THE TRUE MEASURE OF A MAN

WHAT is the true measure of a man?

This is a question I had never really bothered to ask myself until I stumbled upon the book The Measure of a Man: A Spiritual Autobiography by Sidney Poitier. I didn't choose to read it because of his massive fame as Hollywood’s first African-American leading actor—in fact, I have never actually seen any of his movies. Instead, I was drawn in simply by the compelling title and the prominent Oprah’s Book Club logo stamped on the cover.

I expected this legendary icon and revered actor to share the metrics he used to gauge the meaning of his own life, and what it truly takes to be considered a real man. In selecting the memoir, Oprah Winfrey herself noted that Poitier is "the measure of one of the greatest men I think who has ever been on our planet".

Published in 2000 when Poitier was 73 years old, the book offers a fascinating look into his personal and public life. It is filled with deep ruminations on spirituality, sharp commentary on poverty and racial prejudice, insights into the film industry, and lessons on family values and upbringing. Reading it feels exactly like "having a conversation with a revered older relative," as one back-cover reviewer beautifully put it. His ideas are accessible and grounded, and he never forces the reader to agree with his worldview.

Looking back on his celebrated journey, Poitier evaluates his character through various lenses: as a man, a son, a husband, a father, and an artist. He discusses the foundational lessons he learned on the tiny Cat Island in the Bahamas, where a deep sense of "groundedness and belonging" was permanently woven into his identity. He credits his parents and his childhood with equipping him with an uncompromising sense of right and wrong, alongside a fierce self-worth that accompanied him throughout his life.

He narrates his trajectory from a poverty-stricken childhood in the Bahamas through a turbulent adolescence in Nassau and Miami, eventually tracing how he arrived in New York and achieved stardom in Hollywood. Along the way, he provides a firsthand perspective on the American civil rights movement, the societal shifts that led to the acceptance of people of color, and the profound philosophical influence that Nelson Mandela and Mahatma Gandhi had on his life. Through sheer talent and determination, he broke down color barriers in film and theater, overcoming incredible odds to carve out his legacy in American cinema. Over his career, he starred in more than forty films, directed nine, and wrote four. His landmark projects include TTo Sir, With Love, and Lilies of the Field—the 1963 masterpiece that earned him the Academy Award for Best Actor, making him the first Black actor to win the prestigious award.

Interestingly, the book dedicates only a small portion to his failed first marriage and how it fractured his relationship with his children. Yet, his transparency as an estranged father trying to navigate parenting is both instructive and inspiring. He shares a brand of wisdom that can only be earned with age, writing openly about his mistakes and describing forgiveness as a "sacred process". In admitting his imperfections, he risked looking vulnerable or unsuccessful, but this transparency only highlights the raw honesty and purity of intention behind his luminous memoir.

Every man, at some point, must endure misfortune or heartbreak. However, these exact trials carry the potential for profound growth and ultimate happiness. This concept aligns perfectly with the true measure of a man articulated by Martin Luther King Jr.—a figure Poitier deeply admired—who famously said:

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy."

Notably, I didn't find Poitier arguing that a man should be measured by his physical stature, the fierceness of his voice, or the dominance of his words. Nor did he suggest that worth is found in a bank account, the size of a house, the model of a car, the number of people under one's control, or a college degree. To him, the true measure of a man is his ability to provide for his children—a core piece of advice passed down to him by his own father.

Family was unequivocally the anchor of Poitier’s life. He fought to maintain his dignity, honor his parents, and become the best father he could possibly be. This is perhaps the most profound theme of the book, and it is one I agree with completely. A person who functions as a good father to his children is a man of immense stature. Being a decent person is a baseline way of living, but mastering fatherhood is a continuous, conscious effort. A truly great father possesses a deep spiritual understanding that his daily choices directly shape the well-being of his family.

As I read, I found myself asking: How can I raise my three children to become the kind of individuals described with such conviction by Poitier? What is my own personal measure, particularly as a father?

Now that my wife is gone and I am left to raise our three children alone, I find myself craving this kind of deeper reflection. I need lessons on how to anchor my family, and the memoir of a successful family man like Poitier provides the perfect blueprint. For me, the most critical part of being a good father is simply showing up and doing the work. It defines who I am, dictates what I do, and measures my ultimate success in life. The old proverb, "you are only worth as much as you have to give," feels incredibly fitting for my lifetime role as a parent.

My children need a doting, loving father who can step in to fill the painful void left by their mother—a truly formidable task for any ordinary man. They need a trusted confidant and a benevolent guide who is actively present in their lives; someone who pays attention, stays genuinely interested in their world, shares experiences with them, and asks about their day.

I often hear other parents say they want to shield their children from the hardships they went through, which frequently leads to overprotecting them from any semblance of risk. For my part, I refuse to let my children suffer needlessly, and I will never leave them vulnerable in a chaotic world. Yet, even with my protective wings wrapped tightly around them, I know I must not deprive them of the opportunity to learn, unlearn, and relearn life's vital lessons on their own terms. As a single parent, balancing protection with independence is the absolute biggest challenge I will face for the rest of my life.

Two of my three children are boys who will someday grow into men in their own right. I want them to learn that true manhood isn't about being a barako (macho) figure. It is about building authentic character. They need to know how to speak the truth and express their emotions honestly.

Expanding on Poitier’s scale, a real man must be fundamentally secure in his own skin, remaining unwavering in his convictions even when society challenges his principles. More importantly, he will ultimately be measured by how he treats the women in his life, how he honors his commitments, and how fiercely he protects his palabra de honor (word of honor).

To me, that is the true measure of a man.

DRAWN BY THE WAVES

IN MY previous blog post, I mentioned my deep eagerness to return to Paraiso ni Juan in Sulvec, Narvacan, Ilocos Sur, to once again scale its landmark rock formation, Immagamang. That desire finally materialized during my latest homecoming last December.

This time, the excursion was organized by my Uncle Boni—my mother’s younger brother. He wanted all the kids, including my own children and their town-visiting cousins, to enjoy a nice holiday dip on the beach. He intentionally chose this rugged, rocky location over typical sandy beaches.

It was low tide on the day after Christmas, December 26, when we piled into my uncle’s van and headed to Paraiso. The crisp morning breeze and shallow waters were comfortably cool for the little ones. My son, Dudoy, however, began to complain. He openly preferred a classic sandy beach with deeper waters for proper swimming. Ultimately, he contented himself with wading through the shallows, climbing the rock formations alongside his siblings and cousins, and hunting for interesting shells and tiny sea creatures hidden in the tide pools.

Watching from the shore, I found myself craving a bit more adventure. Spotting the massive, solitary rock rising not far from the shoreline, I challenged the children to climb it for a brief but thrilling expedition. Except for my eldest son, Nathaniel—whom I had carried to the summit when he was just three years old—none of the children had ever climbed it before. They eagerly accepted the challenge.

The rock stood about 400 meters from where they had been wading, its rugged, rocky pathway completely exposed by the low tide. The kids immediately raced ahead. I, who was supposed to be their responsible guide, lagged comfortably behind with my brother Romel, who had joined us for the walk. Even my youngest daughter, Eya, had a wonderful time wading through the pools and hopping from one craggy stone to another.

To my surprise, the children scaled the massive rock with ease. They stood at the summit for a long moment, savoring their small achievement and posing for photographs with the brilliant, cloudless sky acting as a perfect backdrop. After a few minutes, they scrambled back down to cavort on a wide, flat ledge at the foot of the formation. Dudoy and the boys went back to their shell hunting, while the girls giggled and splashed in the ankle-deep water pooling on the rock's surface.

Then, we decided to walk entirely around the base of the rock—a first for me. On the backside, a narrow span of flat stone became visible, sitting incredibly close to where the roaring waves broke violently against the rock's outer edges.

Having grown bored with his shell hunt, Dudoy suddenly had the idea to play with the waves. He seemed completely mesmerized by the frothy, bright, and cheerful surf rushing up to meet him where he sat on the rocky edge. When a sudden, massive wave broke right over him, he shouted in pure exhilaration.

The rest of the kids rushed over to join him. They lined themselves up along the rocky edge, waiting with breathless patience for the next big swell. When they saw a crested wave creeping higher than the last, they would scream hysterically with joy as it fell over them in a magnificent, cold splash, immediately begging for more. I managed to capture that beautiful suspension of anticipation and the crash of the surf perfectly with my camera.

Ah, it feels like eons ago when I was just like those kids, sharing rambunctious, carefree moments with the tide. Perhaps I am getting a bit too sentimental. But the waves truly were the favorite playmates of my childhood, a time when my beach days were measured by gathering shells, frolicking in the surf, sketching fleeting images with a stick on moist sand, and building short-lived sandcastles. Back then, before I learned how to swim, those same big, unruly waves used to terrify me like a neighborhood bully.

My relationship with the sea shifted during high school, when I attended a conference for young campus writers hosted at a beachside public school. On the very first morning of the seminar, I woke up before sunrise and slipped away from our quarters. I walked along the shoreline until I reached an old, abandoned pantalan (wharf). As the sun broke over the horizon, its soft, amber light hit the glassy surface of the water, tempered only by the rhythmic pulse of the tide. It was a visual masterpiece, a piece of coastal imagery I desperately wanted to capture in words. It was exactly in that solitary moment that I decided I was going to be a writer.

While watching the waves was a game of thrilling anticipation in my childhood, at this stage of my life, it has transformed into a sanctuary for solitude and meditation. It made me wonder: When was the last time I sat quietly on a beach, simply letting a beautiful wave tumble right up to my feet?

Even now, I can feel the magnetic pull of those giant ocean ripples. I still crave those quiet intervals of doing absolutely nothing but sitting, watching the sea, and observing the waves roll in, bumping into one another in their glee before gently sliding back out.

I often wonder what it is about a wave that captivates both the young and the old. Scientists might point to the gravitational mechanics of the sea, complemented by the coastal breeze that dictates the tides. It is a physical magnetism that forces us to look out at a smooth horizon and become utterly hypnotized by the constancy of its ripples. Or perhaps it is a visual manifestation of the rotation of our Earth, creating a perpetual dance of crests and troughs. This constant rhythm holds our breath as we watch warm, playful ripples rush eagerly toward the shore.

Maybe the magic lies in the unique nature of the shoreline itself. It serves simultaneously as a starting point for an uncharted journey and a final destination—a safe refuge for sailors and travelers seeking shelter from a sudden, violent storm. It represents a two-way path. That is why when you stand on land and gaze out at the horizontal expanse of the sea, you naturally contemplate your future, deciding whether you are meant to sail away or if you have finally headed home.

I believe I will always share a deep intimacy with the waves. Sitting in quiet reverie and watching the shifting colors and changing sizes of the water breaking against the shore is where I feel truly spiritual. Ultimately, I am inspired not by the dramatic highs or the low troughs of the water, but by its sheer consistency. Much like life, with all its inevitable ups and downs, the wave simply finds its rhythm and continues to push itself forward.