My Fortress and Home in Baguio City

(A Picture of my Garden)













My Mountain

            You will not miss Mt. Santo Tomas as you approach Baguio City from Marcos Highway. On its top nestled two large radars that looked like giant electric fans, presumably, relay stations for satellite radio and TV. We used to kid newcomers to the city that these huge “electric fans” were causing the cool climate. The truth is that the coolness was diminished because of the clearing of trees in the area.

Once upon a time, Mt. Santo Tomas was a volcano. It is now extinct. It also used to be a thick forest, with a wonderful biodiversity of plants, butterflies, birds, monkeys and other life forms. Because of its thick mossy forest, it was the major reservoir of water to the city. Now, the forest is gone; the only remnants being green grass and a sizable number of pine trees, shrubs and ferns, which made the place serene and disturbed only by the humming of birds, fluttering of butterflies and buzzing of bees. It is now the site of Baguio’s dairy farm.

Since I discovered the place 20 years ago, in 1985, I adopted it as my mountain. It was my “fortress of solitude,” where I would watch the sunrise, with rays that sparkle with the morning dew. From there, and on a clear day, I have a panoramic view of the China Sea on one side and a face of the city – with the silhouette of house rooftops, on the other side (a wonderful contrast between nature and human habitat). At dusk, I would marvel as the sun sinks quietly in the sea, giving out its last radiance of red, orange and yellow, before bowing to the night. 

Why do I love going to my mountain? There, enveloped by fog, I would ponder about just anything. There, I would freely soar the universe of my mind and express my feelings – hurts, joys, anguish and angers, unabashed. And the mountain would listen without interruptions. It would also talk without words, silently reminding me that I partake in the grand scheme of things. Sometimes, it would rouse me to awareness, with an ant bite, a gentle breeze, the twitting of the bird, or the prick of the afternoon sun.

The mountain would also absorb my burdens and brighten up my load. I suppose it carried a lot of negative ions or the Eastern concept of prana, vital force. Like my mom’s embrace, it comforts and completes me.

After the day is done, I would be revitalized to face Baguio and the rest of the world. Just about that time, I would shiver as darkness swallowed the clouds and all earth, while I silently trek back home.

Mt Home on a Hill

Home, in the practical sense, was in a barangay (village) just some two kilometers away from Mt. Sto. Tomas. (Note: the picture is that of my garden)

In 1983, my family was one of the first 40 households to establish residence in Phase IV of the SLU-SVP Housing Cooperative in New Site, Bakakeng. (The cooperative site, known earlier as St. George Hill, became a separate village from the original Bakakeng.) Before my house was erected, at least six pine trees have to be cut on the lot. The same thing happened to the rest of the houses – the trees had to be cleared to give way to human habitation.

Fifteen years earlier, in 1965, as a boy scout, I was in St George Hill for camping; swimming in a small brook, daftly covered by shrubs. At that time, St. George Hill was a thick forest of pine trees. A little further down from St George Hill was the Maryheights Minor Seminary, where my brother stayed as a hopeful would-be priest.

Then, the pathways to Maryheights were of sand and gravel, either through Kennon Road going up or from Marcos Highway going down. Now, the two roads are connected with a cemented road, making my place a convergence point between the two major roads leading to Baguio. What was once Maryheights is now the new St. Louis University.   

In the early 1900s, St. George Hill and at least 20 hectares more of land was acquired property by the CICM priests, who established St. Louis University. The priests sold some 4 hectares to the cooperative at a very cheap price, for the housing needs of their employees and residents of St. Vincent Parish. I acquired “my property,” a 250 square meter house and lot, for less than P75,000.00. Now, surrounding the housing cooperative were four to five subdivisions, which sold a square meter of “prime lot” for P10,000.00 per square meter. The priests probably also sold their (tax free) parcels of land to developers, who profited much from the transaction.  

I suppose all the hills in the city, which used to be free land, became the property of the state and eventually broken into private owned parcels. This included Club John Hay, which was managed by the Americans before the “liberation.” This happened to Aurora Hill, Quezon Hill, Hillside, Quirino Hill, and Dominican Hill (the grotto), which were forests primarily named after Philippine presidents, their spouses or the religious “owners.” These places are now urban centers, communities teeming with people. 

Paradise Remembered

            From a larger scheme of things, no person owned anything, even probably one’s body. The opposite is true: we belong to the earth, like every creature – living or inanimate. We were born of nature in a wonderful ecosystem; with each thing depending on each other thing, under the sun. However, against nature, was set culture. Against the backdrop of the ecosystem, culture emerged and set the invisible separation from what is natural. Because of cultural traditions, we have divided the earth among races, classes and faiths. As if it were not enough, people fought over land and property, with a minority hording a big chunk of nature and called it their own.  

In a deeper sense, I was conceived in paradise. But, I was born in a muddled paradise, so that it was no longer pristine. I had to grow into a culture, which dictated how I should own and protect property. I realized, paradise was not a place that is physical. It was a state in tune with what is natural, beyond time and space.

Paradise was the harmony of nature, with us flowing with it. Paradise was never lost; but because of cultural traditions anchored on property relationships, we simply forgot that it existed.

Post Scripts to "Mom and Independence Day"

(Note: These are two Post Scripts to an earlier post: "Mom and Independence Day." The first PS was my brother Rudy Liporada's recollection on the death of our Mom, Rosing Delima Liporada on June 12, 1987. I am uploading them instead of it being a mere comment on the blog post.

Except for the date for the demise of my mom, no changes were made on my brother's piece. which reflects my own sentiments. It also shows a change in perception and attitude as one grows up and learn more lessons in living. I suppose, as one reflects, more light comes through! Moreover, as one grows as old as one's parent, then one understands why certain things had to happen the way they did. 

The second PS was a conversation thread between me and brother Rudy, about Mom and Dad, triggered by a picture uploaded by my wife Salud. The picture was taken sometime in 1952, when brother Rudy was one year old, my mom was 28 and dad was 23. I wasn't yet born then.)

PostScript I 
Rudy's Recollection of Mom's Passing

My brother in law, Mar, had a long distance call from my mother-in-law who was in Baguio City in June of 1987. I was in the receiving room as he took the call at the dining area.

After a while, he said in a sad matter-of-factly tone, “Isu aya! – Is that so!”

Somehow, I felt I knew what it was all about.

And I was right.

“Bayaw, mommy wants to talk to you,” he called. He handed me the phone with sadness in his eyes.

“Hello, mommy,” I said holding back my tears.

“Rudy, wala na si Kumare – Kumadre is gone. She went to sleep this afternoon. Will you be able to come home?”

Into our second month here in the United States, I just got a temporary job. With four kids to sustain and staying with my in-laws, we have to save as much as we can to keep us grounded as early as possible. “No, mommy, I can’t but I would send as much as I could for the funeral. Just tell Ces to take care of everything.” I started to choke. “Okey, Mommy.” I handed back the phone to Mar.

I rushed into the room and for the first time in my life, I sobbed with my back jerking uncontrollably. I felt sorry that I can’t go home because of the expense and I did not have enough money. I felt sorry that I can’t go home because I just got accepted in a job with which I had to start my life in the US. I felt sorry that I rationalized that my living children are more important than the dead. I felt sorry that I rationalized that, after all, I and my family saw her just a month ago; and when we left, I knew that I will never see her again alive.

I comforted myself with the thought that she must have been happy to see all her apos - grandchildren from my side when we came from Zambia, Africa in route to the US. She was then completely paralyzed from a progressive stroke that ate up her body functions over the years. Yet, her eyes sparkled when Paul, then 13; Handsome (Jose), 11; Karl, 9; and Rudy Julius, 8 kissed and hugged her.

I also comforted myself with the thought that she freed herself from the misery of her pains, immobility, and not even able to control her mess. I comforted myself that, in death, she would appear more dignified instead of the sorry sight that I have last glimpsed of her.

I do love my mom, deeply…that is after I matured and realized she had only love for us – the way she knew how – and she gave it all the way she could. Before realizing how much I love her, however, my infantile self hated her to the core of my toddler years.

Somehow, I did not understand why I always had to be responsible for my brother, Ces, when we were growing up just because “mas matanda ka – you are older.” This translated to my being castigated for everything that went wrong even if it was my brother’s fault. And my mother could whip – ‘mata at dila mo lang ang walang latay’ – only your eyes and tongue will be spared – with a belt which left welts over my back, arms, legs, and thighs. If the US was the venue, my mom would have been a high risk candidate for a 911 I would call so she could be imprisoned for child abuse and I would have ended up in a foster home.

My father? I remember him belting me only once. I don’t remember about what but I must have really angered him to trigger him to slash also a welt on my back.

My mother also had a temper and she would take it on me whenever she flared up. She may have been in her monthly period, arguing with my dad, or simply playing bowling and she is losing. She would criticize my washing the dishes as per not her instructions – when I hated to wash plates anyway. I tried to be invisible as much as possible and not be in her temper path whenever I could.

After Grade VI, I thought I heard a call and I entered the Immaculate Heart of Mary Minor Seminary. It is called Minor because it was preparing high school students to the Major as one enters college.

Recollecting, I am now convinced that I entered the seminary to escape the harshness in my younger life – my mother’s whip, the constant arguments of my parents, and the humiliations whenever they fought in public – about my father’s philandering and about where monies went.

For two years in the seminary, I was spared the rod. When I got out (because I was there for the wrong reason), I was already too old to be whipped.

In those two years, I have left my fledgling brother alone with my parents. They were not as monstrous to him as they did me. First, he was the youngest and was their favorite (as I saw it). Second, my parents lost a youngest son, Pedro, at birth. Realizing that Ces could be their last child, he was spared the whip, the welts, and the tantrums. Not that I was expendable. It was just I also had to be an instrument in taking care of their favorite.

When I matured, however, I realized that my mother was not a monster. Far from it – just a pigment of a conclusion of a child, who received the brunt of over protectiveness, imbedded psyche of foregone but calloused memories, and stresses of the moment.

You would, perhaps, be protective, too, if during the Japanese war, you lost your first two boys with their father from hail of bullets. You would be, perhaps, be protective, too, if you left your daughters in the hinterlands of Cebu to migrate in Manila as a domestic helper with a decision to keep your past a secret.

You would, perhaps, be stressed, too if you are keeping a secret from your present children that you have two older surviving step-sisters and one among them, even living with you – who you know only as a ‘katulong’ (maid) , she knows you are his brother but you don’t know that she is your sister. Couple this with the daily grind of the business, with your suspicions that your husband always has a ‘babae’ – another woman.

With all these stresses, my mom developed a temper with which, partly, she took out on me.

But when I matured and I understood, I saw beyond my mother’s stresses and beneath everything, she cared for and loved me as much as she did for my brother – the way she knew how, they way she could.

That is why, when she died, I sobbed like I never did in my life.



Post Script 2
A Conversation Thread between me and Rudy FB

Cesar: Hmm, lets see. Mom Rosario "Rosing" Delima (1924-1987 ) and Dad Dioscoro "Coro" Liporada (1929 - 1993). The picture was taken i suppose when brother Rudy was a year old (1952). Rose was 28 and Coro was 23.

Mom passed away during Independence Day, June 12, 1987. Dad passed away May 21, 1993, three days after his birthday. they were both 63 when they died.

Mom died without seeing her wish for my brother fulfilled. Her wish: for my brother to be the best "panadero." Well, the only thing my brother accomplished was marry one who can cook!

An anecdote from my dad: "I have only two kids. One wanted to replace the one in Malacanang (Presidential home and office). the other wanted to go to heaven. The outcome? One landed in Fort Bonifacio (jail inside a military camp). The other, halfway to heaven, fell down with a thud!"

During the 1970s, my brother was a leader in the activist movement, with the slogan: "Workers of the world, unite!" I was with a spiritual group, singing "All we are saying is give peace a chance!"

Sometime, in the 1980s, when both my brother and i were already married, with children of our own, we surmised: "No matter what ideology one espouses, the center of it all was still family."

Mom and Dad had had their limitations. They were cat and mouse - Tom and Jerry, every waking day of our lives with them. And yet, they stayed together. Also, dad never hit mom. They also made sure that our schooling is complete.

Mom literally does not know how to read. Dad finished 3rd year Commerce. And yet they were able to rear and ensure that their two kids grow up to be smart boys. Their legacy was education and family-oriented values. Thanks mom and dad.

Rudy: That's very nice, utol. Mom was so simple that she actually thought that I was going to be just a janitor and had no intention of sending me to school. At Papa's insistence ( I remember he was the one who enrolled me at St. Louis Elementary...

I actually taught mom how to read when I was in third year high school. She at least was able to enjoy komiks stories which before then she had to be dependent on Lolo Coro to enjoy the stories.

I really regret that I was not able to bring them to the US before they died. At least bring mom to the casino so she could go beyond her tong-its and dad to Tiujuana, Mexico so he could go beyond his Tip-top thrills. ;-).

Yes, beyond their yelling matches at Strike and Spare (which contributed to my being shy which I had a hard time overcoming), they stayed together for their two sons who they took care of the best they knew how - and cousins, and nephews, and whoever...They had the heart to help. Yes, thanks, mom and dad.

Cesar: Mom's legacy was cleanliness. She was a stickler for neatness. We had to do our share for household chores. Imagine, we had to clean the canteen, despite the maids. We even have our share in cleaning the whole 8 lane of Strike and Spare Lanes, with the pinboys! Cousins Bhoy Delima on mom's side and Jose Liporada Precia on dad's side have their own anecdotes. We were not the only ones benefitted by their "togetherness."

Through mom and dad, we fulfilled our dreams. From their genetic line, and though their two sons (with their respective spouses), came the succeeding generation:

Paul, Jose, Karl, Rudy Julius, and Maria on Rudy's side. Thanks to Au for the improvement of the species on your (Rudy’s) side!

On my side came Ligaya Marie and Isagani, courtesy of the brew with Aida. And the next generation kids - the Betita's (baby titas) thanks to Salud Liporada – Chantal, Tiara and Leia.

It all started with the accident that was utol. Dad got mom pregnant with Rudy. One moment of lust and love … (became) a lifetime of responsibility...and a whole legacy for the clan.