SEATS take up space when we talk about power. The capital city hosts the seat of government. Persons who decide for a group are said to have a seat at the table, and it’s one of the lovely quirks of the English language that the one who leads them, incidentally, chairs. We also speak of a leader as being in the driver’s seat.
Last Thursday in Bulacan, President Rodrigo Duterte told the crowd in the PDP-Laban proclamation rally to assert themselves whenever government workers give them the runaround or sit on their applications for permits. “Konting tapang lang naman (All you need is a little courage),” he said. As an example, he recalled being confronted and insulted by a professor during his college years. Before he reported the incident to the dean, he picked up his chair and threw it at the professor.
President Duterte began telling this anecdote 12 minutes into a nearly two-hour speech, but left out details. Did he hit his target, or were the teacher’s reflexes quick enough to help him avoid injury? Who paid for the chair’s repairs or replacement? And what was the future president thinking?
By choosing to tell that story, was he urging constituents to break things each time a government agency fails to deliver the swift and honest service that people deserve? He did tell his audience in Bulacan, “Pag ayaw ibigay ang permit, barilin mo (If they don’t give you the permit, shoot them).” Possibly, he was stating things for dramatic effect yet again, but with Duterte, you never really know. American comedians Keegan-Michael Key and Jordan Peele came up with the hilarious Obama Anger Translator a few years ago. Our current president could use a Clarity and Composure Translator.
Imagine, broadcast journalist Leo Lastimosa told his listeners last Friday morning, if people took the chair-throwing anecdote as a call to action. “Magkayamukat.” It would be chaotic. One of the amusing differences between Cebuano and Tagalog came to mind: to Cebuano speakers, “lingkod” is an invitation to sit, but the same word in Tagalog means “to serve” or “one who serves.”
I have spent hours sitting with fellow citizens, as I’m sure many of you have. Some of these experiences have tested my patience. Others have offered opportunities to think about the quality of public service and civic duty. Waiting in line to vote during our first automated elections in May 2010, my fellow voters and I sat on a low wooden bench, then every few minutes slid sideways, almost in unison, like players in a strange parlor game. Later, we would grouse on our Facebook walls about how long we sat, but during the wait itself, we held on to good humor and even hopeful expectation. We posted photos of our ink-marked index fingers with a little pride, as proof that we had played our part in an important public ritual.
In a slow-moving service line, the undercurrents are different. Moving from one plastic or metal seat to the next, as we inch toward the row of bureaucrats who command the room, is a kind of limbo. For a few hours, our plans and ambitions hinge on whether or not the paper or service we need is granted. In those hours, the bureaucrats—to put it a little too dramatically—hold our hopes and prospects in their hands. I have never been tempted to throw a chair no matter how long I’ve had to wait for something (a passport, clearance, license) from the government. What good would it do? (Better to read. Or write about the ordeal instead.)
Throwing a tantrum—and a seat with it—might feel briefly satisfying, but it would be a petty and ill-advised rebellion. Think instead about the public servants who spend hours each day on the receiving end of an entire room’s glares and muttering. Until their tools are updated and their systems streamlined, they have to sit there and take it, too.