THE LAST VISITA IGLESIA

MY family had only one Visita Iglesia, a Holy Week tradition which literally means church visit, that it joined, and it was our first and surely the last one we had as one complete family. Before this I never attended any of this Catholic tradition of visiting churches during the Lenten season. 

It was Holy Thursday of 2010. I remember the excitement of my wife. She had rarely done this religious event during her younger years, though she had wanted so much to do this every year. And now she was glad that, finally, she would be doing it again with her own family.

It was a perfect timing for the family. A year before, we had a terrific vacation in Ilocos Sur for the Lenten break. We had lots of fun joining family reunions, swimming and picnics in the beach, and we even went as far as Bangui (to see the giant windmills) and Pagudpud, both in Ilocos Norte. So when my wife suggested this religious activity to my kids, she didn’t need to employ any convincing charm for them. My kids in fact were very curious to know how this summer event is carried out. My wife explained to them the significance of this “journey” marked by prayer and sharing, silence and fasting, which is usually done on Holy Thursday. Seven churches are visited with two stations per visit. (Some would visit 14 churches for this activity.) So my wife had really expected that this one, our very first Visita Iglesia, would provide great opportunities for my family to quietly enjoy some kind of vacation or tour and also to have time to perform a religious duty. And she suggested that we could do this every year.

I know that my wife wanted this pilgrimage so badly because of her condition. She had a stage 2 breast cancer, an illness that she didn’t want to disclose to my kids, and even to her friends, because she believed she could still be healed, with her endless hope and deepest prayers to the Lord. She felt the need to visit various miraculous churches to pray for healing, and that she wanted her family to pray with her. 

I planned the route, so days before the Holy Thursday, I got myself busy searching the Internet for the seven churches to visit (see, it was my first time to do this). I have to consider the distance between the churches and the travel time to transfer from one church to another. I even consulted some of my friends for this. Dudoy was more excited to see the churches, especially old or Spanish-era churches that were included in our itinerary. I promised to give him and his siblings some historical and cultural perspective of these churches.

We thought of hiring a van. Another family had agreed to join us and share with the rent, but the driver of the van whom we approached days before was not available for Holy Thursday. So it was just our family that went out that day.

My wife had lived with her family in one of the neighborhoods around the Old Manila area, which is our destination. The places, particularly the churches, were at least familiar to her. 

It was a typical summer with scorching heat of the sun, so we made sure, before we left Bulacan, that we had comfortable clothes, shades, umbrella, hats, drinking water, and hand towels. 

1st Station – Binondo Church     

This church stands majestically inside Manila’s Chinatown in Binondo District. It was named the Minor Basilica of San Lorenzo Ruiz in honor of the first Filipino saint who lived and grew up in Binondo. I always pass this church whenever I go to Divisoria either to hunt for cheap goods or to visit my relatives in Tondo. But it was my first time to enter the church.

2nd Station – Manila Cathedral

The Cathedral, or Basilica of the Immaculate Conception, is located inside the Intramuros district. It is the seat of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Manila. Its imposing facade and huge dome are very visible even from the distance. It also has a grandiose view outside the church.

3rd Station – San Agustin Church

San Agustin Church (Immaculate Conception Parish), despite its modern outlook, is one of the oldest churches still standing in the Philippines. This UNESCO World Heritage Site church is just a walking distance from the cathedral.

  

4th Station – St. Jude

The church was named St. Jude Thaddeus Archdiocesan Shrine. Saint Jude, cousin and apostle of Jesus Christ, is known as the patron of desperate cases. So there are always a number of devotees that flock the church every Thursday, most of them students who go to this church especially before final exams or a very crucial board examination.

5th Station – San Miguel Church

This is the National Shrine of St. Michael and the Archangels. It was our first time to visit the church and the kids were thrilled to know that they were treading this part of Malacañang. Inside the church, you can see the altar mounted with the crucifixion scene with the seven archangels having their own statue one on each post. There is also a big 12-foot bronze statue of St. Michael defeating a serpent, the symbol of Lucifer.

6th Station – San Sebastian Church

My wife was born and raised in Malate, Manila, and it was very strange that she has not been inside San Sebastian Church (Basilica Minore de San Sebastian) before this visit. So she and the kids were very excited to enter this historical church world-renowned for its wonderful architectural design and structure (made of steel). The ceiling inside the church was the highest one that I have ever seen so far.   

7th Station – Quiapo Church

The Quiapo Church (Minor Basilica of the Black Nazarene) was an automatic next stop because of its short distance from San Sebastian. It was the church that I frequently passed on my way to school, office or home. But I only attended a mass here once or twice with my wife during our early years of marriage. The church for me is always crowded, and so with the surrounding area, being one of the centers of commerce for lowly folks in the metropolis. Among the seven churches that we visited, this last stop was the hardest to accomplish because of the multitude of people also doing the Visita, and by that time, my wife and kids had become so tired and hungry.

THE year after, or in April 2011, we failed to go on a Visita Iglesia as we had planned because of my wife's worsening condition. In the succeeding months we went on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Divine Mercy in our place in Marilao, Bulacan. And it was the last church that we visited. Our visit there in July of the same year was our last as one complete family, because in that same month we rushed her to the hospital, and she died after two weeks because of a complication of her illness.

FROM CHECKMATE TO LIFETIME MATES

The Love Story of Nico and Nove

EVERY wedding, so they say, always starts with a love story. Now you may want to listen to this love story of the newlyweds, my sister Nove and my good friend Nico.

First I want you to listen to this story of a shy, but bright-eyed girl in high school. She was a chess prodigy. She’s been good at playing chess, even at a very young age. She had mastered her moves even before she started training with her father.   

One particular day in August, this girl who had just turned 13 went to compete in a provincial tournament. The tournament was a group competition, and boys and girls were mixed.

But during this same period, there was another chess prodigy, a 15-year-old boy who had become popular for demolishing chess players, most of them veterans and well-known players in the province at that time in many local tournaments.  

The girl didn’t expect that she was to compete with this boy wizard. That meeting happened during the penultimate round, a game to decide who would be the champion. And the boy didn’t expect for the life of him, that the girl would defeat him in the match. It was the first time that he lost to the weaker sex, so to speak. His teammates and coach were shocked.  

In the next leg of the tournament, the boy and the girl met again for the rematch. But this time the girl and her team lost. But for the boy, he couldn’t forget that one time in his early chess-playing career he lost to a girl younger than him. This girl has a promise, he told himself.

The two chess prodigies continued meeting each other in school competitions, but this time they played in different categories. While the boy continued to shine in the boy’s category, so was the girl. They beat all their opponents in the provincial and regional meets. And they were constant teammates representing their province and their region in the Palarong Pambansa for two consecutive years. 

Then the boy graduated from high school and went to a college in Manila and continued playing chess. The girl maintained her dominance of many tournaments and went back to Palarong Pambasa during her last year in high school. 

During a chess tournament in Manila the girl and the boy met again. It was during this meeting that the boy introduced the girl to a friend, a chess player from another college. This friend had been scouting for players to play in their collegiate team, particularly the chess team for girls. So our young chess wizard recommended the girl to his friend, and later, the girl was introduced to the coach. An offer for scholarship was made to the provincial girl. And the rest is history, so to speak. 

And did love bloom between the boy and the girl? Of course, not yet.

But before I continue, and before you think I am veering away from Nove and Nico’s love story, I tell you now, that this girl was Nove herself and the boy was Nico. The college was Rizal Technological College (now University) from which they both graduated. And the coach was Mr. Mauro Yasay, who also invited Nove, and later Nico, his chess players to join this church, the Church of the Overcomer.

So let me continue my story. Nove had been a varsity player since her first year in college. Nico after two years in San Sebastian College, transferred to RTU, joining the chess team of Mr. Yasay. Here, Nove and Nico were together most of the time, particularly during practice and tournaments. In 1997, or three years after Nove joined this church, Nico was also asked to join. So it was not only in practice and actual chess competitions that they were together, but also in church activities.   

But in 1999, Nico’s heart had seemingly turned into an uncontrollable knight crisscrossing the chessboard, hoping to checkmate his opponent. He finally made a confession to Nove. He said he had fallen in love with her and wanted to be with her for the rest of his life. But Nove, was shocked, and the ever conservative, shy and very much uneducated in the love department that she was, she didn’t give any response to Nico’s affection. In fact she started avoiding her friend. No checkmate happened. Nico, just like any regular guy in situation like this, made his presence to Nove and their friends become scarce. Now like a game of chess, he changed his move. He no longer went to Nove as he used to do. 

A year after, or in 2000, Nove graduated from college with the degree Bachelor of Science in Computer Engineering. Nico graduated in the following year with the degree of BS Management. 

They parted ways, and went on to establish their respective careers. Nove got a job, so with Nico.  But Nove was not satisfied with the kind of job that she was having then. Because most of the job offers to her were related to accounting jobs, she thought she rather takes an accounting course and be an accountant, than be a mere clerk with an Engineering degree. So, like in a game of chess, she may be beaten, but she can start a winning game. So she packed up her things and went back to our hometown in Ilocos. She enrolled in BS Accountancy at the University of Northern Philippines. With sheer determination and perseverance, she survived all the hardships of finishing the course. And most importantly, she hurdled the CPA Board exam given only last year.

During her absence, Nico went to work in Ateneo as a chess coach and later moderator. In 2008, or before Nove could finish accountancy, he sought out Nove’s contact number from their common friends. He believed that woman’s heart should be so hidden in God so he also had to seek Him for guidance in finding her. He finally got her number, but at that time the number was being used by one of Nove’s nieces. Nico texted her through her niece. He persisted until he made a move that made Nove answer his messages. This started a renewal of their friendship. To Nico, it was a love rekindled. They become active joining church activities together, while their friends were clueless that Nico was earnestly pursuing Nove’s love, because even at this time, Nove was so emphatic in calling Nico kuya. Some would think they were relatives because of their closeness.

So how and when did Nove get checkmated by Nico? Well, it happened in my sister Mahren’s house in Sta. Mesa (Manila). Nico went there to look into and reformat Mahren’s computer, of course, upon Nove’s request. 

Nico was served with paksiw na sili (siling Ilocos used as vegetables) for dinner. Knowing that Nico doesn’t like that dish very much, my younger sister Mahren, playfully challenged Nico to eat all the sili, if that would show that “you really love Ate Nove,” she teased. So Nico, thinking that this was his chance of a lifetime, forced a smile, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, said a little prayer and slurped all the sili in the bowl. But of course, he did that in four hours and some episode and near episode of throwing out. You need to have the fighting spirit. You have to force moves and take chances, a quote he learned perhaps from chess master Bobby Fischer.

Nove was impressed and at that very moment, she knew she finally found the right man for her. A checkmate that ends the game. So she accepted Nico’s love offer and these two former chess prodigies, former teammates in college, church mates, old friends, finally become king and queen of their hearts. And they didn’t have to adjust so much for themselves of their newfound relationship, because they had been there before, shall we say it, unofficially, as more, more than friends.

And the rest again is now history, because right now, my sister Nove and my very good friend Nico would consummate the relationship with their marriage before this church, witnessed by their families, relatives, and friends.

I’ve read that chess is a fairy tale of 1001 blunders, but to Nove and Nico, it is a fairy tale of love and friendship. Their love for each other is sincere and divine because it is also based on good Christian teachings. 

And to end this story, a game of chess may end, but love never is. As written in I Corinthians 13:7-8, “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.”

And to Nico and Nove, thank you for sharing us your wonderful love story. May God bless you!

(I read this during the wedding of Nico Alisangco and Nove Valdez on March 24, 2012 at the Church of Overcomer, Taytay, Rizal. I got permission of the couple to post this one in this blog.)

DUDOY

THIS is the nickname of my second child, whose real name is Neyo Martin Gundran Valdez.
 

I find Dudoy a very common nickname in the country, just like Boyet, Dodong, Junior, Mac-mac (and other Pinoy names with repeating syllables), or Totoy, but the name is endearing nonetheless.

But why the need for a nickname?

I, for one, don't have a nickname. My name, which is the same as my son’s first name, may be short enough for my father that he didn't give me any nickname. Or he might have been satisfied with it that he hadn’t thought of calling me with a darling short name. But unlike my father, I thought of a different, cool nickname for my son, to prevent confusion of his name with mine in our household.

However, my son’s now familiar name Dudoy is not what I intended to call him. It was not my choice, really. I could have named him Neymart, Mart, Neyney, Yoyong, or Oyen. The name Duday (yes, a girl’s name, that’s the derivation) came out from the mouth of N-yel (a nickname I gave to my first son Nathaniel) when somebody in my wife’s extended family playfully asked my two-year-old son what he would call the baby in his mother’s womb. 

Duday, if you had been watching telenovela or teleserye in the late 90s, was the name of a clumsy and loquacious maid in a comedy series topbilled by Jolina Magdangal and Marvin Agustin in Channel 2. My in-laws loved watching each episode while my little boy was enjoying, just after dinner, his playful mood in front of the TV. The name stuck in his head, so when my second child came out, and it turned out to be a boy, N-yel changed (or somebody must have coached him) the name to the masculine Dudoy.

I consider the name very special because it came from my precocious son, so I readily acceded to the suggestion. I had the inkling that Dudoy might grow up feeling an even deeper connection to his older brother because he loved him enough to give him a “special” name.

Perhaps I was wrong. Suddenly now, Dudoy, who will be turning 12 this May, has expressed ambivalence about his nickname. While he appreciates the circumstance or reason why we gave him that name, he is so shy, however, of telling his nickname to his classmates and friends. He has reasons though. Some of my son’s playmates love to make fun of his nickname. As if the name is not familiar or common enough for them that they would still call him with another name, like Doydoy, Dodong, and Dodo. Some of Dudoy’s friends even called him Budoy, and hated that name now, because a popular TV soap has that name of a retarded boy in the title role. Or perhaps it’s about the LPG delivery man in our neighborhood, who is also named Dudoy.

Her Mom, when she was alive, would rather call my son Doods which is nice to hear, though I prefer Doy for him; but when the Harry Potter series started to come out in movies, N-yel and his sister Roseya (my bunso), started calling him Dudley, after the piggy-like, slow-witted, pampered brat character in Harry’s Muggle family. 

Dudoy is a usual a name for Mr. Ordinary, a houseboy, or a waif in soap operas and movies. It hasn’t been used as name for the title role or main protagonist in a movie, as far as I know, except in Dolphy’s movie spoof of the local superhero Darna in the 70s, where his character’s name was Dudoy. 

(When I “googled” the name Dudoy, I discovered that it is also a surname of a South American basketball player and a real estate agent in New York.)

I can explain to my son that, despite some unwelcome association to his name, he can still use it to his own advantage and be proud of using it in the future, given also the fact that he cannot shed his nickname so easily to those who have known him by that name. He will just allow it to take on a life of its own and define how others think about him, whether he likes it or not. 

His given nickname does not have any negative connotation, unlike other nicknames that are focused on a physical characteristic, like Taba or Tabatsoy (for fatty ones), Nognog (for the dark-skinned), Palito (for the very thin ones). Others have more bizarre, even risqué and unflattering nicknames but the owners of these names would still stick to them like a badge of honor.

And, while it’s true that a nickname can be a form of ridicule, most nicknames are sometimes considered desirable, symbolizing a form of acceptance or adoration. But first, it is important that a good reputation must precede the name or nickname. Every person must strive hard and be popular with his achievement, not thinking about for all his life how he wants to be known. 

I can tell Dudoy about successful people and celebrities who are self-assured enough to use their nicknames, no matter how odd they sound. Some even flaunt their nicknames and earn admiration, even votes, from them. Today’s Filipino ace comedian Michael V is known by his nickname Bitoy, which endears him more to his fans. Even the president, Benigno Simeon C. Aquino III, is called Noynoy by almost everyone in the country. 

Dudoy should have read about Pele, the greatest football player of his era. The football legend from Brazil has admitted he doesn't like his nickname (Pele) at first, that he even punched the classmate who came up with it, earning a two-day suspension from school. Pele presumed it was an insult, but recently he has found out that it means “miracle” in Hebrew. 

While it's true that nicknames can be boring, pointless, incredibly annoying and immature to some, most people can see their advantages. Other nicknames have even become more popular than their real names. George Herman Ruth and Ernesto Guevara are much more famous as Babe Ruth and Che Guevara, respectively. 

Nicknames are not always given when people are young.  I have to warn my son about this. Other people for some reason might call him a name; maybe it’s about what they can see in my son’s character, a peculiarity, or some achievement in latter part of his life. But still, if ever they clothe him with another nickname, he would have the choice then whether to accept it or not. 

Anyway, changing a child’s nickname is not bad parenting, I haven’t read any magazine that says otherwise. But I wouldn’t do it now, nor I have plans for it. That’s for my son to decide. Whatever he wants, he will always be Dudoy for me.

SOUNDTRACK OF MY HIGH SCHOOL

I HAVE very fond memories of listening to Whitney Houston. So it shocked me, like it shocked so many of her fans, to learn of her death on February 11. I also felt this way when they die: Michael Jackson, John Lennon, Pinoy rap master Francis Magalona, and other great artists whom I admire or whose songs provided the soundtrack of my youth.

FM radios revisited Whitney Houston's music (like what they did with Michael in 2009) by giving her signature songs ample air time. The number of hits on YouTube videos featuring her songs and performances multiplied by the thousands after her death, thanks to her fans who went all out to show their respect to this great singer of her era.

Listening to these songs now and watching her videos linked by my Facebook friends on their posts brought with them a flood of memories. So what do you expect when songs from your past, which when heard, have the power to transport you back to a certain time and place of your life? 

With that, I started thinking back to the soundtrack of my high school days during the latter part of the 80’s. Songs I included here usually make me feel good when I hear them again. Okay, I’m getting a little sentimental here, but while I was coming up with this playlist, I realized that I can never really escape high school memories. Do you?

Here are some of the songs so that you can see what I mean.

“Light and Shade” by Fra Lippo Lippi

High school awakened my passion for music discovery. And those were the days before the Internet, MP3s and IPods. It was the time I started learning to play the guitar. And one of the songs I’d loved to play with was Fra Lippo Lippi’s “Everytime I See You”, which was immensely popular in the Philippines in the 80s. I love playing with its rhythmic base from the intro to the end, and the tune was easy for my pitch. But the song would rather introduce me to many of this Norwegian new wave band’s remarkable songs, and I picked “Light and Shade” as the best for me. I consider this song anthemic of my salad days, what with this meaningful lyrics: Be proud to wear the colors that you call your own/ Be loud, speak out when the world to know/ Be strong, hold the flame for everyone to see/ Be weak, if you want to love…

 

“All at Once” by Whitney Houston

Blame it on my many first-times—first time to court a girl and to have a girlfriend, to shave, and to drink alcohol (er, sorry, Dad). And during this period, Whitney Houston’s soulful ballads dominated the airwaves. And they played so many Houston songs during our JS Prom, and I could easily remember the song when I had my first dance with a girl, a shy but radiant classmate of mine named Myrene. I remember her asking me teasingly if I feel nervous dancing for the first time (damn, I told her so). “Me, nervous? Bah!” I just hummed along with the song to cover up my uneasiness, not for the awkwardness of my first dance, but seeing my girlfriend not far away dancing with another guy, who was much better looking and much taller than me: All at once,/ I started counting teardrops and at least a million fell/ My eyes began to swell,/ And all my dreams were shattered all at once. For that was the song. But I was in high school then, see? And I have yet to learn how to count teardrops.

“Foolish Beat” by Debbie Gibson

I usually gravitated toward popular love songs when I was young, and I was especially attracted to the sweet voice and music of Debbie Gibson, who was about 16 or 17 then. Two of her songs, “Foolish Beat” and “Lost in Your Eyes,” were played heavily on radio during my high school. I remember my younger sister telling me many years after, that every time she hears “Foolish Beat” being played on the radio, she was reminded of our rowdy senior batch. The seniors, especially those on the higher sections, as expected, had a dominant presence in the campus, every extra-curricular activity, politics, journalism, sports, romance, you name it. My sister, who was in freshmen class that time, looked up to us with wonder.   

“Maghihintay Sa’Yo” by DingDong Avanzado 

I also delved into OPM songs during this period. Pinoy rock had begun to mellow and it was the era of OPM radio hits by the likes of Randy Santiago, Louie Heredia, Martin Nievera and Richard Reynoso. But I would pick Dingdong Avanzado, a much younger balladeer than those I mentioned, as one who made the songs that gave me some special memories. I remember my female classmates going gaga over him. Some of my classmates even had the chance to watch him perform live in a concert and they were insatiable, talking so much of that experience to the envy of those who hadn’t. Among his many hit songs that got stuck in my head even to this day were “Talong Biente Singko Lang” and “Maghihintay Sa ‘Yo”.

“Love’s Grown Deep” by Shalamar

As we travel down the road/ Side by side we’ll share the load/ Hand in hand we’ll see each other through/ Though we’ve only just begun/ Let’s count our blessings one by one/ I thank God for life, I thank God for you/ Love’s grown deep/ Deep into the heart of me …. I’ll probably always have a bit of a soft spot for this Shalamar’s song. It was the R & B band’s signature song, but it was actually their revival rendition of Kenny Nolan’s original. I love the melody and lyrics, and it was always the first song that I would sing or whistle along every time I rode my bike for an afternoon leisure trip to the Sta. Maria Bridge or along its river bank not far from our home in the barrio. Why, of course, I had myself imagining about this girl, the apple of my eyes, walking hand in hand as we go down the road…

“Always” by Atlantic Starr  

Think about this: You have easily learned to love this song since it had become a radio hit. It has an easy tune and lyrics that can be a source of sweet phrases or expressions for love letters (ah, those were the days of scented stationery). Suddenly you came to know that your girlfriend had hated this song because it reminded her of a former boyfriend. Probably their theme song, or an unwelcomed background music during a painful parting. Dang, that was my real story! So for a time, I stopped liking this song by the Atlantic Starr. My dislike, however, was as brief as my relationship with the girl. We broke up for a reason I couldn’t remember now. But high school memories can be tricky. What I felt about then hardly mattered to me now.

“Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley

New Wave sounds, epitomized by Spandau Ballet and Duran Duran, had taken over the airwaves with its radio-friendly tune. But Rick Astley’s dance-pop songs also stood out, riding on the popularity of New Wave, with his distinctive rich, deep voice and boyish look, sans the funky hairdo of the 80s. Don’t kid yourself, you might have loved Rick Astley’s songs and his voice, too, long before his style of music was sampled by Roderick Paulate on a TV show and claimed himself to be Astley's Pinoy version.

“Pop Goes the World” by Men Without Hats

Some friends and I did this dance in our senior year. It was for a campaign rally of the candidates for the student government elections. As a candidate for a high position, I was required by the party to present a dance number. A friend chose this song for our dance, which he also choreographed. We practiced a lot in another friend’s house, but hours before our performance, a classmate suggested that we take a sip of alcohol to make us feel confident. My assent to his suggestion, though I was confident of our preparation, had resulted in a near tragic episode of my last year in high school. It was, however, an experience rich with lessons, and I got this song to remind myself of what I learned.

“Take Me Out of the Dark” by Gary Valenciano 

Gary Valenciano has been my favorite singer way back in high school. Not so much of his high-energy dance moves, but his unpretentious voice and uplifting music that touches your heart and soul. I had loved listening to his ballads, such as “Sana Maulit Muli” and “Di Na Natuto” and some of his original gospel songs, especially “Take Me Out of the Dark,” whose touching lyrics had pushed me to cling on to God during a turbulent period of my teens. I also loved his rendition of “Pasko Na Sinta Ko,” a song that has become absolutely ubiquitous during Christmas in the Philippines since it first came out in 1986. I can sing this song in karaoke, or any of his ballads, like nobody’s business.

“Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” by Starship  

This was Starship’s most popular single back in the 80’s. I was fond of the song, I even copied its chord pattern, but tinkered on the tempo, for my first composition, a love song that I particularly dedicated to a special friend. The song also reminds me back to my freshman days where I was part of a dance group in our class performing an earlier hit of the band entitled “We Build This City,” or other dance tunes of the era like Jane Wiedlin’s “Blue Kiss” and Breakfast Club’s “Rico Mambo.”

“The Way You Make Me Feel” by Michael Jackson 

I grew up listening to and dancing (but to no avail) with Michael Jackson songs. Among my favorites of his many hits in the 80s were “Bad” and “The Way You Make Me Feel.” I will never forget MJ, not only because he was ultra famous as I entered adolescence, but the music he created was imbued with a sense of freedom to express oneself, to move, to shout (Hee-hee! Aoww!), to feel, and to dress, which in some way had given me the sense of what it meant to live in the world. I admire his natural talent as total entertainer, the kind of music he created that touches every one’s heart, and his hardworking attitude.

THERE are other songs that can be easily included here if I would extend my list, most of them beautifully moody music for a teenager back in those days: “Say You’ll Never Go” by Neocolours; “Changes in My Life” by Mark Sherman, “Honestly” by Stryper, “Leaving Yesterday Behind” by Keno, “With You All the Way” by New Edition, and “Papa Don’t Preach” by Madonna.

There were other songs from my high school days that I loved. But the ones I mentioned here could sum up pretty well that particular part of my youth. The fact I don’t listen to them as frequent as before makes them all the more appealing for me now.

TO DANCE AGAIN!

THAT smile full of sunshine. That sparkle of excitement in her eyes. That confidence shaping her moves. Those things I usually see from Roseya before a dance performance.

I was glad they were visible again in my eight-year-old daughter during the foundation day celebration of her school Jocelyn V. Cacas Montessori. She was the star dancer of her Grade 2 class. There’s no doubt that my daughter was very pleased.

It’s a quarter before 1, and Roseya was already dressed up in her fairy costume, white skirt layered with pointed strips, short-sleeved blouse, and butterfly wings. She wanted me to hurry and bring her to the venue one hour before the program (scheduled at 2 p.m.) but I had asked her kuya Nathaniel, who was also a participant in the high school level, to accompany her.

I explained to Roseya that I still have tasks to do at home. With my wife gone, I was left alone to prepare for my three children. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her, but I felt a strong effect on me on occasions like this.

My daughter has loved dancing ever since she was a little girl. She is a natural dancer, she doesn’t require a lot of coaching, and she can choreograph her own dance steps. She was a little ballerina for the past three years, and had auditioned a number of mall-sponsored talent searches and a TV dance contest. She has been invited to birthdays just to showcase her graceful moves.  

Roseya and Mom, 2010

My daughter’s talent would not have been discovered, developed and shown to admiring crowd without my wife’s guidance. Her mom’s plan to expose her early to fun ballet courses had made my daughter a lifelong lover of dance. They had a perfect mother-daughter relationship. My wife was the typical stage mother, who would always accompany our daughter in every recital or dance performance. She was a personal assistant, a make-up artist, and a manager in one package. She had been a part of the equation of my daughter’s early passion in dancing.

But things have changed for my daughter since the death of my wife. It created a seismic shift on her life. She was forced to stop going to her ballet school because without her mom, she couldn’t attend the weekly dance lessons. No more dance auditions for her, too. Her dreams for stardom lain by the wayside.

My daughter was trying to understand our present situation but sometimes, she would ask me if she could continue her ballet lessons. The ballet school owner, a kind of person who wouldn’t allow a good talent go to waste, had offered my daughter a big discount should she want to enroll again in her ballet school. 

Two months ago Roseya asked me again if she could still go to ballet school in the near future. We were in attendance at the birthday party of her neighbor friend who was also her classmate in ballet. Her friend, the celebrant, performed a couple of ballet performances with her classmates that she invited for the occasion. I felt sad seeing her watching with envy her former classmates showing the moves she would have loved doing with them. The ballet school owner approached me and reminded me of her offer. But I couldn’t commit to her nor make empty promises to my daughter regarding the matter.

                                                                                  

The last time my daughter performed a dance number was December last year. She was part of a selection of dancers who represented their school for an intermission number of a district-wide academic affair held at SM Marilao. I wasn’t able to watch the performance because of a conflict in my schedule, but with the way my daughter described it with relish, I felt I was present at the venue, beaming surely with pride seeing my daughter wowing everyone with her graceful moves.

And for this year, I wasn’t surprised when they assigned her again as a star dancer. In last year’s foundation day, the Grade 1 class topbilled by my daughter won the dance performance for Level 1 competition (preschool to grade 3). And the year before that, or when they were in Prep, they won the same competition for Level 1. There was even a joke then among the teachers that Roseya is every class adviser’s lucky charm for the annual group dance competition.

Roseya and the Grade 1 class, 2011

But without her mother around to guide her during the practice and who might have helped in the preparation of their class costumes, I had little expectations this time for my daughter’s dance performance.

Before she left the house with her kuya, Roseya asked her mom’s makeup kit from me. And it took me awhile to find it from my wife’s still unsorted things in the cabinet. Her class adviser, as suggested by my daughter, would be doing her makeup this time. About fifteen minutes later, my second child Dudoy went out the house with his newly pressed polo and an unkempt hair. I followed him after another fifteen minutes or at exactly 2 o’clock.

The sky was cloudy with patchy drizzle when I reached the venue, just about three blocks from the school’s main building. It was an uncovered basketball court with a stage and a pavilion. I immediately saw Roseya among her classmates in one corner of the court. She stood out with her fairy costume and radiant face. Some parents were beside their own children, as they try to shield them from the drizzle. My daughter kept herself near her adviser to avoid being wet.

Roseya in fairy costume with her Grade 2 classmates, 2012

Roseya flashed her toothy smile when she saw me. The drizzly weather and the resulting delay of the program couldn’t dampen her spirit for sure. And during the parade after the drizzle, she was all smiles and she didn’t forget to wave at me when she saw me in the crowd. I noticed that her face and hairdo were not done the way I expected or what her mom would have done to her. She looked plain and simple in contrast to the well-made facial enhancements of her female classmates. But my daughter’s rather shabby appearance, her hair at the back tied up by a rubber band!—was overshadowed by her bubbling aura exuding from the sheer joy of having to perform again.

After a crowd-pleasing dance numbers presented by preschoolers and a better-choreographed performance from the Grade 1 class, Roseya and her classmates had a grand entrance with their own props. But I saw my daughter being the proudest for having again the chance to dance on center stage.

With each pounding rhythm of Maroon 5’s “Moves Like Jagger”, Roseya twirled, leapt, and spinned and jumped. She still had the grace and beauty of a ballerina. Her movement was perfectly articulated by her confident grace. She’s back in her element as a dancer. She was happy because she danced.

And Roseya danced not for the award or recognition but for the happiness and excitement. She danced because she knew her mom would have loved her doing it. She danced to feel the vibrant rhythm of life again. Dancing made her feel free!

The dance number went on without a hitch. All of the performers were good, their props perfect for the concept. But again I was not expecting them to win for their category.

I stayed on to watch Dudoy’s performance in their dance entry for Level 2 (Grades 4 to 6) and that of Nathaniel for the high school level. After that, with three more performances to go, I went home with Roseya. My two sons had to stay to wait for the awarding ceremonies. Dudoy would be receiving his gold medal for the scrabble competition and I asked his kuya to assist him in the awarding. 

I didn’t have to wait long to receive the results of the dance competitions. My two boys came rushing home telling me that Roseya’s dance presentation was adjudged champion for Level 1 and the group even won the Best Costume award. That lucky charm thing was true after all with Roseya, her winning streak now at 3. Her mom would have been really proud.

Roseya was slumped on the sofa for a much needed rest. She’s tired but happy. I told her the good news.

She hugged me tightly. “Thank you, Dad,” she said. I feel I was her mom receiving the warmth of love being reciprocated. I guess, allowing her to dance is the best way to create a solid, trusting, unbreakable relationship with my motherless daughter.

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.