding and while he was fine commuting to the venue and just staying at a hotel somewhere in Olongapo - with me, I have always seen out of town trips as a chance to create those rare and memorable bondings. The Weatherman and I both enjoy road trips and him being the navigator, I knew this wedding road trip is something we do not want to miss. And so after getting permission from the Favorite Aunt herself, I brought the Revo for a last-minute checkup. Getting the green light from the mechanic, we left the city at 5 in the morning on a balmy Saturday, the first week of April. 

Subic Bay and Morong were the farthest destinations we've reached so far, farther than I've ever imagined in the one and a half years I've been driving. A record was broken. There's no longer any limit to where I can take the car.

Taking The Wheel (First Part)

Previously: Driving Lessons

Sometime around the year 2000, my father's driver slowly inched the Toyota FX into the narrow driveway in our cramped compound. It was past 1 in the morning and as I waited for my dad to go to the master's bedroom to retire, me and Darwin, a college friend, would make hasty preparations to sneak out and test drive the car into the near-empty streets of Sampaloc. The driver bestowed his reluctant approval.

Those days, all I wanted was to drive the car to Kelly Heights in Antipolo to watch the city lights blink on the horizon. It was my ultimate senti trip - a long-forgotten tradition of pouring your heart out to another person and unburden yourself before the eventual hardening of emotions come daybreak. But because I was too lazy to get a driver's license, I was reduced to sneaking the car during early mornings, hoping I won't get into trouble. 

But luck ran out one evening.

I was backing the Isuzu Gemini - a car that was given to me by my dad, which I passively declined because of its obsolescence (I was hoping he would gift me a Toyota Corolla '98 instead) - out of the driveway not knowing I was already backing against a neighbor's car that was parked across the street. I did get a mouthful from my mother that day. Not only was I driving without a license, but also it cost my dad 4K to have the damaged car fixed.

My confidence behind the wheel crumbled after that accident. And when you get reminded of that first driving school experience, which you hated so much, might as well abandon learning to drive at all. So in the years after, aside from the occasional refresher courses I took from time to time, I was never really comfortable stepping on the gas, shifting gears, and finding my way into Metro Manila's snarling traffic.

That was until my mother's driver decided to work abroad in 2013.