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.

FOOD TRIP IN NARVACAN

OTHER than the scenic or rather memorable places of my hometown, one thing that made me so eager to go home again, is the food.

Fortunately, in my latest homecoming, I was not deprived of this rare opportunity to indulge in as many of my favorite Ilocano food as I can. My family, particularly Manong Ben and his wife Cion, were tireless in serving me the food that I crave so much. 

Good thing, Lloyd and Melchor, my classmates in PUP College of Law who joined me in my last visit to Narvacan, joined me in this gastronomic foray. My friends were only familiar with the popular pinakbet, dinengdeng, and the bagnet, while the rest of the Ilocano foods are exotic to them. That’s why I could see either a reluctance of a Fear Factor contestant or that why-not-try attitude when some of these foods were served to them.

Life was tough in Ilocos, but there was always food to give you a bit taste of heaven. Oh my, I have always loved these foods that were served during my homecoming.  

Imbaligtad. This is my number one in the list, because it has always been my usual request that my father would cook one as a welcome treat for me everytime I arrive here for vacation. Unlike the papaitan, which uses beef tripes and innards that are cooked over medium heat until tender, our delicious imbaligtad uses the freshest beef (laman or any lean part). The beef is just stir-fried with garlic, ginger and onion, and some hot chili to spice. Imbaligtad literaly means flipped over (“binaliktad” in Tagalog), so the beef is just quickly stir-fried at high heat on a few turns or flips. The effect is a steaming half-cooked fresh meat that tastes sweet and not rubbery. 

 

Sinanglaw. This is a pinapaitan minus the bitter taste of cow’s papait (a part of the stomach of a ruminant or a bile). Instead of bitterness, it is sourness of sukang Iluko (Ilocos vinegar) or a young tamarind (kamias can be an alternative) that dominates its taste. Thanks to Manong Ben who ushered me and my friends to a well-known sinanglawan in town, those found adjacent to the town hall, for a late-morning breakfast. I haven’t tasted a real sinanglaw (literally means “steamed” in the local dialect) for many years now, although according to my father, that type of sinanglaw we ordered in town is just replication of the better known Vigan sinanglaw which uses meaty portions of the cow, instead of cow’s heart, large intestines, tenderloin, lungs and skin that we usually do here in Narvacan. The ingredients are cut in small sizes and stewed with ginger, onion and pepper. For Melchor and Lloyd (who is from Batangas), sinanglaw tastes a lot like bulalo except the vegetables and ginger-y taste. 

 

Warekwarek. This is sometimes called dinakdakan by the non-Ilocanos. It is usually made of grilled pig head and face, similar to the Kapampangan’s sisig. Pork inards or entrails are also used for our local warekwarek. But I like it best when it contains liver (submerged in vinegar, not cooked or grilled) mixed with pig’s brain (or mayonnaise as alternative ingredient), onions, pepper and sukang Iluko, and spiked with calamansi. I usually prepare a dinakdakan at home for my kids and they really love its taste. And sisig, which is very close to warekwarek in taste and presentation, is my all-time favorite in carinderias. But whenever I have the chance to go back North I always look for the original warekwarek of my hometown. 

Kilawing kambing. The real thing or Ilocano way of this kilawen (eaten raw) uses the goat skin and meat, which is sliced into small sizes or thin strips just after it is grilled. It is mixed with sukang Iluko and finely chopped fresh onions and ginger, seasoned with salt and pepper, and usually with the goat’s papait for more flavor. I always associate kilawing kambing with a big clan reunion in Ilocos. We can’t have one without this favorite pulutan of the Ilocanos. During my youth in barrio Nanguneg, I would always help in the preparation, together with my brothers, cousins, and uncles, from the pulpog (burning off the hair of the carcass through fire) up to the slicing of the grilled meat and other ingredients to the tasting and the ensuing tagayan or drinking for celebration. That’s why for my father’s birthday last November, I volunteered to share an amount to buy a goat for his party, just to ensure that we have one for the gathering. 

Bagnet. This Narvacan delicacy is a dish of deep-fried chunks of pork similar to the Tagalog’s lechon kawali. What distinguishes bagnet from other fried pork dishes is the tremendously blistered skin, because it is fried longer, which literally transforms the pork skin into crackling, and the exterior portion of the meat well-browned and very crispy. How I love that succulent, flaky crisp pieces of skin and meat oozing with fatty goodness, especially when dipped in bagoong with crushed (I prefer this to sliced) tomato or calamansi! Other than the Narvacan longganisa, bagnet is my favorite take-home goodies from our town. This time, Manong Ben brought me and my friends to the market to buy for ourselves our take-home from a stack of newly fried bagnet at a stall. 

 

Jumping salad. These are shrimps straight from the net of a local fisherman to the dining table. They are literally jumping from the bowl while they are eaten raw. The rawness of the food makes first-timers really go argghh! But not to the adventurous kind like Melchor and Lloyd. I even teased Melchor to just open his mouth and wait for the shrimp to jump into his palate and chomp it at once. And to build up the activity, making the shrimps jump higher, I squeeze fresh calamansi or a drop a pinch of salt over the live shrimps. For the sawsawan (dip), I would pour patis or fish sauce (bagoong or soy sauce is a good alternative) into saucers.   

Ginataang palaka. It was Manong Ben’s idea to buy a kilo of frogs, which were already skinned to tender white flesh. “Let your friends, know we’re eating them,” he told me. Everyone needs to remember his or her first time, he would say, that is, eating this exotic food which to some is yucky or kadiri. I myself hadn’t eaten this childhood favorite of mine for years. When cooked, the dish looked like diminutive drumsticks on a milky soup. “It tasted just like chicken,” I had to explain to Lloyd and Melchor when a bowl of the dish was served to them for lunch. They were easily convinced and had another serving. My memories of these edible farm frogs are actually not limited to just eating but also catching them in the rice farms during rainy season in the barrio. Those were part of my happy childhood that I cherish to this day. 

 

Maritangtang. Next to tirem (local name for oyster) and unnok (a kind of clam), maritangtang (sea urchin) is one seafood that I crave so much when I’m home. According to my sister Mahren, this delicacy, called uni by the Japanese, is very expensive when ordered in a five-star hotel where she is working. Its yellowish flesh is the most expensive topping for sushi due to its scarcity in Japan. But this edible sea urchin were abundant in Ilocos, and it is sold very cheap, but not as cheap as when they were sold decades ago, according to my father who told me also that people of old would simply gathered them during low tide. During our last picnic in Nalvo beach of nearby Sta. Maria town with my classmates, my father upon my prodding, went to buy freshly harvested maritangtang worth P400 from a village sea pen. We roasted each maritangtang, and when it is done, we cracked the shell open and scooped that scrumptious yellow flesh. Actually almost everything inside the spiny shell is edible, including the briny water inside that tastes delicious as well. 

Dinengdeng. Enjoying a serving of my favorite dinengdeng, the real one as it is traditionally cooked by my mother, or my sister-in-law Cion, is another highlight of my food trip. Unlike the more popular pinakbet, dinengdeng, also called inabraw, uses fewer vegetables and contains more bagoong soup base. It is cooked with practically any vegetable that can be placed in the pot, and then simmered together until cooked. We, Ilocanos are, without a doubt, a vegetable-eating people. I think a lot of it has to do with the abundance of vegetables that are common ingredients of our dinengdeng, such as eggplant, squash fruit or its blossoms, string beans, okra (ladyfinger), paria (bitter gourd), saluyot (jute), marunggay (moringa) leaves or fruits, kabatiti (luffa), pallang (winged bean), kamote (sweet potato) tops and roots, and kangkong leaves. I like the dish with bits of roasted fish, like dalag or bangus, for added flavor.  

source of buridobod photo: pinakbet.wordpress.com

Buridibud. I have been longing to try this dish, which is another version of dinengdeng, using the combination of alukon (green worm like flowers of a local tree), patani, and diced kamote to give texture to the broth, and some eggplant, kumpitis (a local pod) and marunggay leaves. Roasted fish, especially the local fish called bunog, is a good sahog or flavoring. It’s truly a unique Ilocano concoction of what’s sweet and pulpy to go with a variety of vegetables, leaves, fruits and tubers. I have also tried preparing it at home in Bulacan with my kids, and among the vegetable dishes that I introduced them, buridibod to them is one of the best. But nothing could beat my mother’s own version, of course.

Melchor and Lloyd

I’VE listed 10 here, but I should have more if I was able to gobble other exotic Ilocano food that I crave so much, such as any dish with mushroom (uong saba) and the ipon (a small fish endemic to Ilocos). Some of the local delicacies are missing in my last vacation because they are seasonal.

So I can now characterize my vacation as full of hearty burps.

HOMECOMING

I WENT home to Narvacan, Ilocos Sur (320 km north of Manila) to attend my father’s 71st birthday last November 11. “It might be my last,” he went on when he invited me a month before. So off I went, and gave respect to my father who’s now suffering a heart ailment. But I found the opportunity to visit my hometown and to REALLY get home.

I awfully wanted this homecoming, not only for my father’s sake, but also to fulfill a wish for myself. That is, I went home to unburden what seems to be a heavy load inside me, to return and discern the essence of my life again, and to see if I had achieved what I had dreamt to achieve as a child to achieve, and had done things to make my parents and my childhood playmates proud. 

It’s a perfect moment of reconnecting ties, a rekindling of relationships, and a revisit of that bond that connects me with my kin and the place of my birth. 

And my homecoming would not be complete without a visit to Paraiso ni Juan, a low-profile but beautiful beachside landscape in Barangay Sulvec, and a trek in its rocky shores to a local landmark as if in a pilgrimage for a hidden sanctum.

This time for my latest homecoming, two of my classmates in PUP College of Law accepted my invitation to visit Paraiso ni Juan. This might not be a setup, of course, because while I only have personal reasons to reach the spot, I have desired my visitors to appreciate the beauty of the place, telling them that they couldn’t really say they visited Narvacan when they haven’t gone to Paraiso ni Juan.
 

Several steps away from the rocky shoreline of Paraiso is the Immagamang, the local name for the two-storey-high craggy boulder, where a grotto of the Virgin Mary stands solitary on top. This seaside landmark, which got its name from the Ilocano word agamang meaning “rice granary or storehouse,” is very visible when you are travelling on a curve of the coastal road several kilometers away. 

Although both were first-timers in Ilocos and for this kind of trek, my friends willingly braved the craggy shorelines with me.

There was a part of water which we have to cross to get there. We took off our sandals and folded our pants higher. It was high tide, and the swells were big, while some parts were very slippery. We were fortunate that a relative who also drive us to the place was kind enough to guide us until we reach the wide flat area just below the rock. We lingered for a moment to catch a glimpse around the enticing landscape, that calm and shimmering blue ocean surrounding us, with the verdant coastal hills and mountain ranges providing a picturesque backdrop on the other side, everywhere illumined by the silvery glow of the morning sun. My friends heaved a sigh of relief as they looked back on that part of the shore where we have started.

I took the lead in climbing the rock using the man-made steps on its side (this was not yet made when I was young, so back then only the brave and able would dare to climb the rock with bare hands).

There’s always something about the rock that simply tugs at my heart. As I gaze at the pristine water of the South China Sea at its foot with its intermittent swells breaking at the craggy shores, I can feel the warmth, love, and tranquility of the surroundings.  And best of all the memories it brings are endearing.

During my college days, I couldn’t help looking at the solitary rock while passing this place on my way to Vigan. Because the place is situated in the northernmost boundary of Narvacan, the rock would serve as a perfect marker that would tell me I am leaving my hometown, and when I went home after a week of study in the kabisera, it would be a welcome mark for my homecoming (our home is in Nanguneg, which is situated at the town’s southernmost boundary). When I was in high school, our rowdy group of all boys would haunt the place as a favorite getaway for the awesome view, for fun and adventure, as we loved to race around the rocky area, and for a dive. 

My late wife’s had also scaled the rock with me during our vacation in Narvacan in 1999. She liked it so much when, after a tortuous trek and a risky climb on the side of the rock, we reached the top and got to see the view.

And when I was on top of the rock this time, it was like feeling in love again. That kind of love that makes you feel lost, and yet you know you’re safe. If only I could stay here alone until sundown, I might find the solace I am looking for after a tragic event in my life. I would like to think of my immediate future and at least feel some sense of peace and consolation.

Even for a brief moment with my classmates on top of the rock, I had at least the feeling, that thrill of being on a familiar spot, and be finally home.  

Three days after that climb, I went back to Manila with my friends. It was really for a brief visit, as my life, work and family have been enmeshed in some other place. But again that particular day of November was a moment of being at home and feeling the real comfort of a seafarer after finding a sturdy shelter from a “storm.” And like just any traveler, it was the solace of a home that I tried to seek and succeeded even for the briefest time.

I feel I’ve been uprooted again from my home, away from my father and the whole family, our close-knit clan, our neighbors, and a newfound love. I thought of another homecoming soon, or I risk wasting my life in loneliness away from home.

GRIEF IS NOT A FAILURE

(Published in The Philippine Star, Sunday, November 27, 2011. Weekly Winner of the My Favorite Book contest sponsored by National Bookstore) 

THIS one is a brief review of the novel Ordinary People by Judith Guest. It was a fairly quick read, but I still feel its lasting impression.  And here’s why.

I didn’t know anything about the book, its author, or its theme until I picked it up and browsed it. Upon reading the backside that its movie adaptation, directed by the legendary Hollywood actor Robert Redford, was highly praised and won the Oscars for Best Picture in 1980, I didn’t hesitate to buy it.

Why not? Choosing between bestsellers and award-winning books (Pulitzer Prize, National Book Awards, Nobel Laureates’ magnum opuses, etc.), I prefer the latter category. And books made into highly acclaimed movies have always been a good alternative. After reading Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front and Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient, both winners of Best Picture in the Academy Awards in 1930 and 1996, respectively, I’ve been on a frantic hunt for novels whose movie adaptations won the Oscars’ most coveted award. 

Ordinary People is one of those novels (actually an old book from the ‘70s, when no cell phones, computers, or social networking got in the way of a good story) I didn’t realize was out there to be discovered or explored. Its theme is universal, which is the loss and the different ways people deal with it.

It is written from the perspective of a reserved teenager, Conrad Jarret, trying to tackle by himself the loss of his older brother. Out of guilt for not being able to do anything to help his brother in an accident while boating together, and feeling disconnected from his parents, he attempts to commit suicide, which lands him in the hospital for eight months. Later on, his father helps him find a psychiatrist.

The family the book depicts is appropriately “ordinary,” that is, they’re familiar to us. They could be your neighbors or relatives, or could be your own. The characters seem real: you hear them speak and you see their pain, and feel for them.
I can relate to the book’s compelling theme. I really felt for the surviving son and his father Cal, as he tries to reach out to him. I felt connected to both of them. I lost my wife last August, or barely a month before I read this book. With her untimely demise due to breast cancer, all my dreams of getting old, complete and satisfied, with her and our children sank into a black hole and I have yet to cope with the ordeal of being a shocked survivor. I had this uneasiness, however, in seeing my own incomprehensible emotions laid out before me page after page in this novel.

Reading through the struggles of the surviving family members, it brings to mind Hamlet’s affecting question: “To be or not to be?” You suddenly feel envious of the dead, because they are in peace while the survivors have to live long and deal with the traumatizing event, and suffer with more and more issues, like the idea of suicide, isolation, brokenness, deep longing for connection, and a cesspool of unwanted memories.

I’ve read some novels with the same subject—bereavement—and I can only remember Bag of Bones by Stephen King (a writer suffering a severe writer’s block after the death of his wife); The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold (a father who is consumed with guilt at having failed to save a daughter and a mother who drifts away and leaves her husband after the tragic death); and The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett (a rich hunchback shutting off from his mind a sickly son and a beautiful garden after an accident killed his wife), but none had put more than the usual amount of emphasis on depression from a clinical standpoint. 

Ordinary People is a very psychologically astute book that tells us matter-of-factly that depression is, in the words of the novel’s psychiatrist, Dr. Berger, “not sobbing and crying and giving vent, it is plain and simple reduction of feeling.” It’s your own choice why you feel numb or void of feelings, because it is your mind’s way of protecting itself. But it is the kind of isolation and being lonely and miserable that is unforgiving and cannot be forgiven when there are people who are more than willing to listen and patiently try to lift you up. I really like that shrink.

So for anyone who has ever struggled with similar loss or depression, this is an eye-opening book. It shows how grief may drive people away from the shelter of the family unit, and yet the same grief may also draw some closer together, like the son and his father in the story. Even “ordinary people” can overcome difficult and unthinkable circumstances all the time, and some handle these poignant and razor-sharp emotions differently, most of them with success. And some made good with the help of a counselor or a psychiatrist.

There is goodness about all things. The book tells us then that there is no insurmountable pain in bereavement. Life may be a lot of problems, yet it is full of hope. The good Dr. Berger has also remarked that after bereavement, “there is just Phase Two. Recovery. A moving forward.” That could be a guiding principle, a perfect mantra, in any depressing time or some shattered relationship.

Except for the deterioration of the marriage between Cal and his wife, the novel ends on a positive note. Conrad Jarret slowly starts to respond to Dr. Berger, and comes to terms with his feelings. The teenager becomes his own man and gets over wallowing in his intoxicating survivor’s guilt and identity crisis, thus resolving the internal conflict of the story.

People just need to learn to work with and around each other in order to live their lives and be happy. I would not have learned these things if I didn’t pick up this outstanding book. I am now well reminded of the reasons that life is still worth living in spite of some horrible things.

After all, grief is not a failure. 

UNSENT BIRTHDAY LETTER

TODAY is my late wife’s birthday and I don’t know how I will observe her very special day. Two days before, my daughter suggested that we would celebrate by preparing the usual fare for a family occasion, a hearty snack of pancit bihon or canton, puto and lechon manok. “It doesn’t mean that Mom’s gone, we no longer celebrate for her?” she said in a sad voice. My sons wanted us to go to church on Sunday (I admit, since the death of my wife a few months back, I haven't attended a mass in church). Or visit her grave in Makati. 

But I thought of staying home and rather be left alone only for this day. I just wanted to meditate, and to reach her. Or, perhaps, to forget everything if I could. If only for today.

I can’t help but look back to those years we spent together, especially on special occasions like her birthday. Did I make her happy? Did we have special times together? I admit that I committed my share of some laxity to our relationship. It may be plain absent-mindedness on my part, or may be the lack of means and time. But I always love my wife. I always will. Now I understand what they have always been saying: “You only love the person more when he or she is gone.” 

But I have to work in the office today, and the kids have to go to school. And this morning I talked with them and had to explain that their Mom may not be around anymore and we might not be celebrating her birthday as we did before, but we know deep in our heart that we always remember her.

While browsing my file weeks after the burial in August I stumbled upon this letter I wrote for her during her birthday exactly seven years ago. It was purposely unsent because it was part of my journal then. I felt a sharp pang of regret for not giving her the chance to read it. Well, reading it now, it provides me a glimpse or a touching episode of our past together.

                                                          November 28, 2004 

Dear Rosalie,

It’s your 32nd birthday today, and it’s my 9th year to greet you personally in your most special day. Why, of course, in that span of time, we never had a special or I should say, extraordinary celebration, other than those warm kisses we would have early in the morning, watching movie and dining out together, and giving you simple gifts. I couldn’t think of a different or more special way beyond my means—no extravagant trip to Hong Kong or Boracay, no shopping spree in Glorietta or in Bangkok, no diamonds and golden bracelets, no song and dance numbers, no circus. But two days before, I thought of buying you this time a potted plant, perhaps a white rose or an orchid, or any ornamental plant that you can nurture every day. I thought also of giving you this potted plant along with a fashionable T-shirt or blouse, which I have never done in your previous birthdays. Remember last year, I gave you a Shoemart gift check worth P1,000 (now you may call that lack of creativity!)? And I let you—in fact, I accompanied you—buy the things you wanted with it. But the problem is, I don’t have extra money now to buy you some special gift. It’s two days short of the pay day, and I only got P20 and a loose change from the P2,000 I borrowed from my sister May, which I had used to pay for my application fee for the LAE [an entrance exam for freshmen at UP College of Law].

I didn’t have the time to go to a department store in EDSA or even in nearby Carriedo Street from my work because days before that, I had been cramming in my review for the entrance exam. And worse, the date of the examination coincides with your birthday today. So please understand why I have to be away from the special lunch you prepared for our visitors from Malate, Ate Tess and Nanay, and my brother Milton who came over from Sampaloc [Manila] to cook my favorite dish dinakdakan. So while you were eating then, I was wracking my rather rusty brain to solve a barrage of difficult questions from the exams, especially problem solving, and abstract and logical reasoning. But I have been thinking that an exam like this coinciding with your special day would, like the proper alignment of the stars, augur a better fortune for both of us.

I’m very sorry if I couldn’t give you a special present for this occasion. I’ll just make up soon, perhaps, this Christmas or on our wedding anniversary on December 30. Happy birthday, sweetheart!

                                                                      NEYO 

My wife didn’t reach her 39th birthday today. Knowing her condition then, I had been saving for a trip out of town, or to a place of her choice, for just the two of us. But it’s too late now. I already had spent the money I saved for our children’s needs. I had also stopped writing for my journal since middle of 2005, and now those loose pages had become part of a memento that could easily bring those fond memories of my life and that of my kids with her.

I passed the LAE, and enrolled at UP in June 2005 but had to transfer to another school after the first semester. I should have stopped after my short and dismal stint in the premier university, but it was my wife who urged me to continue my studies. Now I am into my last semester before I earned my law degree, but it’s very sad that my wife is no longer here to see me receive my diploma next year. But I know she would gladly wait that day, wherever she is right now. And having thought of this, when I say “Happy Birthday, Sweetheart!” I know she would gladly accept that in spite of my shortcomings. 

PASS YOUR POEM!

MAYBE nothing is normal to me these days. Maybe it’s about the pesky November rain, the last days of the wet season bordering on the much-awaited cool breeze of December, or the forthcoming Christmas celebration itself, with all its blaring music and commercial festivities, while I’m here missing my wife again. 
 

Lately I have been feeling really tired, trying to drive this icky depression that has been bothering me since August. Maybe in my previous life I was an African lovebird grieving for a lost mate. I would just stare blankly beyond my short beak, or would be looking for something that no longer exists. After a time I would say, “OK, that’s quite enough for me,” then you would hear a thud, and see me lifeless in my miserable cage. But this grieving lovebird in me has brood to think about, it wants to be a lawyer, and it is still dying to write its masterpiece.

Maybe nothing is normal when I started writing snippet of verses in my depressed mode, rather than when I am inspired. When nothing seems normal to me, as I’ve written in a previous blog, I would just write naturally. 

During a boring class, for instance, or when the professor doesn’t mind at all what his or her students are thinking on their seats, or doesn’t even mind I was present in class, writing down anything that would come to my mind in order to beat that unwanted tediousness is as normal as yawning for me. I could also doodle lines and figures on my notes, or draw a figure playfully, sometimes using the person in front of me as a model, or I draw my hands, my toes, my knees or my shoes, while thinking when will I buy another pair, or I just sketch a semi-abstract portrait of my teacher with all the distinguishable facial expressions. 

But what is palpably not normal to me these days is allowing my self to write a verse while taking an exam. 

Who could imagine that I had a chance to do it with gusto? Of course, you may say, it depends on the kind of exam. Was it a breeze, or a very short one and the time given to answer was disproportionately long, that I had the luxury of time to wait for the first person to submit his or her paper before I submit mine? Was it a hurdle, or the questions required answers outside those things that I had read about, so I stumbled and fell, and never wanted to rise up again but remained to be awake for the rest of the hour, and then ensconced myself on my seat in blissful ignorance? Or was I really feeling low and suicidal, that a Muse crept in daintily with a magical balm, soothing my mood and shutting me off my world?

I could use the last two situations to justify my act.

It was not an ordinary exam though, and unannounced. It was a graded quiz for a major (bar) subject in law school. I wasn't able to read my textbook nor had the chance to peruse my notes and reviewers. A justification, however, is in order: I worked that day until 5 p.m. in the office, though usually when I have an evening class such as this one, I logged out from work as early as 3 p.m. to have extra time to refresh for the subject. A night before that and during a break in the office, I worked on my article for a regional literary magazine, where I am a regular contributor, in order to meet the deadline late in the afternoon. Besides, I expect my professor would lecture that day. Our class could no longer afford for recitation or oral test, as we were already pressed for time to complete the coverage for the subject. We only had two meetings left before the final exams, so perhaps, I thought, the professor would just give us pointers or explain some key points for the remaining topics we were about to discuss.

So I came to the class prepared to listen and take down notes, but not to take any exam. And when the assigned proctor entered our room and told our class to immediately prepare for a long quiz, I was absolutely staggered. All of us nine in the class could not do anything but to listen to the instructions, got the questions, and started to answer them in utter discomfort. Better than walking it off though.

I was able to answer three of the five questions, though I wasn’t so sure if my answers would satisfy our absent professor. The last two questions were an ordeal. I could only guess the answers. Just use your common sense or at least be sensible with your guesses, I remember this advice from a classmate. Yet I have very little explanations for my guesses. So what would you expect for me to do while waiting for that appalling signal “Time’s up! Finished or not finished, pass your paper”? But no one was submitting his or her paper yet, and we still have one full 30 minutes to finish the exam.

So I tried to listen to the ticking of the wall clock, then I stared at the clock face with fibrous web bothering its rim. Suddenly I thought about spider webs, and I remembered Spider-man hanging upside down while his lady love kept on smacking at his exposed lips, but then I remembered my wife snuggled beside me while watching the scene together in a movie house. Then I thought of another movie, but another memorable scene would lead to a haunting episode with my late wife in a movie house again. I thought of doing a 10-count jumping jack, or to smash the head of the lizard on the ceiling. I suddenly crave for r.e.m. or U2 songs. I thought of so many things. Yet I was tied to my seat with the half-empty answer sheet staring at me. 

Then I thought of capturing bits of this somewhat muddled emotion, put it in a bottle and smashed it against the wall for the proctor to see. But he wouldn’t care at all, as he was now smugly seated in the front row, his back toward us, talking in murmurs with his girlfriend whom he brought along for his task. OK, I thought. I started to push my pen across the lines on the sheet in front of me. It started with a single line of an uninhibited thought, and then followed by another line and another line to integrate another short disarray of images, and more ensuing lines. You may call the lines shallow, but their instantaneous release was very helpful. Ah, verse writing seems so easy to write when I’m bored and distressed.  And such ease paves the unhampered way to flex my lethargic verbal muscles.

So here’s the evidence of a random, wayward thoughts from an unlikely place:

As transcribed below:

air exhaled gone before

it dispersed in a mist

but tears don’t dry up easily

in the absence of heat

now searching for the element  

in a space beyond the cloud

hovering this misty morn

blocking up the grayness

of the sun.

if only I could

reverse the direction

of the wind

and bring you back,

to the meadows of our dreams

where the sun is yellow

and the air we inhaled

is tangible, in flesh.

The result of the exam was a disaster. Except for one or two of my classmates, everyone got a failure grade. Later at the end of the semester, only three out of nine in the class passed the subject. Obviously I flunked it, and I enrolled it again this semester, which at present is the only and last remaining subject that I have enrolled before I graduate from law school this coming March. 

So, while the three passers were rejoicing and those who failed were contemplating on their fate for having another semester of long lectures, tough recitations and quizzes, some may be unannounced, I have this souvenir of a poem to talk about, and to justify pro hac vice my abnormal act.