THE TRUE MEASURE OF A MAN

WHAT is the measure of a man?  

This is a question I haven’t bothered to ask myself until I came across the book The Measure of a Man: A Spiritual Autobiography by Sidney Poitier. I chose to read it not with the fact that he is very famous being the first African-American leading actor in Hollywood (I haven’t seen any of his films though), but simply by the appealing title and with the Oprah’s Book Club logo on its cover.

I had expected that this legendary movie icon, one of Hollywood’s most admired actors, would share in his book some insights to the kind of scale he used to measure the true meaning of his life, and what it takes to be called a real man.

Oprah Winfrey, in picking this book for her eponymous book club, states that the Poitier “is the measure of one of the greatest men I think who has ever been on our planet.”

Poitier, who was 73-year-old when the book was published in 2000, provides reading to his fascinating personal and public life, filled with ruminations and insights on some spiritual aspect of life; commentary on poverty, black prejudices, integrity, and the film industry; and lecture on family values and upbringing—“like having a conversation with a revered older relative,” as one reviewer says on the back cover. His ideas and thoughts are easy to understand, and he doesn’t expect readers to agree with him.

Looking back on his celebrated life and career, Poitier delves into the elements of character and personal values to measure himself as a man, as a son, as a husband and a father, and as an actor. He talks about the lessons he has learned on tiny Cat Island in the Bahamas and that “feelings of groundedness and belonging” which has been woven into his character there.

Poitier credits his parents and his childhood for equipping him with the uncompromising sense of right and wrong and of self-worth that have been his companions on his life’s journey. He narrates how he made his way from his beginnings, marked by poverty, in the Bahamas, his turbulent teens in Nassau and Miami, how he ends up in New York, and his triumphs in the stage and stardom in Hollywood. He tells us of the civil rights movement in the US, the changes that brought in the acceptance of the colored race, and the influence of Nelson Mandela and Mahatma Gandhi on his life. He has helped to break the color barrier in films and theater by his outstanding achievements.

He has overcome incredible odds to find his place in American cinema. He has starred in over forty films, directed nine, and written four. His landmark films include The Defiant Ones, To Sir, With Love, and Lilies of the Field where he won Academy Award for Best Actor in 1963, the first ever major award given to a black actor.

The book covers only a small portion of his failed marriage and how it affected his relationship with his children. His parenting techniques as an estranged father are instructive and very inspiring. He shares points of wisdom that can only come with age. He writes about forgiveness (“should be a sacred process”) and his mistakes as a father. It is an admission of imperfection and he risked being regarded as too inane and unsuccessful, but it highlights nonetheless his honesty and purity of intention in writing his luminous memoir.

We must understand that every man at some point in life endures ill luck or some unhappy event. However, these challenges of life offer men the potential for great good and happiness. This must be the true measure of a man that was enunciated long ago by Martin Luther King Jr., whom Poitier also admires in this quote: “The true measure of a man is not how he behaves in moments of comfort and convenience but how he stands at times of controversy and challenges.”

In the book I didn’t find Poitier saying that you can measure a man by his physique, the fierceness in his tone, and the words he chooses to influence others. He also doesn’t say you can measure a man by his bank account, the size of his house, the model of his car, the number of people who will give in to his wishes, or his college degree. To him, the real measure of a man is his ability to provide for his children. This was actually an advice given to him by his father.

Obviously, family was, and continues to be, the most important thing to Poitier. He wants to maintain his dignity, honor his parents, and become the best father he could be. This is possibly one of the most profound themes of the book.

I agree with him because I think a person, who is a good father to his children, is a man of immense measure.

Being a good person is a way of life. But being a father is something that everyone strives to do. And a really good father has a deep spiritual understanding that everything he does in his daily life is beneficial to his family.

How can I raise my three children to be the kind of man described with such conviction by Poitier in his book? What is my own personal measure of myself, especially as a father to my children?

Now that my wife is gone, and I am left alone to attend to my three kids, I needed some good stuff to reflect on, some lessons on how I should be a father to my kids. And I think a memoir of a successful family man such as Poitier is absolutely helpful.

For me, the most important thing about being a good father is being one. It’s who I am, what I do, and how successful I am at what I do. The proverbial expression, “you are only worth as much as you have” is also very appropriate in my lifetime role as a father.

My children need a doting and loving father—a father who can fill the void left by their mother, which is a very formidable task, I should say, for any ordinary man. They need a trusted confidant, a caring and benevolent father who is in their life, who pays attention to them, who is interested in them, who does things with them, and asks about them.

I often hear parents say they absolutely don’t want their children to go through the same hardships that they experienced, and so they end up protecting their children from any risk or danger in the best way they can. For whatever reason, I wouldn't let my children suffer. I cannot leave my family vulnerable in their own crowded universe. But even with my protective wings around them, I wouldn't deprive them the opportunity to learn, to unlearn, and relearn lessons in life on their own.  As a single parent, this is the biggest challenge that I must face for the rest of my life.    

Two of my three children are boys who could someday be real men in their own right. They should learn what it takes not to be a barako (macho) but to have the true character of a man. They should know how to speak the truth and honestly convey their feelings.

In addition to Poitier’s scale, a real man must be secure in himself; unwavering in the face of challenges in society concerning manhood and personal convictions. And more importantly, he will be measured by the manner he treats the women in his life, how he keeps his promise, and values palabra de honor (word of honor).

That to me is the real measure of a man.

DRAWN BY THE WAVES

IN my previous blog I mentioned my eagerness to go back to Paraiso ni Juan in Sulvec, Narvacan, Ilocos Sur and scale again its landmark rock called Immagamang. It materialized in my latest homecoming last December. This time, it was Uncle Boni’s plan (he is my mother’s younger brother) to go to the place, in his desire to have the children—my nephews and nieces, and my own children, most of them having their Christmas vacation in town, get a nice dip on the beach. He chose the rocky place over other beaches which have sands rather than rocks.

It was low tide that day (December 26) when we went to Paraiso with my uncle’s van. The morning breeze and shallow water were comfortably cool for the kids. But Dudoy was complaining; he preferred a sandy beach and deeper water to swim. So my son just contented himself wading the shallow water, climbing on the rocks along with his siblings and cousins, and finding interesting shells and other small sea creatures he could find. 

But I myself was not satisfied with such activity on the beach. Seeing the big solitary rock not far from the shoreline, I suggested to the children to climb the rock for one brief but thrilling adventure. Except my son Nathaniel who had reached the top of the rock (I carried him then) when he was about three years old, not one of them had done it before. So they readily accepted my challenge. The rock was about 400 meters from where they were wading. The rocky and rugged pathway was visible in the low tide. The kids raced to the rock, and I, who was supposed to be their guide, and my brother Romel who went with us, just lagged behind. Even my daughter Eya, the youngest among them, enjoyed wading and hopping from one craggy rock to another.

To my surprise, the children climbed the rock so easily. They stayed on top for a moment to savor their achievement and had their pictures taken with the cloudless sky as backdrop. After a couple of minutes they climbed down the rock and cavorted on a flat area at its foot. Dudoy and the boys continued their shell hunting, and the girls their giggles and fun with the ankle-deep water on the rock’s surface. Then we went around the rock, my first time actually to do so. A narrow span of flat rock was very visible on the back side, and it was so near the roaring waves breaking against the edges of the rock.

It was Dudoy’s idea to play with the waves, after he got bored with shell hunting, and now he appeared to be drawn by the frothy waves, bright and gay, running up to where he sat on the rocky edge. Suddenly he shouted in exhilaration, just after a big wave splashed on him. The rest of the kids joined him. They lined themselves on the edge of the rock, and waited patiently for the next big wave, and how they shouted when they saw the crested waves creeping higher than before and falling on them in a big splash, and screaming hysterically for more. That anticipation and the moment with the big wave I captured with my camera.

Ah, it seems eons ago when I was like these kids enjoying rambunctious moments with the waves! 

Perhaps I’m getting a bit too romantic. But waves had been a childhood playmate of mine, when my time on the beach was mostly spent with gathering of shells, frolicking with the waves, drawing images with a stick on the moist sand, and making my own sandcastles. And big, unruly waves terrified me like a bully when I started to learn how to swim.

When I was in high school, a conference of young campus writers which I joined was held in a public school at a beach front. In the first day of the confab, I woke up before sunrise and from our quarters, I walked along the shore until I reached an old, abandoned pantalan (wharf). The sun was just breaking, the soft light hitting the smooth surface of the sea, tempered by the soft rhythm of the wave. It was a seaside imagery I wanted to capture in words. It was then that I decided to be a writer. 

While in my childhood, watching the waves was a game of anticipation, this time at my age, it was a moment of solitude and meditation. 

When was the last time I sat on the beach and watched the beautiful wave come tumbling right up to me? But even now, I can still feel the magnetism of those gigantic ripples of the sea. I still crave for a quiet moment just doing nothing or just sitting and looking at the sea, and watching the waves rolling in, bumping other waves in its glee, and then sliding back.  

Now I wonder what it is in a wave that attracts young and old alike. Maybe it’s the gravitational pull of the sea, complemented by the captivating breeze, which causes the tidal movements. A magnetism that draws us to the smooth water surface and be mesmerized by the constancy of the ripples. Or maybe it’s the movement, a manifestation of the spin or revolution of our good Earth, creating a constant swing of crests and troughs. A constancy of rhythm that holds our breath while we watch with anticipation those usually kind, warm and playful ripples rushing at the shore.

Maybe it’s the special attribute of the shoreline as both a starting point for a journey, leading to an uncharted path, and a destination, a refuge of seafarers and travelers during a sudden violent storm. A two-way direction. That’s why when you gaze out from land upon the horizontal stretch of the sea, you can contemplate about your future, and think of whether you would go away or you had just headed home.

I think I always have this intimacy with the waves, and it is being near them, sitting in reverie, and watching the changing colors and sizes of the waves as they break upon the shore, that I feel truly spiritual. I am inspired by the consistency rather than the highs and the lows of the waves. Just like life, with its ups and downs, but then it pushes itself forward in its own rhythm.