Making light of maladies

I’d been meaning to review this anthology that came out a couple of months ago, but was sidetracked by coverage of serial developments in the literary front. In fact quite a backlog has built up, of books I should promote, or at least mention the happy existence of. I should get to that regular demand soon enough. Here’s an initial effort at clearing the backlog of review copies that have come my way.

A must-buy, must-read title that’s perfect for rainy days ahead, or what we call bed weather, is My Fair Maladies: Funny Essays and Poems on Various Ailments and Afflictions, edited by Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo (Milflores Publishing Inc.)

Most of us may not have the luxury of going through a book from cover to cover. A thematic anthology of personal essays by various writers comes in handy, especially in between those bouts of comedic, horrific appreciation we can’t help but indulge in when watching our country unravel on TV.

Editor Hidalgo’s introductory remarks may even be said to apply to the national condition.

"After all, almost everyone suffers from some ailment, real or imagined; and, being Pinoy, almost everyone copes by laughing about it."

This collection is about a variety of physical and emotional afflictions, which are dwelt on in the lightest manner. Readers will certainly identify with some of the playful confessions, and maybe come up with their own takes on gnawing maladies for a follow-up collection.

More from Hidalgo’s Intro: "The afflictions range from a wandering eye to the big C, from an irrational fear of insects to a full-blown nervous breakdown. Some writers wrote of ailments which stumped their own doctors; and others wrote of surviving the hospital which itself became the affliction."

Most of the essays are downright funny, while quite a number exhibit that unmistakable literary quality bespeaking of permanence on the published page. The first three entries alone guarantee delight.

In "Ock Ock," the leadoff piece, Vicente Garcia Groyon discloses that he’s long been a counter, someone who mentally ticks off the exact number of bubbles in a bubble wrap, air vents on a wall, or tiles on a floor. He writes:

"This particular mania finds its fullest expression and deepest fulfillment in the counting of syllables. Yes, syllables. Perhaps it’s because I never did get the hang of hyphenation. I love to count the beats in the words I hear….

"By the clinical definition, my problem isn’t really a problem. On the Yale-Brown Obsessive-Compulsive Scale, I’m somewhere between sub-clinical and mild. Merely eccentric. It impairs my concentration and comprehension when I’m listening or reading, but in general I’m still able to switch off the behavior, and counting syllables is unobtrusive enough to be done as a ‘back-of-the-brain’ function.

"I can’t deny, though, how comforting it was to discover a rational explanation for my behavior, and to see how easily I fit into the pathology. For once, I was ‘typical,’ Now I can write this, expose this peculiarity of mine, because there are others like me, borderline ock-ock, bravely washing, locking, tidying, rearranging, collecting, retracing, and counting."

Follows a piece about tidying up and rearranging. "My Name is Susan, and I Am Anal-Retentive" by Susan S. Lara is easily the tidiest and most precise in this collection, albeit it shares that light, elegant, compulsive touch.

"My books – at least my early acquisitions – are catalogued. When they got too numerous, and I got too busy, I made some attempt to arrange them by subject and author. It was a major disaster for me when a new household helper tried, while I was at work, to make my shelves look nicer by rearranging my books according to height. Don’t ask me where she’s buried….

"I arrange my money bills according to denominations, from biggest to smallest, all facing the same way. This remained a secret for a long time, until I learned that Marj Evasco, Ricky de Ungria, and Anthony Tan (fellow Virgos all, incidentally) have the same, er, peculiarity.…

"Yes, I am neat, organized, punctual, correct; I aspire to be perfect. I don’t know when these traits came to be considered liabilities. I grew up thinking they were assets. But someone changed the rules while I wasn’t looking, and now I read palm-sized books that say no perfectionist has ever been happy. Is that fair?"

"When I Get Cracking" by Jerusha Asprec is all about the habit of inducing sounds from one’s joints and gaining membership in the KCA or Knuckle Crackers Anonymous.

"I was around 12 years old when the musical potential of my joints first emerged. My uncle was teaching me how to play the guitar. He took my right hand and started to fold each of my fingers. The gentle clacks initially frightened me. I thought he was trying to dislocate my bones. But boy, my fingers felt invigorated – they were more flexible and wiggly! Five identical clacks immediately came out of my left hand, just as I readied my fingers to press on some chords. Soon, I had traded guitar practice for a quack-doctor apprenticeship in, well, ‘popping joints.’ (Understand I’m not talking about illegal drugs here.) That breakthrough incident, followed by consistently poor posture (slouching, sleeping on chairs, car seats and dining tables) plus irregular intervals between regular stretching and inertia, shaped me into the glorious crack addict I am today."

All manner of manias, tics, mannerisms, vulnerabilities, predilections, physical failings and inner fears are confessed and self-diagnosed in this book, often with nervous tongue lodged not so firmly in quivering cheek.

There are 62 contributions, so you’re likely to find your endemic case study here, whether it’s to do with aberrant eyesight or weak lungs, the "Shy Attack" or emotional overeating, ADHD (Attention Deficiency-Hyperactivity Disorder) or MMPI-3 (Multiphasic Minnesota Personality Inventory) or OAB (Overactive Bladder), phobia or nervous breakdown.

Some of the contributions are poems, such as Ruel de Vera’s charming "Gambaphobia" or fear of (eating) shrimps, Paolo Manalo’s bilingual take on bulimia, Vim Nadera’s Filipino poem on ward politics in "Pavilion 3," Angelo V. Suarez on "Strabismus," Bj A. Patiño on "Sinusitis," Marne Kilates on "Alopecia," and Joi Barrtios on "Botox Day ("…Ito ang mga bilin ng doktora:/ Una, kailangan ng kilay ng ehersisyo./ Kailangang kumalat ang lason sa noo./ Taas-baba, baba-taas,/ Mainam na balaan agad ang kausap…") The roster of poets alone makes this an exemplary anthology.

And the rest of the contributors are no slouches either, except on the individual levels of body conduct. They include Cyan Abad-Jugo, Gémino H. Abad, Jose Wendell P. Capili, Marivi Soliven Blanco, Ralph Semino Galan, F.H. Batacan, Butch Dalisay, Susan Evangelista, Ma. Romina M. Gonzalez, Gianna R. Montinola, Lourdes R. Montinola, Sandra Nicole Roldan, Erlinda Enriquez Panlilio, Exie Abola, Migs Villanueva, Danton Remoto, Jonathan Chua, Ian Rosales Casocot, Jose F. Lacaba, Michael M. Coroza, Jaime An Lim, Abdon M. Balde Jr… Oh, and a host of others hosting a preponderance of peculiarities, parasites and phlegmatic a-chuchu.

Writers never had it so good writing about how they’ve had it so bad.

Now if we can only treat our national maladies with the same level of irreverence. Or, well, maybe we’re doing that already, cuz we’re all sick, sick, sick.