Everything that led up to the national elections felt like a conspiracy towards failure. Ill-conceived campaign jingles. Possible power outages in Mindanao. Clustered precincts. Malfunctioning CF cards. Last minute calls to delay the elections. Missent ballots. The El Niño weather phenomenon. Willie Revillame threatening to leave Wowowee. Yes, everything felt like a conspiracy.
And what do we need in times of potential conspiracies? More conspiracy theorists? More bickering politicians? More ephinephrine?
No, we need superheroes. Even if only for a day.
And this is type of superhero that does not require being bitten by a radioactive spider or reciting a magic word or being shoved into a rocket and jettisoned off a dying planet by your scientist parents.
This is the type of superhero who only needs the approval of the Catholic Church (and, fortunately, it does involve a vow of confession).
And, no, that superhero is not Santino. That superhero is — potentially — each one of us.
For election day, I signed up to be a volunteer poll watcher for the Parish Pastoral Council for Responsible Voting (PPCRV). And I did not volunteer to become a poll watcher because I would get exempted from color coding or get discounts from my favorite restaurants or even get plenary indulgence (as much as you insist to your parish priest that it should).
I did so because it was my own little way of safeguarding the mandate of the Filipino people. I did it to protect the universe from the evil forces of the Decepticons (you know who they are). And I did it to be a superhero for my wife and my baby daughter.
“Huu-whhattt?” my wife wailed. She wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about my decision. “Why do you have to poll watch!? Don’t you know it might get violent!?”
“Violent?” I raised one of my eyebrows. “Sweetheart, I am a poll watcher at Barangay Dasmariñas in Makati City. The only election-related violence that will break out is if two ladies enter the precinct with the same designer handbag.”
My wife folded her arms. “Just make sure to bring yaya with you.”
MAY TEN-TEN-TEN-TENENNNNN!!
When the clock hit 7 a.m., a stream of voters who had been waiting outside the barangay hall shuffled eagerly towards their precincts. I smiled to myself. “This is democracy at work,” I thought. At 7:30 a.m., the precinct was teeming with eager but slightly irritated voters. I smiled out of one side of my mouth: “This is democracy being put to the test.” And by 8 a.m., the precinct was crammed like an overcrowded albeit well-perfumed prison with voters who had gained the disposition of hardened criminals. I cringed. “This was democracy calling for a time-out.”
I belatedly discovered that the voter turnout for these elections was a staggering 75 percent — arguably one of the highest in local elections. But my question is: Why did 75 percent of those registered voters have to come to the precincts almost all at 8:30 a.m.? Argh! But I can understand their sentiments. After four botched impeachment complaints and two military talent shows, all of us were more than eager to legitimately boot out a president whom some of us were not too sure deserved to be in Malacañang in the first place.
But I guess that’s what happens when the people are suing for change from a president who has the lowest ever popularity rankings in Philippine history (But don’t worry, Madame soon-to-be-ex-president. There is a second district in Pampanga that loves you. And, by extension, so do the security guards around the country). But please, folks: chill out. Polling hours were extended up to 7 p.m.! Don’t worry, we can now boot her out on our own sweet time. Grab some coffee, put on some deodorant, watch Vice Ganda make witty remarks on Showtime before you come and exercise your right of suffrage.
Aside from trying to impress the voting population with my super-powered T-shirt and laminated pollwatcher identification card, one of my tasks was to assist senior citizens in finding their clustered precincts “Huy! Tama na yung porma porma diyan at tulungan mo yung mga mga lola!” the priest accosted me. (“Stop preening over there and help out the grandmothers!”) Apparently, the Comelec had a courtesy lane for senior citizens. And this senior line consisted of bringing the senior citizens to the front of the line, presenting them to the Board of Election (BEI) officer and saying “Pwedeng paunahin si Lola?” (“Can you please let grandmother go ahead?”), to which the officer gladly obliged. Oh well, it was a courtesy nonetheless.
I waited by the precinct entrance and politely offered to escort some female voters — whom I assumed belonged to the more mature segment of the electorate — to the front of the line. “Ma’am, may courtesy lane po ang mga senior citizens” (“The senior citizens have a courtesy lane.”) But instead of being on the receiving end of a thankful smile and some gratuity, they replied, “Bakit!? Mukhang senior citizen ba ako?” (“Why, do I look like a senior citizen to you?”)
Don’t laugh. Masakit silang kumurot sa singit. (They pinch pretty hard in the groin area.)
After my initial brush with election-related violence, I knew I had to be more vigilant in my duties. Because you never really know if one of the more matronly of the electorate might just run amuck and wield her 70-pound designer handbag like a weapon of mass destruction — tubes of lipstick, dentures and lipstick flying everywhere.
In fact, despite much protest and mga kurot sa singit, I had to explain to the matronly ones that as much as they insisted, they could have their yayas keep their place in line while waiting to vote. Some of the matronas attempted to call their yayas to “sub” for them while they waited in Starbucks, but they were dismayed when I told them that they had to refrain from using their cell phones inside the police place. “Que horror!” they cried as their makeup melted away. (“Que horror!” we cried as we watched as the makeup melt away.) Then, just to infuriate me, one of those matronas had the gall to ask me if my yaya would make me payong (cover me under an umbrella) while I was waiting in line to vote. How dare she ask me? Of course yaya was already busy holding a payong over my head! But that was only after I let my yaya vote ahead of me. Naman.
Unfortunately, our desire to prevent the outbreak of election-related violence in our precinct was as futile as throwing Kris Aquino a despedida (farewell) party. Pandemonium broke out in Barangay Dasmariñas at 10:30 a.m. Richard, Raymond and Ruffa Gutierrez arrived at our precinct to vote. We needed to use several rounds of tear gas until the matronas finally calmed down. The yayas were better off, though: they passed out on their own.
Incidentally, when Ruffa Gutierrez saw me at the polling precinct decked out in my super-powered PPCRV shirt and laminated pollwatcher I.D. card, she cupped both of her hands to her face, flashed me a big endorsement-friendly smile and screeched “Oh my Gaaaawwwd! Are you running for office? I’ll vote for you!” I smiled, hoping for an endorsement-friendly smile back, lifted up my I.D. card and explained to her that I was just a pollwatcher volunteer. But a super-powered pollwatcher volunteer. Nonetheless, I thanked her for her offer to vote for me and told her I would take it up when I bid for the presidency in 2016. I plan to run a campaign as efficient as Vetellano Acosta’s. Just imagine, the Kilusang Bagong Lipunan’s (KBL) presidential candidate got more votes than Jamby Madrigal and Nicanor Perlas. I wish I could be declared a nuisance candidate as well. (Hey, wait a minute… I already am a nuisance! But with Ruffa Gutierrez as my future endorser… Jejejejeje.)
(Later, when Ruffa, Raymond and Captain Barbell left the building and we had revived most of the matronas, I was amazed when another celebrity and a personal idol of mine, comedian and impersonator Jon Santos, arrived to vote in our precinct. As himself.)
After serving as a super-powered pollwatcher slash age-profiler for most of the morning, I joined the rest of our kababayans (countrymen) amidst the impossibly long and often confusing and clustered precinct lines, the oppressive summer heat, the sumpungin (tantrum-throwing) PCOS machines and the occasional bodily gas wafting through the air. (Sorry po.) As we inched our way towards the precinct, I realized that there was one thing all of us shared while waiting to fill up our ballots: it was pawis (sweat). Pawis, my three female readers, is truly the great equalizer. But thank God for the Pinoy’s civic spirit. Thank God for yaya making me payong and, most of all, thank God for the bimpo.
Finally, after 16,859 hours, 23 minutes and 37 seconds, I cast the 212th vote in Precinct 59 of Barangay Dasmariñas. After I fed the PCOS machine with my seven-foot-long ballot, it burped out a “Congratulations, you have successfully cast your ballot!” on the monitor. I was hoping it would have burped out some cold water, free candy or a can of Royal Tru-Orange, but no matter. I had cast my vote. I may have been a puddle of sweat by the time I had voted, but I was a proud puddle of sweat.
After several more hours of redirecting senior citizen traffic, preventing the outbreak of further matrona insurrections and the release of an occasional bodily gas or two, my shift as a PPCRV volunteer was officially over. However, I just could not bring myself to leave the polling precinct. It wasn’t just because I still had the adrenal reserves to soldier on for the next several hours. It wasn’t just because today was a watershed moment in our country’s political landscape. It was because all the pawis we had excreted inside the precinct had congealed all of us into a big, lumpy mass of flesh. If I attempted to pry myself away from the mass, I might have gone home with the wrong body part.
As evening came and we finally figured out whose body parts belonged to whom, I had the opportunity to witness history being computed in front of me: I stood by the PCOS machine — which resembled the bastard child of a trash compactor and a droid from Star Wars — that was about to print out the results of my clustered precinct. This would be the defining moment for all our superheroic efforts — would the PCOS machines accurately reflect the will of the people or would it end up squatting beside the Mega Pacific automated counting machines in the Comelec? (And somewhere in Mandaluyong, someone is munching happily away on a burger.)
Then the PCOS machines spat out a continuous sheet of paper that resembled a grocery receipt. I smiled a pawis-free smile. I hadn’t been that ecstatic over seeing a piece of paper since our ob-gynecologist printed out a picture of our baby’s first ultrasound. God is good.
That night, I came home to my kryptonite: my baby daughter ambled towards me, hugged both of my legs and giggled, blissfully unaware that this day was unlike any other. I lifted her up, planted her face full of kisses and gave her a nice firm embrace. I felt like the mightiest man in the world.
It is not often that I think all is right in our country. But on that election day, despite the long lines, despite the unbearable heat, despite the overheating PCOS machines, despite the fact that the Gutierrez siblings got all the media attention — everything was right in my world. If only for a day.
I am glad to report that I the PCOS machines in Barangay Dasmariñas didn’t screw us over. However, it’s too premature to tell if the presidential candidate we have chosen won’t screw us over either. And like many men know, anything premature is never good. So, dear Mr. President-in-waiting, I pray that you stick to your campaign promises.
Or else we will drown you in the collective pawis of a nation.
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