Unity amidst Diversity

Last Wednesday, August 18, 2010, at 5:05 PM, I received a text message from Brother Bien, a Hare-Khishna follower: Brother Carlos died in an accident. I was flabbergasted! I was with Brother Carlos earlier Sunday (August 15)for our regular third Sunday meeting in the house of Brother Harold, an Indigenous Peoples group advocate.

At around 6:00 PM, it was confirmed that Carlos, together with Ricky, Sister Cristina and Sister Rose, and some 38 others, was among those who died when a bus fell into a ravine in Sablan, along Naguilian Road sometime at 10:00 AM. It was a tragedy! It was certainly an unforgettable and traumatic experience for the families of those who died and for the eight others who survived.

It was also a triumph of spirit for the members of the Divinity in Diversity Alliance, Inc., (DDA) a multi-faith association. The DDA has the vision of making Baguio City the spiritual center of the country, in the same manner that Jerusalem was revered in the world as the center of faith for Christians, Jews and Muslims. It promotes an atmosphere where mutual respect of each other’s faith or belief system is the norm.

During that Wednesday night, Brothers Haj Moh, a Muslim and Jun Conde, a Christian, were the ones who identified the bodies. Ricky Lim, a Taoist-Christian, was eventually claimed by his brothers. But Carlos Miranda Angeles has no known relative in Baguio City; he was born in Canlaon City (March 29, 1964) and grew up Bacolod City. However, since he had been out of his birthplace since he was 17 years old, the likelihood that his body may not be claimed is highThe first concern of DDA was therefore to exert efforts to locate his relatives. The Red Cross, GMA.tv, ABS-CBN, Bombo Radio were contacted.

In consultation with several board and other members of DDA, and in the spirit of brotherly and sisterly love; and for practical purposes, the association had assumed the responsibility for his remains, unless and until a close kin claims otherwise. . It proved easy! Because the association is formal, negotiations for his remains with the funeral homes was made. Likewise, within a day (Thursday), a free coffin was provided (with assistance from the DOH and DSWD), funding for the cremation was raised, and he was suited up, courtesy of the members.

The body of Carlos was cremated last Friday, August 20, 2010, after a prayer ceremony officiated by Brother Mar and chanting of Hare Krhisna. Saturday, August 21, necrological services were held in the home of Brother Alex. His ashes were housed in the residence of one endeared to him and his colleague in Ageless Wisdom, Bea Ajero, at Richgate Square 2, Monticello Rd, Camp 7 Baguio City. It will stay there for thirty days, for friends who may want to pay their respect or for relatives who may want ro claim his remains. (Please get in touch with either of the following: CESAR D. LIPORADA, President DDA with cp number 0907-943-0289 or HAROLD TAWANA, Board Member and owner of the house where the DDA office is located, with cp number 0927-313-3391.

The body of Brother Ricky was cremated Wednesday, August 25, 2010. The night before, Brother Gil, an ex-priest, assisted the relatives of Ricky in holding a solemn ceremony for his departure. Sisters Cristina and Rose were also accorded their ceremonies by their relatives.

The DDA was registered with the SEC last November 11, 2009. But it informally began in the 1980s, with the convergence of people by the Burnham Lake, on the pathway side from the football grandstand. The people talked, shared and debated about their understanding of God, the Truth, and the purpose of Life. They came afternoons at about 2:00 pm until dusk, by the lake, referred to as “Dagat-dagatang Apoy.” Soon, a group culture emerged. Each learned to respect each other, despite the differences. The group norm shifted: from one “seeking to be understood,” to “seeking to know more and understand.”

My Mom and Independence Day

Roses from Mom

Twenty-three years ago, June 12, 1987, was the celebration of Philippine Independence. It was also mom’s release from her bondage at 63 years old. I wasn’t around. I was taking up a course in Program for Development Managers at the Asian Institute of Management (AIM) in Makati City. But I expected her death. She was bedridden since her fatal stroke in 1980, during the 7th birthday anniversary of my eldest daughter. She was overwhelmed with joy; her heart couldn’t take the excitement.

I felt mom had suffered enough after seven years of being bedridden. Her death was freedom from the physical pain caused by the atrophy of the left side of her body, aside from the rushes and bedsores. More importantly, mom was freed from the emotional pain of being a paraplegic. It must have been very difficult for her not to be able to express what she felt. After seven years, people around her took things for granted. Mom was reduced to a person with physical needs. At times we forgot that she was a human being who needed the human touch.

When I was at AIM, I asked one favor from God: “let her passing through be smooth, so that the burden would be light for her and for everyone - dad, Kuya Rudy, my family.” My request was granted. She died on a Saturday, I was up in Baguio on a Sunday and she was buried the following day. After the burial, I was on the road back to Makati, which was a five-hour ride.

When I arrived at AIM, there was a class party, which started Monday evening, and I was caught in the merriment. I recalled that in the midst of the celebration, I talked to Father Monsi, one of two priests among my classmates. I didn’t have time to mourn; I simply had to share mom’s death with someone. I don’t remember what Fr. Monsi advised. But I felt relieved and joined the merrymaking, which lasted until 3:00 am.

As I was going to my room, after the party, it hit me: “here I was, enjoying the time of my life, when just the day before, I was attending the burial of mom.” How could I be so callous as to take mom’s death for granted? I did not respect the rite of passage; I was supposed to be in mourning. I had my fears for the night, like the devil would just show up and take me to the gallows (although it was already wee past midnight).

While in my room, I carried those morbid thoughts to bed, as I fell asleep. It was then that I had a most wonderful dream. All of my room was surrounded with red roses. The vases, the table, by the lampshade, on every corner and even on the floor around my bed were filled with roses. Then I smelled the rose fragrance and felt mom’s presence. Somewhere in my mind, I felt her voice speaking in Pilipino: “Its okay my son; I understand. I’m in a place that comforts me.” Thereafter, I felt so much love and understanding. Mom’s name, of course was Rose.

Mom’s Story

Rosario, mom, was a “Cebuana” from the obscure town of San Fernando in Cebu island-province. To reach the place, one needed an hour plane ride or an overnight boat ride from Manila to Cebu City. From Cebu City to San Fernando, one would take a four-hour ride. From the San Fernando town proper to mom’s village, was another painstaking “habal-habal,” a motorbike with a wooden plank to accommodate around five people and balanced by the driver. This meant that up to this time and age (2004), the place is still remote, with no electricity. I suppose during mom’s time it meant a day’s hike from her village to the poblacion.

Ferdinand Magellan, from the viewpoint of western inspired world history, first landed in Sugbu (Cebu) when he “discovered” the Philippines in 1521. There, he led the systematic conversion of the friendly Sugbu-anons under Rajah Humabon to Christianity. Nonetheless, Lapu-Lapu, from a village in Mactan, Cebu, had the distinction of causing Magellan’s death; the blood of the foreigner dripped in Philippine soil. Lapu-Lapu was a Bangingi warrior who refused homage to a colonizer, a Filipino tradition before colonization.

What happened to mom in her earlier years? According to stories, mom, who was known as Rosing, was a natural entrepreneur even when she did not read and write. She would take the cow, pitched it to the plow and till the soil. Afterwards, she would bake and sell suman (rice-cakes wrapped in banana leaves). She would share her little earning with family. She was the eldest of a brood of 10 and she was the tough breadwinner.

When she was 17 years old, mom was already married, with two kids. During the Japanese occupation, mom watched all members of her family brutally killed. She was spared only because her family members shielded her from the bullets and fell dead on top of her already fallen body; she was mistaken for dead. After that traumatic war episode, mom married again and bore two daughters and stayed on in San Fernando. Then, in 1949, when she was 25, she decided she had enough of rural life and sought her fortune in Manila’s urban life, along with two younger siblings, both boys. She left behind her second husband and two daughters, her parents and the rest of her siblings. Somewhere along the way, one of her siblings, an uncle got lost and was never found.

Soon after mom and uncle Balbino arrived in Manila, they stayed together for a time. Eventually, uncle Balbino married and settled in Tondo, Manila, where the family lived as squatters, together with the scum of the city. Tondo then, was the battleground of two notorious gangs – the Sigue-Sigue Gang and the Sputnik Gang, two rival groups from the Visayas, organized to take care of their own against the harsh city jungle. Such was the Manila life mom had to go through with uncle Balbino.

Back in the 1960s, my brother and I had had our share of Tondo life, when we spend vacation in our uncle’s place. Cousin Boy would guide us through the labyrinths of Rivera St., Tutuban (the railroad station), Divisoria, Sta Cruz, Avenida, Recto and Ongpin Sts. I did not know it then, but cousin Boy was a “lagarista,” an errant boy who makes the rounds of movie houses to deliver movie films. I would tag along with my brother and cousin (both older by three years). At that time, I was an innocent child in my pre-teens enjoying free movies, unknowingly watching grown-ups ply their trade of flesh, deceit and fake diplomas.

Uncle Balbino and his family had a new lease in life, when they became recipients of a housing program of government. They acquired land and house in Sapang Palay, San Jose del Monte in the province of Bulacan, which was an hour drive north of Manila. My uncle was a good mechanic, which was his source of livelihood. My cousins, the boys grew up as mechanics too. The girls, like mom, became efficient caregivers.

A Homecoming

In 1981, my brother, Kuya Rudy and his family migrated to California. After 15 years, in 1996, an ethnic conflict between Chicano and Filipino youth erupted in his place. To avoid “the heat,” my brother sent his youngest son to stay in Baguio. Then, we agreed to sustain the schooling of relatives as a tribute to mom. My nephew stayed at home with my children, together with my half-sister’s (Ate Shirley) daughter, my other half-sister’s (Ate Paring) son and cousin Boy’s daughter. (Kuya Rudy’s son called me “uncle” with an American twang; my sisters’ kids called me “angkol,” with a Cebuano accent; my cousin’s daughter called me “angkel,” typical of Bulacan’s Tagalog.)

After six months, my nephew went back to the US with a tattoo on his chest: “I am a Filipino.” (Ironically, he joined the US Navy and was among those who “liberated” Iraq in 2003. Iraq was ancient Mesopotamia, where the Sumerians, the oldest known civilization, took root 6,000 years ago.) My other nephew and nieces also went to their hometowns. Like my kids, they now have their families; Filipinos linked with the world.

In 2000, my brother made a sentimental journey to mom’s remote hometown in San Fernando, Cebu. His written recollection was nostalgia enshrouded with redolence. In mom’s town, life seemed to be at a standstill – houses made of bamboo and cogon grass, and crude farming. Our relatives, including my half sisters and their families, struggled for their daily meals. My brother stayed in a tattered “barong-barong” (hut), which was some 20 square meters of kitchen, bedroom and living room enclosed by bamboo and grass. Mom lived in this hut since 1929, her birth, until she was 24 years old. After more than eighty years, the house still stood, although left un-kept.

Deep in the night, my brother laid in a bamboo bed, with only a rice sack as bed sheet. In the candlelight that flickered in the dark, he lingered on the shadows: “Mom left more than fifty years ago because there was no future here for one who craves for a better life.” Mom left the rut to seek her fortune. She never returned to her hometown or her village life. Paradoxically, she left the place where colonization first began in 1521.

Mom never learned to read and write. I recall that during election time, she would practice writing and copying the names of candidates she would vote. At the polls, she would take an hour to vote what normally would take fifteen minutes. Mom and dad (who did not finished college), like many during their time and the people who lived in squatter areas, had to struggle. They belonged to the nameless faces called “poor.” Unfortunately for them, their plight had been obscured by centuries of colonization.

Legacy of Humanity

As the Philippines celebrate its 112th Independence Day from the Spanish colonizers, I can’t help but surmise about the true meaning of freedom.

Here’s an insight from The 3rd Patriarch of Zen, entitled Trust in the Heart: “When we return to the roots, we gain meaning. When we pursue external objects, we lose reason. When the deep mystery of one suchness is fathomed, suddenly we forget the external entanglements. When the 10,000 things are viewed in their oneness, we return to the origin and remain where we have always been.”

Beyond culture and my biological DNA lies a deeper part of me, the one that connects with all life and a silent intelligence. Apparently, a “field of organization” determines the direction of life. For a larva, this “field of organization” determines the structure of its body and the functions of its organs, causes the constriction during the pupa stage, and, eventually disappears. It leaves behind a disorganized mass of living cells, with no apparent purpose. Then, a miracle happens. A field of organization of a new type expands from a particular point in the mass of cells, directing the manifestation of a particular blueprint in flesh and blood. The final result is the complex body of a butterfly.

I think that a human being has its own “field of organization” like that of a butterfly. Beyond the cultural patterns from mom and dad, my DNA patterns must have been my line to a deeper intelligence and the one that had guided my destiny. Although coursed through mom and dad’s DNA patterns, my DNA blueprint was not only biological; it was a “field of organization” that attracted the appropriate conditions for my gradual development. And my nerve cells seem to be the link that connected my physical brain with the world in which consciousness is rooted.

I guess I owe it to my genes for growing up the way I am. Otherwise, I would have ended up as a scavenger and scum, like other migrants from the provinces to the big city (I have to apologize to them for the comparison, for they too are humans, with their own dreams).

Fortunately for kuya and me, mom and dad pursued a vision for a brighter future for us, all the way to Baguio City. Through education, they nurtured our growing consciousness of the social, political and economic realities of our times. This was why, I suppose, kuya and I, despite different paths, had our hearts crying out for the poor. The Filipino was rich as a people; most simply forgot that birthright. Mom and dad were deprived, but enabled us to remember. They came out of the rut and left a legacy for prosperity. They linked us back to our colorful heritage.

Thank you mom, for the roses; your independence from earth life was also my key to freedom!

Humans, Spiders and Butterflies

Of Butterflies and Spiders

I have a fascination for spiders and butterflies. That fascination eventually turned into something more philosophical and personal. As it were, throughout my growing years, I gave meaning to their existence, beyond or deeper than it is biologically understood. I romanticize: nature must have communicated to me their meaning.

It all began in my neighborhood in Mabini St., Baguio City in the late 1950s and 1960s. At that time, there were only two buildings on the right side of Mabini St. from the vantage point of Session Road. The first and corner one to Session Road was the Philippine National Bank. The second, right at the center of Mabini St., was the Strike and Spare Lanes. (Now, Strike and Spare Lanes is Jack’s Restaurant.)

That second one was were I grew up. It was built from a mountain, which was dug. Its roof was leveled with the sorrounding mountain top. And all around the bowling building was a garden, which was regularly upkept by Manong Ben. The entrance to the bowling lane was entralling. From the street ground, you have to walk some three meters then climb seven steps to reach the inner sanctum, the waiting area or common space of the bowling lanes.

Imagine on both sides of the entrance is the garden, terraced into two layers, and with each terrace daftly filled with callalilies, with white flowers graciously sprouting from them. This was the home of the green caterpillars. And among the leaves of the callalilies was were the caterpillars weave their coccoon; to eventually emerge as butterflies – white ones; yellow ones; pink ones, all beautiful.

Imagine too the sorrounding mountain. It was festooned with sunflowers (marapait), ferns (marapako and lanot) and tall grass (ru-ut) and dandelions (blow-blow). This was the home of the spiders, the ants (ku-tun), the grasshoppers (du-dun) and various kinds of bugs (abal-abal). This was the landing ground of all those little tweeting birds. This was also the neighborhood "field of dreams." During those times, there were no malls. Everything came natural!

On countless ocassions, the boys and girls in the neighborhood come together to play on the mountain slopes. A favorite is the spider game. We go searching for spiders in the marapait forest and put them in empty match boxes. We know were to search. Usually, we look for the silk “saput” web as a tell-tale sign. We follow where it leads which is usually a crumpled brown marapait leaf with some saput in it. When we have gathered some ten spiders; we then pit spiders of the same size to a kin-ninit iti si-it or "duel in a stick."

Each spider was placed on both ends of the stick. When they walk to the center, they have their duel (kin-nit). Usually, the one who makes the first bite wins; the prey falls down but is saved from falling down by his web (saput). But as he climbs up; he faces another spectre. The winner weaves a coccoon around the looser. And that is the end of the match.

Spider X and Violet Butterfly

As the neighborhood boys and girls grew up, our beloved mountain was also leveled to the ground. Our “field of dreams” – the marapait, marapaku, dudun, butterflies and spiders - had to give way to cmmercial buildings and eateries. Except for the building, there was no remnant; not even the original Strike and Spare Lanes. I suppose the fascination for spiders and butterflies among my buddies also stopped. Not for me! It related to a particular incident.

Once, in a solitary visit to the mountain, I decided to lie down idly among the grass, to gaze at the sky. It was peaceful! It was quiet! I was calm! But as I shifted my gaze from the sky to the sorrounding quiet grass, I came to a presence. Just by my left side, was a spider web with, what we called Spider X, right at the center. It was fearfully beautiful, with its feet forming an X extending from its yellow-orange colored body. I was shocked out of my reverie. A spider X, among the neighborhood was foreboding. It was supposed to be poisonous and must be left untouched. And as I sat up; there were more shocks. There were some seven more webs with spider X’s sorrounding my little grass space. I was right in the middle of spider X territory. I did not even notice them the moment I lay down. Imagine my quiet fear! I couldn’t even shout! I just have to pray, to be spared of the onslaught of the Spider X domination.

Sometime after the incident, I realized that the spiders were not after me. They were just there as a natural event. Soon, they were gone; along with our field of dreams. Since then, I couldn’t find any spider X in Baguio City any more. But since then too, I used spiders as a gauge for events in my life. A big spider at an inappropriate place, such as my bedroom or bathroom signaled an impending danger. I would be extra-careful with my dealings with people. On the other hand, a butterfly that fluttered around me then resting at the palm of my hand or at my shoulder signaled that someone was taking care of the situation. These signals of impending danger or good tidings never failed; I trusted them like I trusted my instinct.

Two significant events in my life depicted what I mean.

In early 1995, I brought my spouse to the hospital for an operation; her right breast was removed. That same night, her dad was rushed in the same hospital. He died the following morning due to complications from old age (he was more than 80). During All Saints Day in November 1995, my spouse visited her dad’s grave. It dawned on her that her dad was forever gone. Her heart sank and all the courage she had in fighting her disease went like the wind. She fainted and stayed in the hospital. During her last day in the hospital, my kids and I had a most wonderful experience in the picnic grounds. We saw a butterfly fluttering about, carrying a big spider. My spouse died three days later at home.

In 1999, I married again. In 2000, when my new partner and I went up to Baguio for the holidays, we were met by an array of sunflowers and pine trees along the way, together with the fresh and cool breeze. When we reached home, a beautiful violet butterfly took time to flutter about. Then it gently rested on my outstretched palm. To my spouse’s wonderment, it fluttered again and rested on hers. In that fleeting moment, I felt my mom.

Hindsight: Butterflies and Spiders

I had always compared human living with that of a butterfly. One goes though life first as a caterpillar, trying to find meaning while sliding and inching one’s way among the leaves and flowers of the life’s garden. Then, as one encounters a major life crisis, such as a death in the family, a separation or simply a mid-life, one withdraws from the world and builds a coccoon. After some period of reflection and discernment, one breaks free from the darkness of one’s self-imposed isolation. He or she then breaks free as a fully human, fully alive person and flutter about like the beautiful butterfly.

I had also compared spiders with some foreboding. It is a predator. It catches its prey in its web and builds a coccoon around its unwilling victim. Depending on its web span, it reigns supreme. Some humans are like that.

Of late, I have come to view things differently. Although the butterfly is the hope for the flowers; the catterpillar eats up the leaves and flowers as sustenance. On the other hand, the spider and its web is the natural protection for the leaves and the flowers; its kind ensures a bountiful harvest. Both butterfly and spider form part of the grand ecosystem. They are vital to plant and animal life, like any other life form.

I am not afraid of spiders anymore. In a globalize world, the Internet is a global web that captures the collective knowledge of humanity. It links everyone. It also permits one to go back and reckon with his or her past as a take off for the present and future.

At a deeper level, an invisible web catches those who are not ready; that is, those who are fearful that their material possessions may be removed from them. But the invisible web likewise permits those who are prepared to proceed to a grander, more sentient life. The worldwide invisible web is the specter that looms; it is the “guardian of the threshold” which permits only those who broke their cocoon to enter.

At that instance, the butterfly is really the spider in its most glorious form.

A Legacy from Dad

Goodbye Dad

In May 18, 1993, dad celebrated his 63rd birthday in St. Louis Hospital in the company of my brother and his family. Because he was in the company of his grandchildren (on my brother’s side), dad had a resurgence of spirit. All was well, my brother thought, and he and his family left the following day for the US with a light feeling. But that was dad’s last upsurge of life. He died three days later, May 21, with only an aunt by his bedside.

Dad had a fatal stroke in 1990, before the devastating earthquake that hit in July 16. This also came at the heels of the death of my mom in 1987. It was triggered when he was informed that he must soon retire from being the Manager of the Strike and Spare Lanes. It had hurt him; it crushed his ego. Aside from family, being manager was his life; it sustained him and us.

But despite being dead to his career, he survived for three years more. I suppose he was sustained by another lifeline – his family. He wanted to ensure that family – my brother and I - was secure before he moved on. I wasn’t around when he died. I had my own carreer to sustain; I was in Tagum, Davao del Norte for the Cooperative Congress of the region.

When dad was buried, I was there, also burying with him all my hurt, in the quiet of the Baguio cemetery. I learned later through my sister-in-law that dad celebrated his last birthday with one question: “Did I fail my youngest son?”

Had I been in his deathbed, sharing his birthday, I could have said: “No dad, you did not fail. You gave your best. Whatever happened to me was the outcome of my choice. It could have been better. But I chose to live my life the way I saw fit. And yes! Thank you dad for all the loving and caring you and mom had shared with us.”

Dad’s Story

Dioscoro, dad, was a “Waray” from Tunga in Leyte Province. In contrast to my mom who left to seek greener pastures, my dad left because of disagreements in the home.

Dad had interesting anecdotes about our ancestry. We belonged to a family of activists and non-conformists. My great-great grandfather was part of the rebellion against Spain (a "Katipunero"). My grandfather was a teacher, with revolutionary ideas. During the war, a great uncle literally ate pages of the Bible to survive in the mountains (I suppose this took care of both biological and spiritual needs). There was a time when my grandmother had to change dad’s (and his two siblings’) family name to her maiden name, to ensure safe conduct from the law. To cap it all, my dad took great pride that a street in Carigaraya was named after my grandfather.

Dad was the second of three children (of a girl and two boys from my grandmother’s first marriage), from which my brother and me owe our family name. My grandfather died when my father was pre-teen. His troubles started when my grandmother married again and had seven other children.

Dad claimed that he was a bright student and was in third year Commerce when his stepfather asked him to stop schooling in favor of his favorite son. That triggered the war between dad and my grandmother. From dad’s viewpoint, his dad, my grandfather, left him enough fortune to sustain his education. Because of what dad felt unfair, in 1949, he left for Manila. Although dad loved grandma, the bitterness was unresolved till the day she died in the 1980s. But because he left home, he was to become my dad.

Unfulfilled Dreams

When dad decided to come up to Baguio in 1952 and at 22 years old, he wanted a simple life for himself and his family. He also wanted his own house. Once, when I brought him to my place, he was in reverie. He expressed his regret in passing off an opportunity to own his house and lot along Fil-Am compound. Then the place was still forested with no house standing. Now the place was buzzing with houses and people. Nonetheless, he felt contentment that his two sons have their own respective abodes.

Dad did not fulfill his dream of finishing college. But he saw his dream fulfilled in his two boys. By inculcating in us the value of education and investing in our schooling, he set us to the path of self-reliance. Kuya Rudy finished his degree in Economics and his wife was sustained through her Masters in Public Administration (aside from her finishing her nursing degree with her parent’s support). My brother and his family migrated to the US armed with the necessary skills and knowledge to live a life of prosperity. After my undergraduate course, I went on to sustain my own Masters degree and many other special courses. I reached the height of my career because dad started me off.

Dad did not fail. He succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. It was just that he anchored his dreams on his kids. Unfortunately for him, I responded with numbness, being caught in a whirlpool of hurts and struggles in my own life. Fortunately for him, he saw the prospects for the good life of his grandchildren. Dad died a pauper, but he had left a legacy for prosperity for the generations after him.

On Dying

A fact of life is the inevitability of death. There is a time for every living thing – a birth, a growing up, a letting go and a death.

Everyday, one also hears and knows of people who had passed away. It is read in the papers or watched on TV. But, like the death of flowers, it is not a bother if that someone who died is personally not known.

When the Twin Towers in New York collapsed due to the plane crashes maneuvered by terrorists, most felt grief and sympathized with America. But, except for those who have relatives among those who died, the heightened emotions of people were fleeting. They may have sworn to high heavens. But that is all. One would not feel as much the loss from a catastrophe that happened to someone else somewhere. Soon, people will also forget what happened on September 11, 2001. Soon, the next generations will just read about the incident in history books, like this generation remembered the World Wars because they had to be memorized for the school exams.

It would be different when someone dear had died. Because one had given meaning to and shared his or her being with that departed person, a great loss is felt, like a part connected to the beloved had been estranged. When one becomes attached to something or someone to the point that one becomes dependent, the death would be more devastating. One’s world would cave in; at times, wishing death itself.

It would also be different when one must confront fears about death and dying. This is especially true when one feels the need to complete a mission in this world. One would cling to dear life; praying and cursing at the same time. But ready or not ready, each one will die anyway. One might as well be prepared to die anytime.

A Celebration of Life

The message of death for those who were left behind is to “move on.” That is part of the cycle of life. The fact is that all those born during the late 1800s had already died or were preparing to die. A sizable number died during the two world wars. A sizable number from our generation also died of diseases, like AIDS. Their time was up and they are now somewhere else, except in our three dimensional world.

On a broader perspective, death may mean not only physical death. It may be a release from something worn out and an opened door for something new.

Intuitively, the living flows with the seasons. One feels wonderful when the flowers bloom in May and December, then just simply coast along when the flowers wilt (to bloom again during the next flowering season). Everyday, one wakes up to the sunrise and withdraws in sleep after the sunset, to dream the dreams, either under the moonlight or not. The following day, one again wakes up to another sunrise, closing the doors of the past. Nothing is ever quiet the same, except when one clings to it.

But it cannot be denied that Kuya and I were following the footsteps of our parents. I suppose, the human values of parents (not necessarily the cultural habits) are passed on until the next generation. This is evolution in progress, humanity in the process of becoming.

My First Ibaloi Biology Teacher

During my early years in the 1960s and outside my immediate family, Manong Ben (Manong is Ilocano for sir) taught my first lessons in Biology and life. A native of Benguet province, he belonged to the Ibaloi tribe, an "Igorot," that is, of the "people of the mountains," the Cordilleras of northern Luzon.

He had worked in Strike and Spare Lanes, along Mabini St., for as long as I can remember. He was the gardener of the bowling, taking care of the lilies, the roses, daisies and chrysanthemums.

He taught me the importance of sunlight and rain in the life cycle of plants, the earthworm in soil preparation, and the spider in protecting plants from grasshoppers. He explained and showed how a caterpillar turned into a butterfly and how the butterfly helped propagate the roses. I had since then, loved gardening.

More than a gardener, Manong Ben was human. For me, he was patient, kind and understanding. He was also content, with simple dreams. I suppose, he left his hometown to start a new life in the city. He found a home in Strike and became a family member. He was surrogate mom or dad, when both of my parents were not around. He picked us up from school when my older brother and me were stranded due to the sudden downpour (from a typhoon that arrived earlier than expected). He carried along our umbrellas and raincoats, so we all could brave the rain.

Manong Ben never finished high school. But we respected him, even until my elder brother and I finished high school, and went all the way to finish college. Why? His words were wisdom, with the force of what is natural. He instilled common sense, even as the world put a premier value on education as a means to development. He also had a quiet dignity and humility, rare in a world where worldly ambitions – fame, fortune and power, were considered the measures of success.

Scientists, as objectively as they could, had probed deep into space and had analyzed the smallest particle of matter. They also figured out that life forms have a common denominator, the DNA. But they have not proven the existence of the soul. Why? The soul is not something that is observed; it is something that is touched with one’s heart.

Scientists were objective, devoid of feelings, in their approach. But they all agree that the quanta, virtual reality, is influenced by the observer, that there is really nothing completely objective in the world.

Manong Ben is no scientist. But all it took for him was to touch what is real through his heart. He felt the world through the flowers and the insects in his garden. He poured out his soul as he sprinkled water in his plants.

Manong Ben felt for us, like he would water his garden.

I suppose, having a heart and a soul are the two greatest lessons in living as a human being. Like culture, they are intangible; without physical form. But unlike culture, they are natural.

Incidentally, Manong Ben fell in love with a house-help of Lola Dolores, the matriarch-owner of Strike and Spae Bowling Lanes. He saved his hard-earned pay to send her to nursing school. When she finished, she married someone else. Manong Ben was so heart-broken until he left, which was soon after his garden was replaced by a two-storey commercial building. (Strike and Spare is now Jack's Restaurant.)

He came back to visit, some 10 years later, in 1973, when I was already married, with a daughter. He became a proud cooperative manager in his hometown. He remained human, with a quiet dignity.

I never saw Manong Ben again. But his lessons in biology and life remained with me. To this day, everytime i meet an Ibaloi, i am reminded of him. I only have respect for the tribe that nurtured my love for the earth.

How i wish, i have the native genes. I would certainly shout out: "I am proud to be Ibaloi! I am proud to be Igorot! I belong to the "People of the Mountain!"

An April Fool’s Tale of Love

"In an April dream..."

It is weird for a guy to love romantic tales. But I do!

Stack in my library are around 300 hundred romantic books – Mills and Boons, Sihouette Romance, Sidney Sheldon’s, Sweet Valley High and period romantic novels. They are all arranged pretty much like a haystack in a corner of my library in my modest place in Baguio City. I have acquired most of them from the second hand bookstores (and antique shops) along Evangelista and M. Reyes Sts. in Makati, where my family stayed for five years when I worked in Metro-Manila. They were part of the loot we packed and shipped to Baguio when we transferred from Metro Manila. They were the left-overs from our second hand book store shop (cum grocery and internet shop). Except for the Sweet Valley High series (which my daughter Chantal, at 10 years old have already perused), I have read all of them. In fact, I have read the ones I really like more than twice.

My books (note the emphasis) compete with space for my spouse’s favorites, which include non-fiction, such as the works of Anne Rule (those crime stories made into books) and autobiographical sketches of say, Princess Diana and Audrey Hepburn. Then, she had other collections too; books written by Maeve Binchy and Anne River Siddons.

Of course, my library has other hundred books of other sorts. I also like detective, mystery, and epic tales. I have a wide collection of the books by Ken Follett (“Triple,” “Lie Down with Lions,” “A Place Called Freedom,” etc.), Steve Shagan (“The Formula,” “The Circle,” “Save the Tiger,” etc.) and Harold Robbins (“The Adventurers,” “The Carpetbaggers,” “A Stone for Danny Fisher,” etc.). But my wife couldn’t get over the idea that I make dog ears in pages of the books that I wanted to re-read, namely, those parts with, you know, the love part…where the hero of the story first met the girl…then until they either break up or kiss and make up in a swooping embrace. For every dog ear, a romantic tale! (“Augh”…says my wife!)

We only share one common author: Anne Tyler, who wrote (among others) “The Accidental Tourist,” “If Morning Ever Comes,” “A Slipping Down Life” and “A Patchwork Planet.” We just love Tyler’s writing style and penchant for detail we hope to emulate as rookie writers. My wife liked the details; I loved the romance part.

(I have other books too, which related to my other interests. These are books on anthropology, science, and various scriptures from all sorts of faiths and belief systems. That is another story.)

Weird? Yes! Even for my wife of ten years. But my love for romance is a story itself. For every book, I flow with the story. And although I can predict the outcomes of each story (Romance books are like fairy tales, they almost always end up making one swoon!), I suspend my judgment; I simply like to coast along with the story teller, up to the final page. I just love the happy endings!

Why do I what I love to do? I suppose, it was a coping mechanism. ..it was keeping in touch with the child in me. It was reflecting what my soul had yearned for from the time I was born into this world. I was seeking for a perfect mate, the soul mate, the twin flame. I sought her everywhere…in partnerships, in friendships, in everything I do. And thoughout my boyhood, I swooned and swayed with the fairy tales. I lived in the fantasy world of Sir Galahad fighting for the honor of his fair damsel. I had wished I was King Arthur accepting the truth about Guinivere and sir Launcelot.

When I was in my early teens, I fell in love…which did not last forever. I fell I love again…again not forever…and again…and I got married at eighteen, turning nineteen, just about the time I left my teen life…and my lifepartner left this world too soon…so I continued my search…

Not until I finally realized that I have to be the author of my own love story. I cannot wait for the dream to come true. I must wake up. So I wrote down my thoughts. I wrote down what I expected in a relationship and in a partner. This was a year after my wife died, in 1995.

Well! What do you know! The universe granted my request. In April 1999, I had a first glimpse of my future partner. She was as I have described in a note made five years earlier. In October 1999, we were married.

Fairy tales do come true. I made mine happen. I no longer seek a twin flame. In fact I no longer seek out anyone...new friendships just come naturally. I also wanted to share. But I do thank the universe for the blessings. I also nurtured the serenity and compassion shared by the authors of the romantic novels.

"Are we just April fools? I don't care...true love has bound us now!"

Mt Mary, Baguio City

During the 1960s, Mt. Mary was not where the Baguio Cathedral is now perched; it was the mountain where the present St Louis Hospital was located, which was the end of Assumption Road. It was then a virtual forest with a thick growth of pine trees, wild grass and ferns. It was there where we would gather roots and twigs from pine trees to be converted to school projects. It was along its winding slopes, covered with pine needles where we had our slides. Along its pathway, we would trek to the high school site (now the St. Louis University), enjoying the cool breeze, the tweeting of the birds and the streaks of sunlight as they peeped through the thick pines.

I suppose the mountain got its name from the Blessed Virgin Mary, mother of Jesus Christ. But the mountain is no longer there. It gave way to the expansion of St. Louis University. So, like its namesake, it became part of a memory of those who lived during those times.

Among boys, “Mt. Mary” meant something else. It was a challenge; a duel to see which of two protagonists was tougher. Mt. Mary was the scene of many duels. It became synonymous to a noble and fair fight. It was like the Knights of the Round Table fighting for the honor of the king or a fair damsel. “Mt. Mary” meant staking your honor. It was a passage from youth to adolescence; from a small boy to a bigger boy.

When I was 10 years old, Boy, a peer of kuya, was the neighborhood bully, who challenged everyone to Mt. Mary. Nobody dared accept the challenge; his reputation was mythical. But kuya, secretly prepared. He bought a book on karate and practiced self-defense. So, when Boy challenged kuya to a fistfight (“Mt Mary!”), Boy got the shock of his life when kuya accepted and fearlessly displayed his fighting stance.

Amidst the cheers of the kids, Boy was humbled (with each side having their share of hurt). Boy may think that he won the battle, but he lost the war. My big brother earned the respect of the kids and became the champion of the oppressed. From Mt. Mary, he followed a life-path all the way to the mountains of the Cordillera as a rebel.

I had my turn. Another league from the lower part of Mabini St. invaded our territory (i.e., our mountain-paradise), a violation of our territorial rights. To resolve the issue, duels were set right in our mountain, pitting boys and girls from our league with other boys and girls of the invading league. Against Bebeng, my opponent, I had the height advantage and easily had the upper hand in our wrestling match. I was on top of him, while he lay with his back on the ground. Then, I was choking him with my bare hands. I distinctively remembered him gasping for air and silently begging me to release my grip. But my league members were cheering and prodding me to go on.

“Kill Bebeng?” I panicked at the thought. I let go off my hands from Bebeng’s neck and froze. The next thing I knew, Bebeng was all over - boxing and outmaneuvering me. I ended up with a black eye and swollen lips. For me, “Mt. Mary” was a battle that was won, but lost. I had a bruised ego and a lingering question in my mind: “Is killing worth the winning?”

Lucky for the two leagues, the duels were even – two wins, two loses. A compromise was made and the two leagues shared the mountain. Eventually, harmony was established and there was a common league in Mabini St., to the extent that friendships were forged and crushes and puppy loves blossomed. But the scar of my defeat and humiliation was etched deep in my mind. I wanted none of war. I pursued the life-path of a peacemaker and harmonizer.

Spiritual Awakening

Kuya and I were baptized Catholics and studied in a Catholic school from Grade I to high school. During our elementary years, we prayed the rosary every morning and night for the whole month of October, in compliance to a school mandate (we wanted to accumulate a lot of indulgences and graces; they were antidotes against venial sins). After the month, we each submitted a drawing of a rosary, with each bead (corresponding to a day) colored to attest that, indeed, we prayed. We were honest; we didn’t want to commit sin. (Those were the times when Pope John XXIII pushed for the Ecumenical Council).

Kuya joined and stayed in the seminary for two years. I suppose he was seeking answers from religion. When he went out in his third year high, I suppose he did not find the answer in priesthood. According to him, he went out because the meals of the seminarians were mungo (a vegetable), while the priests ate chopped pork. In fourth year, he became the explorer scout leader of the whole school. His training as a revolutionary had commenced. This was followed through in college, when he was exposed to the “School for National Democracy” or SND. There, he understood that the problems of mom and dad related to “class struggle” and the solution was to join the worldwide proletarian revolution to topple imperialism and establish a socialist society.

I wanted to become a saint. In Grade 5 and 6, I regularly volunteered to clean the school chapel (two-thirds the size of a basketball court) together with other saintly boys. While doing the chores, I would solemnly pray to my angels and to the Tabernacle, to protect me from the devil and to let my parents see the light. Secretly I wanted to follow the footsteps of Joan of Arc (portrayed by Ingrid Bergman in the movie version) and of St Francis of Assisi (“Brother Sun, Sister Moon”). I did not hear the voice of the Holy Spirit, but I felt like a cherubim.

I regularly attended Sunday mass at the Baguio Cathedral (non-attendance was a mortal sin). But one of the sermons of the parish priest woke me up from stupor. He said: “parents, don’t send your children to church!” He paused then continued, “bring them with you.” That was unthinkable. Mom and dad never went to church except during baptisms, weddings and burials. My only recollection of mom’s religiousness was when she visited the Convent of the Pink Sisters (a chapel near Brent school, where the nuns sing like angels) and when she toured friends to the Lourdes Grotto. How could they be saved when they were accumulating so much mortal sin?

The principal in Boys High, who was my teacher in 4th year Social Ethics and Religion, provided some answers. He blamed elementary teachers for instilling “impure thoughts” in children. “How could kids have impure thoughts when they were just curious?” He started me off to a reality apart from religion (he affirmed something that I intuitively believed in). He taught that the way to live in this world is to find meaning as a human being. He admonished the class to question our faith and define our humanity. “Live your life according to principles” he would advise. “Character makes a man.”

The principal was brutally murdered in his home, during the summer of 1970, just after I graduated from high school. It was an unsolved crime. But his legacy lived on among the kids under his tutelage. His favorite verse was from Edwin Markham:

“We are all blind until we see; that in the human plan, nothing is worth the making if it does not make the man. Why build these cities glorious if man unbuilded goes? In vain we build the world unless the builder also grows.”

Being born in this world by accident or by choice is not the issue. We are born as humans with human capacities; it is our responsibility to make the best of what we are and what we have. No one, but no one will do it for us.

Life Paths

Although, my brother and I were exposed to the same cultural patterns of mom and dad, the same neighborhood, the same school, the same mountains, and practically the same college environment in Baguio, we had different coping mechanisms. From our first lessons with one another and from the boys of Mabini St., we followed completely opposite life paths. My brother was aggressive and wanted to change the conditions outside him. I was inclined to settle for amicable settlements.

I suppose, each one has a unique path. One follows a blueprint harmoniously being actualized through the natural flow and dance with the environment – i.e., nature and others humans. It is not the environment primarily influencing us; it is the opposite. Our internal system is isolating the signals or factors from the environment that corresponded to the requirements of our essential self. We are naturally attracted to the signals that would complete our blueprint.

My brother transformed to an outgoing, sociable person, but a shrewd and slick operator, both in politics and economics. Kuya was attracted to signals that nurtured his “objectivism;” he was inclined towards changing the world to a socialist society.

I transformed into an introspective, but conscientious person, drawn both to detailed work and eastern philosophy. I was attracted to signals that nurtured my subjectivity; I was inclined to Eastern philosophies, focused on seeking the path within.

Funny tho,’ how fate moves life! My brother was soon caught in an encounter in Isabela. After he was released from prison and finished college, he had an interlude with Sambia, in Africa. He then eventually settled in the US with his family. Well, so much for anti-imperialism sentimentality.

I joined the ranks of public servants, first selling “responsible parenthood” (condoms and pills), then the ranks of civil society, until I became involved with the UN Development Programme (UNDP) as project officer, first for Governance; then Peace and Development in Mindanao. I soon had an optional retirement, remarried and resettled in Baguio City.

Nonetheless, one goes back to the root of it all…”Mt. Mary” was the first encounter, the first struggle for territory among boys in Baguio. It was the first lesson in growing up; for a stake in life in this world. As a facebook friend quoted:

“To do is to be” – Descartes
“To be is to do” – Plato
“Do be do be do” - Sinatra

Baguio City, Field of Dreams

(In 1954, I was born while Strike and Spare Lanes, a four-pair bowling alley and four-table billiards, was being constructed in Mabini St, the road crossing Session Road, Baguio’s main thoroughfare. Dad managed to be employed as clerk and rose to become the manager of the bowling and the billiards. Dad also got the lease for the canteen inside “Strike.” With the canteen as living room, dining room and kitchen, we stayed in a 5 by 6 square meter bedroom adjacent to it. I spent most of my childhood and adolescent life in “Strike.” It was home for at least 25 years; it was the setting for my blossoming (thanks to the Bogayong’s and the de Guia’s, who owned the place).

Games Children Play

For kuya Rudy and me, Strike was paradise. There was the mountain of Mabini St., adorned with sunflowers. There was the neighborhood, with the community of children, like us, with whom we shared a world of make-believe in the mountain. There was Burnham Park, along with Fred’s New Stand, the movies, and carnivals. There was school, with its share of schoolmates, the extension of the neighborhood of kids.

As I look back to my times in Strike, the times when I felt spontaneous, when I did not have to feel ashamed of anything and when I had nothing to hide, were the times when I felt truly alive and human. Those times had related to being pure as a child and natural as the butterfly. Those times also had to do with mom and dad entering our world or, at least, permitting us to penetrate their world.

Kids do need to exercise their basic freedom to play. Play was the nourishment, the “glow, grow and go” of our psyches, like the sun, water and food were for our bodies. We can’t do anything about the grown-ups. But we did something for ourselves in our own world. We were genuinely fond of each other, sharing our simple dreams, joys, the heartaches and the sorrows. We were also genuinely curious of the world around us, unraveling the world’s mysteries through mutual sharing of the little knowledge we possess.

I suppose humans are born in tune with nature’s ways. We start by living in a make-believe world, with the freedom to choose and act out our inmost wishes. We are not re-living the world of grown-ups; it is the opposite. Ironically, we act out as ourselves while mimicking the world of grown-ups. While the fantasies may be fantasies, the feelings were real. We are changing the patterns of the grown-ups, by acting out how it should be in our dream world, i.e., before we become adults immersed in the world of grown-ups (to actualize our dreams).

Best Friends

Kuya was a constant companion since I was born. But I did not consider him my best friend. He was big brother, a blood relation. He was a given, like mom and dad; someone you live with through time and tide. You may abuse one another, but brothers (or sisters) could not be replaced. But since he was older, he naturally sought out other experiences that did not include me. During those times, I was left to my own devises. I needed to interact with my own peers. It was during those times when I had my own set of friends, some of whom I considered as best friends. I suppose in becoming human, one needed others to serve as mirror.

During my pre-school until Grade 2, I was a mentor to Catchut. We were the two youngest boys in the neighborhood, and I was older than him by about two years. Although Catchut had older brothers, Pig-ol and Henry, he would rather join me in the games. I suppose, it was because I was trustworthy (i.e., brothers can abuse each other; friends can’t afford it). Kids intuitively know whom to trust. Kids also become bolder because they had someone either older or younger, with them. Catchut trusted me and followed where I lead. In the same way my brother took care of me, I took care of him.

Once, when I was 5 to 6 years old, all the pupils in grade 2 had a hike and picnic to the Baguio Zoo (now the Baguio Botanical Garden). There, I had so much fun with the animals and with the clay we got from a cave; I wanted to go back with someone. I thought of Catchut. So, one fine Saturday morn, we trekked to the zoo, with me recalling and retracing the path of the school hike. We passed through Gen. Luna St., came out at Teachers Camp, on to the bridge (which served as my guidepost) and reached our goal. It was a bold step for me, something I did because Catchut was with me. We hiked more than four kilometers and hiked back. We were amply rewarded; we carried home a bagful of clay and Catchut saw the zoo earlier than his peers.

When I was 10-11 years old and in Grade 6, my best friend was Noli, a classmate from lower Mabini St. Together, we brought along four young ones to the “forest” at the back of the city auditorium. There, by the brook, we pitched tent and set a camp fire. We had fun catching the tadpoles and swimming, until we discovered that leeches abound. Nonetheless, we went home contented. We had our tadpoles and near-frogs (frogs with tadpole tails). Months later, we found out that water from the brook flowed from a huge drainage pipe located under the Baguio Circle, beside the Baguio General Hospital. Regardless, for me, that day was particularly special – I was a bigger boy, a near-frog.

Through my friends, I was affirmed as a person. With them, I gained confidence as new phases in my life unfolded. Through our interactions, I learned to view the world from another perspective and therefore to be better. A lesson: You would need another person to trigger what is naturally inherent. When you complete your lessons with one, then you’re ready for other relationships, another set of interaction to bring out other or deeper sets of values and skills.

Dream Weavers

My kuya and I also owed so much to the greatest (but unheralded) “dream weavers” (and to mom and dad, when they entered and nurtured our dream world). Their works were overshadowed by a lot of grown-up stuff, such as the Bible and other scriptures, together with the works of the great scientists and philosophers. Their names had also become anonymous. Nonetheless their legacy lived on, keeping the world sane and in touch with the secrets of the universe. They continue to inspire people all over the world today, going right to the core of the kid’s heart. They were the authors of the comic books and makers of movies, especially of cartoon shows.

Dad started our love for comic books. During the occasions when mom and dad were at peace, dad would read to us (including mom, who can’t read) local comics books, such as Pilipino Komiks and Tagalog Klasiks. Dad would be lying down, with a pillow under his head or sitting in a chair. Mom would lie or sit beside him, while kuya and me, would sit by their side, following the picture-scenes. The tales would flow through the spoken words of dad, like how Gagamba (the local Spiderman) would defeat all adversaries (Those times were heavenly; moments when I felt one with family).

When I learned to read, I spent most of my allowance hiring comic books from the popular Fred’s News Stand, located a block away from Strike, and which lent comic books at five centavos for two comics. I got especially hooked with the DC superheroes – the Justice League of America, the Legion of Superheroes (example, Saturn Girl, Colossal Boy) and the Teen Titans (Kid Flash, Robin). I also collected copies of the Junior Classic Illustrated (such as Push N’ Boots and The Emperor’s New Clothes), which numbered more than fifty. As I grew older, books and the appreciation of art were added to my repertoire, but the comic books remained to this day.

Through comics, I stretched my imagination and exercised my creativity beyond earth dimensions. I followed the exploits of Superman: born as Kar-El, from the late planet Krypton, who grew up in Smallville, Illinois and became the reporter Clark Kent in love with Lois Lane. I loved the “original” Princess Diana, who was born in Paradise Island, but gave up immortality, migrated to the US as Diana Prince (to follow the love of her life, Capt. Steven Trevor) and championed “Justice” as Wonder Woman. I shared the secret lives of Bruce Wayne (Batman), Barry Allen (the Flash), Ray Palmer (The Atom) and Hal Jordan (the original Green Lantern). I swam the seas with Aquaman from Atlantis, soared the air with Hawkman, and the universe with the Martian Manhunter.

Movies And Radio Dramas

Mom started my love for movies. Before I learned to walk, I was already familiar with movie houses, with her tagging me along. Because of mom, I was exposed first to Filipino movies. I loved action fantasy movies, especially those adapted from the comic serials. I joined the exploits of Captain Barbell, the local version of Superman, Darna (local Wonder Woman), Gagamba (Spiderman), and Palos (Eel, figuratively “agile,” no foreign version). I specially liked “Ang Apat na Agimat” (The Four Talisman). Joseph Estrada and Fernando Poe Jr. were already popular at that time. (Who would have predicted then that Erap would be president of the Republic of the Philippines and the late FPJ would also run as president?)

When I was only four years old, I, alone, watched a double program in Aurora Theater, located just in front of Strike (free for us in the neighborhood). I entered during the first showing, which was about 1:00 PM. I breezed through the first movie, but fell in love with the second one, especially the last scene (The bludgeoned Spartan was flogged by soldiers as he crawled his way towards the object of his affection, a princess seated at the throne. He made it to her and she forgave him for his misdeeds, then they kissed).

I loved that scene so much that I watched it again, which meant sitting inside the movie house for another four hours. When I went out of the movie house, I was surprised to find out that it was late evening (that was 9:00 PM), way passed my curfew. I was also surprised that the household was already alarmed about my absence. Lucky for me, that time was also the height of business with the bowling full of people, which kept mom and dad busy. They were simply relieved to see me safe. Unlike my movie hero, I received only a reprimand, not the whip.

Since then, I sustained my love for romance and fantasy. I particularly remembered being touched by movies about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table (those knights who helped damsels in distress), the Three Musketeers, Sinbad, Ali Baba and the Arabian Nights (the three wishes and the magic lamp), and the exploits of the Gods of Olympus (Achilles, Hercules, Jason and the Argonauts). I also followed James Bond (Agent 007), since Dr. No. (I watched all the Bond movies, which span two generations and around six actors - Sean Connery, Peter Sellers, George Lazenby, Roger Moore, Jim Dalton and Pierce Brosnan.)

Like movies and comics, radio dramas also nurtured my imagination. Thanks to mom, we had our first “state of the art” radio, which was a radio with a clock (actually I won the radio from a bingo game at Camp John Hay, but mom paid for my bingo card). So, every week, the family would be glued to the radio set to listen to “Tiya Dely,” a drama anthology and “Tang-Ta-Rang-Tang,” a comedy show. I forgot the episodes of the shows. But I remembered how fulfilled I am in the company of mom, dad and kuya.

The Music Touch

Through the radio, we had our share of tuning in to America’s Top 40 and Dyna’s Dynamic Ten. Thanks to dad, we also had our first phonograph, a turntable playing 45 and 33 rpm (long playing) records.

Looking back, songs from the 1960s to1970s evoke emotions of bygone years. They were not old songs (they were timeless), but new songs when I was younger. Listening to songs from my youth kept me in touch with my generation and the generations before and after mine. Music is the statement of the youth of the day. Depending on the theme and when it was played, I remembered a particular setting.

The song “Sad Movies” evoked memories of one of my first crushes during the summer of 1960. She was a little acrobat girl in a ballerina dress, singing that song on a carnival stage. “How could someone so young be so cute, beautiful and talented at the same time?” That was when I was around 5 years old, with kuya and me watching with the crowd in the football grounds of Burnham Park. (In 2004, I had a chance to walk down memory lane with my big brother. After more than forty years, we both discovered that we shared the same fascination with that cute little girl. She is probably in her fifties by year 2004, never to know that she touched the heart of two souls from Baguio.)

The song “End of the World” reminded me of Cousin Linda (daughter of dad’s oldest sister), who stayed with us. She was sixteen in 1964 and shared her crushes with me, who was 10 years old, with my own crushes. It was also during that year that typhoon “Dading” ravaged the country, killing scores of people, while the sun did not show up for a month. A version of “Souvenirs” reminded me of mom, who swooned and boasted like a teenager (she was already 49 in 1973) that she has a signed photograph of Eva Vivar, the local singer who popularized the tune.

I practically grew up with the Beatles. In Grade 6, I bought a set of laminated pictures of each of the Beatles – John, Paul, George and Ringo (half the size of an ID card, bounded together by a small chain), which I hooked to my belt. Songs like “Yesterday,” “All My Loving,” and “Help” bring back memories of times spent in a family friend’s house, the home of my most treasured young love.

When I was in high school, I envied rich classmates who brought long- playing albums of the Beatles (Abbey Road and Rubber Soul) to share with other rich classmates. I had none of those; I just had 45 rpms. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the music as much as the rich kids do. When the tunes were played, everybody listened regardless of class distinction. I suppose, music and any art form which comes from the heart is free and can be equally enjoyed by the rich and poor alike. The difference is just a matter of choice or taste. To expand this to nature, i.e., the grandest natural art form, the best things in life are free. Nobody needs to pay to feel the touch of the morning mist, listen to the humming of the birds, and watch the sunset.

Blossoming of Awareness

Like the sunflower bud would bloom during the months of May and December in Baguio, the kids grew up to be bigger boys and bigger girls, then adolescents, then young adults and married grown-ups. This implied several passages from the innocence of the child to the trappings of the world of grown-ups. This implied re-living and actualizing childhood dreams in the so-called real world, starting with the domestic front.

Kuya Rudy was always the big brother to me, the one I could depend on. He was a good companion, someone you would love to be with. He was always eager to teach new lessons, give new insights. But since he was the big brother, it naturally followed that I was the younger one. Externally (i.e., socially), this didn’t matter. In fact I took advantage of our relationship in almost every situation. However, being younger had its disadvantages. I was kuya’s errant boy. I was also receiving the raw end of deals.

Once, during a war game in the castle side of our hill, kuya accidentally slipped on a chunk of slimy yellow shit, which soiled his feet, slippers and long pants, from his legs up to his ass. It was an embarrassing and stinking incident. Everyone around him had their hands on their noses to avoid the foul smell, while wondering what to do. I was his only salvation. Otherwise, he would receive the wrath of mom and dad to compound his already upsetting situation.

Duty called and I was requested (without any choice) to sneak home (which was about a 20 meter distance), get a small towel, wet it with water, go back and help him wipe off the shit from his feet, and pants. I repeated the sequence three times - go home, wash the towel, go back and wipe the shit. Finally, we both sneaked back home for him to secretly change cloths and for us to wash away the foul smell. (During our analysis 40 years later, we realized that we could have been more efficient. He could have sent me to get a pail of water, with the wet towel; I didn’t have to run back and forth three times, like it was the end of the world.)

Between my brother and me, I was the more conscientious, thrifty and organized one. However, all my savings will go to naught or he would find a way of sharing the bounty. When he was in the seminary during his first year in high school, he would seek me out during recess and ask me to buy his favorite food. When I was in first year high, I wanted to buy a guitar, which costs 34 pesos. I already saved 30 pesos (which was a lot considering that our daily allowance was only fifty centavos or half a peso). He had the 4 pesos I needed, which he lent to me. He also offered to help me buy the guitar. After the purchase, we arrived home fully satisfied, except for one detail. Kuya decided that I owed him nothing, but that the guitar was “ours.”

Our particular interaction had manifested in our later years in two opposing, yet complementary ways. While he was interactive, I was reflective. He would be at the forefront of events, while I would be behind the scene. I was secretly fascinated (and was envious) of kuya’s seeming ease in entering the crowd. He was humorous, the life of a party. I enjoyed being alone or in the company of one with whom I could interact one-on-one. Kuya basked in the limelight; I was content in the shadows, playing second fiddle, giving advice to the leader.

Apparently old habits never die, although the warmth remained. In 2004, when kuya visited from the US, we had a chance to recall the events of our childhood, which was very fine. However, during one of our visits to a friend of his in Manila, he absentmindedly asked me to pick up his baggage from the car and bring it in the house. I complied, not grudgingly as during our younger years, but with amusement. We were already in our fifties and I was still kuya’s errant boy. Nonetheless, all the time kuya was in Baguio and the Philippines, he paid the bills.

Baguio City, the Paradise of My Youth

(This essay was abridged from an unpublished book, entitled "Spectrum of Living." It is dedicated to people who grew up in Baguio and who continue to nurture it in their minds and hearts. For me, Baguio City was paradise. It had its mountains of pine trees and green grass. It had sunflowers and the cool breeze....)

Perched below the historical landmark of Baguio Cathedral is the center of paradise. It was Strike and Spare Lanes, my home.

Back in the 1950s and 1960s, “Strike” was the only building on our side of the street of Mabini. Four roads, including Mabini St, bounded it. To its right was Session Road, with the Philippine National Bank as corner building. To the left was General Luna St. At the back of Strike was Assumption Road; across it is St. Louis Center (now St. Louis University). A stairway from St. Louis leads to the Baguio Cathedral.

Strike had a perfect setting. Its foundation was dug up from a hill, such that the remaining hilltop was almost level with the rooftop of Strike. Around Strike, sunflowers, shrubs and grass covered the hilltop. I don’t know for sure, but the story I heard was that Strike was built atop the ruins of a hospital destroyed during the war. The ruins became part of our fantasies. On the left side of Strike (while facing it), a 6-feet tall and 20-feet wide stonewall stood silently, complete with ancient cemented stairs on both sides. Sunflowers also surrounded it. That was our castle, where we build on our dreams.

On the other side of Strike was an old fireplace, standing neatly on top of the hill, with no supporting walls and surrounded by grass, shrubs and dandelions. The fireplace chimney rose to 10 feet. It was our tower to the world and the one where we would send smoke signals to the rest of the city. The entrance of Strike itself was a twelve-step stairs, surrounded by a beautiful garden of roses, lilies and carnations which Uncle Ben, the gardener, religiously tended. Strike was the center of Paradise, with the forbidden fruits inside the building, forcedly chewed when the grown-ups (mom and dad and the rest) spit their venoms.

My brother and I shared equally our hilltop - the castle, the fireplace, the flowers, grass and the rooftop of Strike, with the neighborhood. In front of Strike, across Mabini St., were the neighbors, the kids that compose our little league. The Baguio Hardware Store was home to a hybrid of Fil-Italians. To the right side of the hardware store was the Doña Aurora Building, which housed the theater, a two-floor bowling alley, and four stores. Among the stores was the home of our Fil-Chinese neighbor. Further right of the Aurora Building is the Ang Tibay Building, where the sons of a policeman lived. Also, living within the Ang Tibay Building compound was a rich kid and another Chinese family. Further right of the Ang Tibay Building is the corner of General Luna St.

Along Gen. Luna St, across the street of the hill left of Strike was Baguio Tech (now the University of Baguio). It also had its mountain, covered with grass, where we would venture away from our hill in a fit of adventurism. But what was most interesting about Baguio Tech is its little museum. In a big glass cage, it housed a big boa constrictor, a ten-foot snake that feed on chickens. I used to wonder: “was it really the great (to the nth degree) grandparent of the snake that deceived Adam and Eve?” Could a snake really cause the original sin and the destruction of paradise?

To the left of the Baguio Hardware were the Olympian Lanes and other building all the way down Session Road. There were other families too, with kids having their own league. But they did not belong to our little league, not until later.

Field of Dreams

Life in our paradise depended on the seasons of the year, which were only rainy or sunny, summer vacation or December break, weekends or weekdays. The events also depended on the time of day and the hit movies.

When the “Green Beret” was shown, starring John Wayne, we played war games, with honesty as the policy. There was no such thing as being wounded; you were dead when you cross the line of fire and your opponent was first to shout “bang.” We had guns made out of twigs of the marapa-it (Ilocano for the sunflower plant). The guns may be a pistol, a rifle or machine gun, but aim was more important. Once, Rolly, a rich kid, came to the game with a top-of-the-line toy machine gun, complete with periscope and which fired rounds of ammunitions, rat-tat-tat. While we were envious, rules are rules and Rolly’s gun had as much firepower as the rest. Rolly would die if caught flatfooted.

When the “Three Hundred Spartans” was shown, we were all Spartans, with shields of plywood and axes made of galvanized iron sheets from Baguio Hardware. Our opponents were the marapa-its. From one end of the hill where our castle stood, we faced the sunflowers. At the battle cry, we attacked mercilessly, i.e., cutting the sunflower plants as close to the roots as possible, complete with the “yah’s” and “oh’s” of battle. We struggled amidst hidden dangers – the shits duly feasted by worms and houseflies, the “voodoo-vodoo” (a red caterpillar with spikes like a porcupine), the cobwebs and spider X, the huge rats and the trap vines. At the end of the day, and despite being bruised and soiled by the spurts of green blood of sunflower plants (sometimes, with slippers stinking from the smell of shit), we, the Spartans, crushed thousands of enemy soldiers.

Paradise was a commune, with the bigger boys and girls as dads and moms, respectively; while everyone else was the children. We built several houses from marapa-it stems held together with “lanot” (local vine), covered by marapa-it leaves and dried grass, and adorned with flowers. Each house has its own little chimney from stone pipes and hollow blocks obtained from a nearby warehouse. The boys (assisted by the girls) cooked the meals (usually, kamote or sweet potato laid by the fire, rice cooked in a big empty milk can and boiled sayote tops).

When “The Lone Ranger” was shown, we were either lone rangers (each with a mask, paper cowboy hat and two guns tucked in the side pockets of his pants) or Indians (with caps of feathers plucked from the neighborhood gamecocks, and bows and arrows made of bamboo). In the war games, either all the lone rangers or the Indians were routed and tied in the center, fronting our fireplace. Before sunset, a peace pack was reached. We gathered dried sunflower roots (called “baboy-baboy” or pig-shaped), twigs and stems, and build a bonfire. While seated around the fire, the bigger boys shared their stories of fairies and ghosts, and we, the younger kids listened. At times, the fire was built in the fireplace itself, with the smoke from the chimney signaling a peace pact.

We had all sorts of others games, such as follow the leader, hide and seek, making sand bowls (using water or our urine as mixture), the battle of the bulge (hitting tanks made of sticks and stones of the opposite camp), high jump, and dog fights, with our own life-size airplanes (“Tora, Tora, Tora”). We were extremely creative, making switchblades out of popsicle-sticks, alkansiya (piggy bank) from Indian mango seed, and miniature pool tables and scooters.

Burnham Park

Burnham Park was the ultimate in Baguio paradise. It was only two blocks from my place, crossing Session Road, down to lower Mabini St., crossing Harrison Road and “presto!” - Burnham, with its big football field fronting the grandstand (During the 1960s, it still had its share of mountains and shrubs). The field was the scene of many war games, gun battles, and catch me games. Every summer, it was also the place where we catch the grasshoppers and pry the soil for the beetles, which hid underground. Both grasshoppers and beetles were cooked and eaten back in our mountains.

Further ahead of the field was Burnham Lake (the size of two football fields), then, still with its clear waters and several species of fishes. (Many a times, this was were we catch fishes and played hide and seek with the caretakers of Burnham). Surrounding the lake was a rectangular road where the rented out bicycles, scooters and small cars would circle around. To the left of the lake is the children’s skating rink, which rented out, aside from skates, the tricycles, kiddie go-carts, jeeps and small bikes. At the center of the skating rink is a huge umbrella made of stone, where people could sit and move around. Further ahead of the lake was the children’s playground - the slides, the seesaws, the swings, and the merry-go rounds.

Every weekend was a whole-day treat, with the bigger kids organizing the itinerary. From the allowances saved from the weekdays, we afforded the ten centavos go-cart rides (which became 25 centavos, then 50 centavos). The bigger boys of course, rode on the bicycles, while the younger ones either chose the mini-jeeps and cars or the tricycles. At times, it was the boat rides in the lake, where we had races in our “canoes.” The bigger boys made sure that nobody was left out. Even if you had no money, you would have your share in the rides. The other choice (during times when everyone had no money) was enjoyed the children’s playground. There, we played hide and seek, cat and mouse, the war games and our version of touch the ball.

The weekends of May and December were particularly special. Aside from being vacation, these were times when flowers bloom, small birds abound and wild fruits were in abundance. These were the times for hunting and the kids had elaborate preparations for the hunt. We had our cages for the birds and glass jars for the tadpoles and frogs. We had slingshots, rubber bands and sticks for the bird traps, with grasshoppers as baits. We had nets for the tadpoles.

At the back of the skating rink is the public library, then the huge Auditorium (where the annual Baguio sports fests were held). At the back of the auditorium was our little forest, with its little brook and share of tadpoles and frogs. There we had out hunt. After sunset, we brought home our haul – little birds in cages, tadpoles in aquariums (glass jars), grass-hoppers with their share of grass in coffee jars, spiders in matchboxes. We also brought home a bunch of wild black berries and guavas.

The following day, the neighborhood was given a treat. The hunters made a local zoo, showcasing our haul of birds, tadpoles, spiders, plus a variety of other insects and animals, including stray cats, lizards, earthworms, including my dog, Julie. It was complete with all the landscape and fun fare – mini path walks to each sort of animals or insects, duly labeled.

Sunny and Rainy Days

In the 1960s, summer in Baguio was a triple-treat of fun and gaiety, with the carnival and the Tour of Luzon (and its caravan of shows), coinciding with the city’s Summer Regatta. The carnival was set up regularly at the football field or at the Rizal Park (right of Burnham Lake), with its ferries wheel, merry-go-round, the airplane and boat rides. It came along with the bingo, the games of luck – the targets, the wheel of fortune, the shots (of toy soldiers), the mouse game, the bean and the card games. Then there were the shows – the acrobats, magicians, sharpshooters, and the freaks, such as the dwarfs, the woman snake, the fairy and the “taong-gubat” (chicken eating wild man).

The bi-annual Tour of Luzon, a bike-a-thon came with free novelty shows of movie stars. These were the times when we came face to face with our favorite movie stars. I remembered the stars of 1966, such as Gina Pareno, Ramil Rodriguez, Bert Leroy Jr., Loretta Marquez, Ricky Belmonte and Rosemarie Sonora. (Only Gina and Ramil are active, playing parent or grandparent roles. Loretta, Bert and Ricky already passed away. Ricky and Rosemarie’s daughter, Sheryl, became a movie star and a mom.)

The Summer Regatta was an annual festival timed during the Holy Week. It featured on-the-spot contests, such as painting, woodcarving, scouting skills (knot tying, semaphore), the battle of drum and bugle corps and bands, the dog show and boulder boring (among big mining companies). It also had the special features such as the go-cart racing, the parade in review of the Philippine Military Academy. At night, it had free movies of old films right at the football field, usually cartoons and the life of Jesus Christ.

Back in the mountain of Strike, the kids of Mabini St. had their own mini-carnival. We had our own stage shows, where each of us had the chance to sing, dance or mimic a favorite line from the movies. We pretended to be the wild man, the snake woman or the fairy. The smaller ones were automatically the dwarfs. We also had our own games – the acrobats among us would show off their cartwheels, handsprings and summersaults.

During the rainy days, the indoor hobbies included stamp collection, snakes and ladders, spinning the bottle and sharing of comic books. We had our share of singing, following the words of the monthly song hits book, “2000 Popular Hit Tunes” and the weekly Teenage Songs and Shows (TSS), which had the latest tunes.

After the rains, especially after a thunderstorm, we would wake up early morn, (when the fog was still thick and the dews glistened among the grass), to gather mushrooms. In one of those mornings, I and two friends were gathering mushrooms in the morning sun, when we stumbled upon an odd looking yellow rock. After some argument as to whether it was a kind of special stone, such as pyrite or gold, I ventured to touch it. The stone turned out to be a nicely shaped “piece of shit” duly adorned by the sparkle of the morning dew and touched by the first rays of sunlight. (Even shit, when untouched, was a natural art form, like how modern art installations were. It was the outcome of a natural form of release, a wonder only possible with life forms.)

Paradise Remembered

The Baguio City of the 1950s and 1960s was definitely not the Baguio City of the 1990s and 2000s. Late in the 1960s, the beautiful garden fronting Strike was replaced by a two-floor building, with the first floor made into a row of stores and the second floor made into offices. The right side of Strike was also bulldozed, and with it, the destruction of our chimney and tower (this is reminiscence of the Tower of Babel, which the gods have destroyed). In its place were two big commercial buildings.

Although our castle on the left side of Strike remained, the mountain, together with the sunflowers, shrubs and grass was leveled to the ground and covered by cement and gravel. The place became a parking lot surrounded by small eateries and makeshift houses. This meant the destruction of a natural habitat of grasshoppers, earthworms and butterflies, spiders and the field of our dreams. (Incidentally, Strike and Spare Lanes was forever gone in 2007; it became one of a chain of Jack’s Restaurant.)

I forget when it happened. But pretty soon, Burnham Lake became murky and brown and the fishes, if any, could no longer be seen. The scooters and small cars were also gone and only half of the road around the lake was used for the bikes. The skating rink was still there, but confined to skating. The small bikes, go-carts and tricycles were transferred to the children’s playground. Our forest (and brook) was cleared and became a tourist landmark. At least, the flowers were maintained through the years.

The footfall ground also underwent some changes. The whole field was leveled and another grandstand was constructed opposite the existing one. Two big restaurants were also established on both ends of the field. From the vantage point of Harrison Road, the right side also became a parking lot. Through the years more and more people come to Burnham Park and more an more merchants ply their trade, such as selling quail eggs and balut (boiled pre-hatch duck egg), mais (sweet corn) and mani (peanuts).

In July 1990, an earthquake (a magnitude of 7.5 on the Richter scale) destroyed most of the tall buildings of Baguio and cost 500 lives. It also destroyed the Aurora Theater, killing the wife and kid of a playmate, Henry, who were unluckily trapped inside the store located in the movie theater. The Baguio Hardware beside it was also badly damaged, but, like Strike, was rehabilitated. However, the former owners, our Fil-Italian neighbors sold their rights to the place. In place of the Aurora Theater and Baguio Hardware were also rows of commercial buildings.

Where were the kids in the neighborhood? Most have migrated to the States - the Fil-Italians, the rich kid from Ang Tibay Building and my brother. “Timbong,” the eldest son of the policeman and the informal “leader” of our league, became Engineer Santi. I met him in 1989 in one of the mines of Benguet Corporation, together with “Catchut” (a.k.a. Johnny, brother of Henry) an x-ray technician. Tony, who also lived in the Ang Tibay Building became the owner of a chain of studios, such as Mountain Studio, located at the corner of Mabini St and Session Road.

Back in 1995, I met Henry, the eldest sibling of our Fil-Chinese neighbor. Next to Timbong, Henry belonged to the second line informal leadership of our league, together with “Paling” (younger brother of Timbong) and my kuya Rudy. As we were reminiscing the good old days, Henry opened his wallet and showed me an old picture. It was a picture taken in the steps fronting the umbrella of stone at the center of the skating rink. It showed the core of our little league, with small me standing in front with my co-small ones. At the back were the bigger boys and girls. Henry took the picture with his first camera, back in 1960s.

Sometime in 2006, I met Judith, a younger sister of Henry. She became an accountant of St. Louis Center, where most of the kids studied in elementary. I also met Lily, one of our Fil-Italian neighbors; she was with a granddaughter, walking along the Abanao Square Mall. Except for her and an elder sister, Lily’s ten other siblings migrated to the States. She shared that “Pig-ol” (a.k.a. Robert), a younger brother of Henry met my brother in California. When her family gave up the lease for Baguio Hardware, she couldn’t pass by Mabini St. for at least a year; for her, the pain of loosing her own home and paradise was excruciating.

The Legacy of the Young

Like the Beatle song, “In My Life,” played: “there are places I remember, all my life, though some have change…” Paradise was not lost; we merely grew older, with the memories forever etched in our hearts.

Memories of paradise lingered on in my mind and heart, even as I grew older. They kept me alive and hopeful, like constantly wishing a fairy tale to come true. I suppose kids who had their share of acting and playing out their fantasies feel the same way. One may fall prey to the humdrum of daily living, like working or seeking food to feed family. But secretly, he wished he were the prince who woke up the sleeping beauty with a kiss or she was Snow White being pampered by her seven dwarfs.

Each one of us had his or her share of misfortunes in the harsh environment of grown-ups. But each of us also had his or her daydreams to ward off the follies of the adult world. Grown-ups translate these daydreams into fancy adult words, such as vision, mission and goal statements, through fancy technologies such as “imagineering” and “structured learning exercises” (SLEs), which are really children’s plays.

The daydreams were also translated into principles and guides to conduct, and passed on from generation to generation as culture, with its various labels, such as religion, governance and art. But beneath the surface of the cultural milieu is the heart of the child, born from its natural source beyond the non-physical world. The child-like qualities of human beings are also passed on, not from adult to child, but from the child in adults to their children.

Through the child in mom and dad, I was blessed to have lived in the paradise of Baguio as a child. I have passed on the legacy by permitting my children to grow up in the paradise I knew, which they have deciphered as their own. In turn, my children, who became married grown-ups, have also passed on the torch of being child to their own kids, my grandchildren. When I returned to Baguio City, with a new family in 2004, I was not only returning home to establish a new generation of kids like me. I was also re-living and passing on the pleasant memories of the paradise created in 1954.

In God’s Eyes – Salud Usbah Liporada

(From "Excerpts From My Personal Notes,"

i wrote this mantra /poem during those moments when i was in the lowest ebb of life. It helped a lot and tried to do this in the simplest way i can...and still trying to be faithful with this. MUCH LOVE To all OF YOU. saludusbahliporada)

In God's eyes
A weed is as great as a tallest tree
An ant is equally as important at the greatest man alive
The poorest man as relevant as the Royalty
These He see....in the grander scheme of Life

I am ME, an ordinary Me
But in God's heart, I am His creation
Together with every little thing
Within and without the expanse of His universe

God has given me a purpose
to fulfill in this lifetime
Not for His glory
But for my own enlightenment

And I have the responsiblity to realize it fully and to know that I am a SOUL.

Life is not hard
When you use your heart to appreciate its grandeur
As well as the beauty behind its imperfections

When God sent us down to experience life
He was never demanding on how we have to live it
But He made sure that we bring with us the Gift of Love
For us to use as we struggle our way to perfection

I am ME
And i have this mission
To spread Love where hatred rules
To inspire when hope is fading
To show courage when weakness prevails

I AM ME
AS MY GOD sees my essence.

september.2008