Juan woke up at 8:00 am today, May 14, elections day. He would have wanted to rise up earlier than 8:00 am but he was too tired out from work even on a Sunday that lasted ’til 9:00 pm last night. He must take advantage of the overtime pay which is just a fraction of his regular 8-hour pay. At past eight, after a mug of coffee and two pieces of pan de sal (he couldn’t afford to eat more because there are only ten pieces of pan de sal and they are five in the family), he rose to his feet and trekked the path to the public school which is only less than a mile away.
Just the other day, there is news that the election supervisor, assigned in this public school, told the teachers who will assist that he will not be giving anymore the P300-allowance. He will be taking in-charge of the PUJs which will take them back and forth to the school. Juan agreed in his mind the teachers’ clamor that the plan seemed anomalous. Why does the election supervisor need to hire PUJs when the school is less than a kilometer away? Majority of the teachers live nearby. Besides, paying P4,500 per PUJ is too much. It is not justifiable to spend that much when the P300 per teacher can be used for some acceptable purposes.
Walking to the school, pieces of sample ballots are scattered on the way, various people handing out these sample ballots are also scattered (and one is just sleeping in a secret place between two vehicles), and young boys are scattered along the narrow paths having a good time handing out leaflets. What a waste, he thought. After all these, anyone who wins (and who would be kaput after the much spending) will get even and will probably make everybody pay back for the lost funds or resources, he thought.
Reaching the public school, which is already swarming with people from different walks of life, he looked at his voter’s ID for his precint number. He recalled a COMELEC official saying that all Filipinos today are pantay-pantay (on level pegging, or on equal footing) – no rich, no poor, no intelligent, no stupid – all are the same casting a single ballot. But then he thought about the corrupt, those in power (and power-hungry), the shameless, the rotten, who make other people feel that they can do anything they want, even exterminate those who vote for their opponent.
The queue is long and it is very hot. He thought he could have brought his anahaw fan, or a folded newspaper instead, to cool himself. He noticed, too, that the line is moving in a snail pace. He discovered at last that there is only one set of election personnel (they are three) attending to the voters of two precincts (each room accomodates voters of two precincts). He was told COMELEC cut the number. Probably cost cutting measures, he thought. And as if one in the queue had heard him, “So that they could put the savings in their pockets!”
With crossed brows, he sits on the little chair and prepares to write. Finally, here he is – about to vote, to cast a ballot, to exercise his right. But he could not make himself write. He is getting confused. Everybody in the list has this bad tale about his person. How does he know who is sincere? The ads did not do any good to all the thoughts running wild in his mind.
Thirty minutes after, he had made up his mind. He wrote in all the slots for senators his name – JUAN DE LA CRUZ – in bold letters.
Warmstone 