Rizal Ain't My Great-grandfather



'JOSE Rizal sired Hitler' came to me as gospel truth when I first heard the story from an elder when I was in third grade, I think -- but at the back of my mind I suspected it was a myth. It was a sort of urban legend that somehow stuck with me all these years in spite of the many Rizal bios that I've read. It was like wishing the myth was true!

A read of historian-columnist Ambeth Ocampo altogether debunked and dismantled the 'gospel' in its truth, and fortified the truth about its nature: that the story was just a rumor any third-grader who've heard of Rizal and Hitler would easily gobble up.

So, Hitler ain't Rizal's child, eh. And no matter how rumor-mongers would insist on the seeming similarity in genius, height, hair wave, moustache (or, lack of it) the two might have possessed and shared, the story remains just that: a rumor turned urban legend.

Since it's Rizal Day today, we might as well ask: Who sired Rizal? (of course, it's Francisco Mercado!). Better yet, who sired Rizal's father's father's father...?  Ngek! Ok. Not to go down too far, who was Rizal's great-grandfather?

Uhm... dang! Who the eff knows? And, do I myself know who my great-grandfather was? Nah!

In a few years I’d probably be a grandfather myself. It was just ironic that until a few months back, I had no idea who my grandfathers were on either side of my parents. But in this IT age and FB rage, vital info do come in an instant; and if you’re lucky, information comes with a bonus photo!



Lolo Vicente with parents and siblings

 

Cousin Susie dug up the pic (right) with Vicente Calderon, my maternal grandfather, in it. Faded photograph it is not -- it’s just not clear who of the two young men was Lolo Vicente, but my gut feel is that, as cousin indicated, Vicente must be the kid at the extreme right, and standing behind him was  my great-grandfather whatever-his-name.



If this photo was taken, say, in the first decade of the 1900's when Lolo Vicente was obviously still in his adolescence and the Calderon family in their Sunday’s best, the pic gives you a clue as to the Calderons' socio-economic status back then.

It's justified to think that they were most likely, at the very least, of lower middle class -- in those years when cameras and photographers were as rare as diamonds and cutters, and private photo-shoot sessions could have cost a fortune. It seems the Calderons were a small lower middle-class ‘landowner’ family in Lingayen, Pangasinan where Susie traced the family's roots?

Ok, great-grandpa what’s-his-name looks more like an illustrado in this pic, or perhaps a small merchant, a trader maybe (hope not of illegal drugs and contrabands, wink!). It’s hard to fit a peasant persona to the image my great-grandfather in the photo presents. But I wish he was, provided he stood in the line of fire in the Katipunan, or whatever revolutionary group was there in Pangasinan, screaming, "Sugod mga kapatid!"

Or, I might be completely wrong. Who knows? Now, going back to Hitler, este, Rizal....

A. Pope's-traumatic Stress Disorder

(in observance of the Feast of the Holy Innocents) 

Highlights: 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' viewed backwards

Joel Barish:   "Ok."
Clementine Kruczynski:   "Ok?"

@In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells

* * * * * * * * * * *

Joel:    What a loss to spend that much time with someone, only to find out she's a stranger.

O write it not, my hand — the name appears
Already written — wash it out, my tears!

* * * * * * * * *

Clementine:     I'm not a concept. I'm just a fucked-up girl who's looking for my own peace of mind.

Though cold like you, unmov'd, and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone

* * * * * * * * *

Joel:     I mean, she's smart, I think, but not educated. I couldn't really talk to her about books. She's more of a magazine-reading girl. Her vocabulary leaves something to be desired... Because sometimes she would pronounce library... libary. Libary. Libary.... I think if there's a truly seductive quality about Clem.... (it) will carry you to another world where things are exciting. But what you quickly learn is that it's really an elaborate ruse.... The world is a whole goddamn mess! Is it in some kind of revolt? Change your hair color?... No, I don't think her sex is motivated. It wasn't sex. It was just sad... (T)he only way Clem thinks she can get people to like her is to fuck 'em. Or, at least dangle the possibility of getting fucked in front of them. And she's so desperate and insecure, that she'll, sooner or later, go around fucking everybody.

Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join

Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine

* * * * * * * * *

Clementine:     I'm here to erase Joel Barish. He's boring. Is that enough reason to erase someone?... I can't stand to even look at him. That pathetic, wimpy, apologetic smile.

Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief

* * * * * * * * *

Clementine:     Hide me in your humiliation.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd

* * * * * * * * * *

Joel:  It's 3:00

Clementine:      I kinda sorta wrecked your car... You're freaked out because I was late out without you, and in your little wormy brain, you're trying to figure out, did she fuck someone tonight?
Joel:    I assume you fucked someone tonight. Isn't that how you get people to like you?

No weeping orphan saw his father's stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n,
Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n

* * * * * * * * *

Joel:    Are we the dining dead?

* * * * * * * * *

Clementine:     You don't tell me things... You don't trust me?
Joel:  Constantly talking isn't necessarily communicating.

The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind

* * * * * * * * *

Joel:  I could die right now, Clem. I'm just... happy. I'm just exactly where I wanna be.

A death-like silence, and a dread repose

Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws

* * * * * * * * *

Clementine:   Am I ugly?... When I was a kid I thought I was.

The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.

I call aloud; it hears not what I say

* * * * * * * * *

Joel:   Why do I fall in love with every woman I see who shows me the least bit of attention?

I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,

And wake to all the griefs I left behind.
@ Alexander Pope: "Eloisa to Abelard"

* * * * *end * * * * *

Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a severe anxiety disorder that can develop after exposure to any event that results in psychological trauma. This event may involve the threat of death to oneself or to someone else, or to one's own or someone else's physical, sexual, or psychological integrity, overwhelming the individual's ability to cope. As an effect of psychological trauma, PTSD is less frequent and more enduring than the more commonly seen acute stress response. People who suffer from PTSD are slowed by fear, and are oftentimes unable to even leave their home due to to a constant feeling of danger.

The Missing 'Calderon'

Scent of perfumed candles burning. I'm reminded 'all souls' but rather think 'the departed'. Suddenly sentimental, sadness slowly wells up in this blog.

It was probably in one of those years when the mumu and the pheasant were a fading fashion; passe were the bandana and the fishnet, the a-go-go veil and the harana. The mini was in vogue as hotpants was yet to be "in" -- I'm not sure. But the tiss hairstyle gives away clues of flower people and psychedelic colors, yet monochrome was then the usual language of photos expressed by Kodak or Pentax SLRs, bulbs flashed or not. In those years.

 

Photo grabbed from cousin Susie's fb page



So, that's what the picture in this post paints.

And whether in a thousand or in 909 words, it still cannot account for the story behind the black-and-white Calderon Family Picture: scene internal,  old house in Vergara, possibly daytime. Lola Fortunata (my cousins call her Nanay Ata), the matriarch/ mother seated, her children posed behind.

Shot long before the MV Edisco sank off Corregidor and the June-typhoon'd sea snatched Auntie Mameng (second from left) which brought my mother to an almost hysterical distress the early morning radio commentator Roger Arienda berated the lost victims then still being searched for in the waters of Corregidor. I could well remember Arienda's harsh voice radiowaves brought all the way to our Pasig home: "Bumabagyo na nga, excursion pa!" In tears, mother swore not to tune in to the loudmouth announcer ever again.

Same promise to an insensitive distant neighbor, who "guaranteed" that Auntie wouldn't stand a chance against the waves... and the sharks. Already in pain, mother's sobs couldn't hide her subdued rage, and perhaps, my quiet, sympathetic presence  anticipating breakfast prevented her from completely breaking down. I could only sense she was of desperate hope for her missing sister. So the kid that was I.

Back to the family pic. What's missing in this picture? Or... who's missing from the picture?

I'm not sure if Lola Ata chastised her children for going through with the picture-taking when the family was not complete. And if she did, I wonder if it was by the manner which, as a story and as a lecture my mother instilled in us: That, growing up with her sisters in the pre-war years when Lola Ata would at times scold them, Lola would shout out their names one by one, as if on roll-call, for all the neighbors to hear. Naturally, the girls, prim and proper and in pre-war modesty, pleaded their mom that their names not be called out.

Lola Ata for sure  didn't insist on a 'roll-call' before the photo-shoot, even if a daughter didn't show up.  This old photograph proved to be a family picture anyway, despite one Calderon missing. So, who was she?

Name's Lourdes, my mother. And we, her children, called her Nanay.

'Imagine'.'God' -- John Lennon (1940-1980)

EVERYTHING had already been said and written about the man. 'Nuff!  Today's his nth birthday! One or two more words would just spark another thought or two lest the legend far outlive the music&lyrics.

IMAGINE there’s no heaven, It’s easy if you try
No hell below us, Above us only sky.
Imagine all the people, Living for today.
Imagine there’s no country, It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for, And no religion too
Imagine all the people, Living life in peace.
You may say that I’m a dreamer, But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us, And the world will be as one.

Imagine no possessions, I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger, A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people, Sharing all the world.
You may say I’m a dreamer, But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us, And the world will live as one.

GOD is a concept by which we measure our pain.
I'll say it again:
God is a concept by which we measure our pain.

I don't believe in magic. I don't believe in I-ching. I don't believe in Bible. I don't believe in Tarot. I don't believe in Hitler. I don't believe in Jesus. I don't believe in Kennedy. I don't believe in Buddha. I don't believe in Mantra. I don't believe in Gita. I don't believe in Yoga. I don't believe in Kings. I don't believe in Elvis. I don't believe in Zimmerman. I don't believe in Beatles. I just believe in me. Yoko and me. And that's reality.

The dream is over. What can I say?
The dream is over. Yesterday
I was the Dreamweaver, But now I'm reborn.

I was the Walrus, But now I'm John.
And so dear friends you'll just have to carry on.
The Dream is over.

September Storms Damned Them Damasos

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EARLY in the first week, it was the celebrated physicist Stephen Hawking-hogged headlines that flooded the net: "God did not create the Universe."  Hawking says: "It is not necessary to invoke God to light the blue touch paper and set the Universe going... Because there is a law such as gravity, the Universe can and will create itself from nothing... Spontaneous creation is the reason there is something rather than nothing, why the Universe exists, why we exist."

The scientific conclusion that the total energy of the universe is zero  somewhat echoes the (big)bangs that may well lead to a theory of everything  and  consign the god-concept to total oblivion, even if it  remains, for now,  deeply drilled into human heads. As if biologist P.Z. Myers didn't constantly remind us: "Science is godless; we need to embrace that fact."

Second, professor Richard Dawkins turned into a firebrand at a London rally and whipped up a whirlwind that blew the robes off Joseph Ratzinger aka Popeye Benedict. The rally culminated a months-long campaign and clamor for the arrest of the German Ratzi for the alleged cover-up of sexual molestation  committed by countless priests over the years. In his fiery speech, Dawkins nuked the Pope:

"He is an enemy of women – barring them from the priesthood as though a penis were an essential tool for pastoral duties. He is an enemy of truth, promoting barefaced lies about condoms not protecting against AIDS, especially in Africa. He is an enemy of the poorest people on the planet, condemning them to inflated families that they cannot feed, and so keeping them in the bondage of perpetual poverty -- a poverty that sits ill with the obscene riches of the Vatican. He is an enemy of science, obstructing vital stem-cell research, on grounds not of morality but of pre-scientific superstition."

Third, the startling, but not surprising, American headline that screamed: Survey: Atheists Know More About Religion Than Believers. The unambiguous headline speaks for itself. The survey results, released by Pew Forum leads to this great article "The Unbelievable Truth: Why America has become a nation of religious know-nothings" capped by humorous pieces of bitter irony: "If you emerge from seminary still believing in God, you haven't been paying attention" and, "Seminary is where God goes to die."

Oh, we almost forgot what Albert Einstein once confessed: "Thus I came... to a deep religiosity, which, however, reached an abrupt end at the age of 12. Through the reading of popular scientific books I soon reached a conviction that much in the stories of the Bible could not be true. Suspicion against every kind of authority grew out of this experience, an attitude which has never left me."

And it was  Isaac Asimov who said,  "Properly read, the Bible is the most potent force for atheism ever conceived." Surely, who can blame those believers who, deliberately or not, read the Bible improperly, or don't read the Bible at all. Lest they become atheists themselves?  LOL.

Then, on 30 September and closer to home, in the Manila Cathedral at that, one Carlos Celdran pulled a stunning stunt that stung not only the sitting prelates of the Catholic church but also the fence-sitters and snorers among the faithful. Originally, Rizal in his novel condemned the Padre Damaso character for all time; a century hence, Celdran damned latter-day Damasos! 

Still very much in our midst, these Damasos not only threaten fire and brimstone on those who see the redeeming value and liberating promise of the Reproductive Health (RH)  Bill pending in Congress but also deviously aimed excommunication at the President. And what did these Damasos in turn reap?  Storms. Lots of little storms.

The public storm of protests and condemnation continues unabated way into what's usually LaNiña'd October. It has not flooded much the streets yet, but, heaven forbid, it will, soon -- as verbalized rains of blogs and comments deluge cyberspace. The weatherman might as well raise the warning signal a notch higher.

Go hide the children and women, er, no... not the women! They're the primary beneficiaries (the whole country a close second) of this RH Bill, and thus, should be allowed to man the frontlines, and defy the Damasos' call of "civil disobedience" purportedly against the RH Bill.

Hmm... the smell and thought of storming the Bastille keeps nagging. Only this time, Bastille is the Church hierarchy. No, not the Church itself -- I love this institution, archaic and near-relic, yet still of so-so service -- for eventual reduction, re-use or recycling. Sustainable development is the new gospel! And you know it makes more sense.

Imagine the poor women of the informal settlers sector, screaming at these Damasos in the (reversed) Marie Antoinette fashion: Let them eat pagpag!

Liberté! Egalité! Fraternité!... este... Rock and roll!
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'Still Jueteng'

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TILA ba ang  panahunang pagtatalaga ng panibagong gobyerno ay maihahalintulad sa pagtaya sa jueteng. Sa pagkakataon ngang ito'y mas malakas ang kutob mong tatama ka na -- hindi sapat na mamumuro ka lang.

Sa hinaba-haba ng kasaysayan ng jueteng at sa maramihang ulit na di ka pumapalyang mailista sa kartilya ang napupusuan mong taya... aba'y kailangan mo na ngang tumama! Mananalangin ka't hihintayin ang oras ng bola. Maghihintay. Magwe-wait. Magwe-waiting.

Hindi pa yata ako nasasanay magsalawal noong araw ay inuutusan na ako ng Nanay ko na manmanan at antabayanan si Goryong Intsik, ang noo'y sikat na kubrador ng jueteng sa baryo -- tataya si Nanay, syempre.

Bihira lang naman ang mga diyes sentimos na pinawalan ni Nanay sa pag-asang ang alaga niyang kumbinasyon ng numero ay maghahatid ng dagdag na gatang sa nasasaid nang salop ng kabuhayan. Ewan, kung tatama man siya'y magkano... at kung tumama nga siya sa mga panahong iyon, maski minsan lang, ewan din.

Pagsapit na ng alam niyang oras ng pambobola, este, pagbola, ipapaalala ulit ni Nanay na manmanan at hintayin ko si Goryong Intsik, ang sikat na tagapamalita ng kung anong numero ang lumabas sa puring at bago; kung may patama ba siya o wala, kung naisumite ba nya ang kubransa kasama ang iyong taya; kung naholdap ba siya, kung na-raid ba ang bolahan; kung tataya ka ba ulit at ililista na nya sa bagong kartilya ng panibagong iskedyul ng bola-bola ng

jueteng.

Saan nga ba nagmula ang laro at salitang ito? May kapiranggot na artikulo sa Wikipedia na nagtatangkang ipaliwanag ang etimolohiya ng jueteng, may babala nga lang na hindi suportado ng anumang pinagkunan ng datos (reference) ang mga nakasaad na materyales.

Malaon na ngang natiyak na  wala  sa alinmang diksyunaryong Español  matatagpuan ang "jueteng" at kahulugan nitong tumbas sa pagkakaunawa ng Pilipino sa naturang salita. Dekada nang pinag-uusapan ang ugat ng termino at maging ang pinagmulan ng laro-ng-pagbabakasakaling ito, pero hanggang ngayon, walang malinaw na kung ano ang tumama, ang lumabas, ang nag-jackpot -- sa puring o bago -- na saktong kasagutan. Para bang ang lahat ng naibigay na paliwanag ay pawang mga hinuha lang. Para bang tulad ng alagang numero ng Nanay ko, ay, patsamba lang.

photo grabbed from yahoo images




Parang patsamba kong ito: 

Hindi ba't loterya ang tawag dito sa panahon ng mananakop na Kastila at Prayleng Katoliko? At ang loteryang ito'y nagpatuloy at kinunsinti ng mga kolonyalistang Amerikano hanggang may ilang puti mismo ang nagpalaro, habang ang mananayang indio na sabik mabatid kung ano na ang lumabas sa loterya'y sasagutin ng sundalong Kano sa wikang Inggles: "still waiting."

Ayun! Waiting. Nabastardong "waiting" ang salitang jueteng.

Ngayon kumbaga, eh, hindi ang kaluluwa ni Goryong Intsik ang nagbalita sa atin na hindi tumama ang mananayang Pilipino sa nakaraang rehimen -- ke si GMA nga ba ang tunay na lumabas o hindi sa paripang eleksyon nung 2004. Umasa tayong mamuro man lang kay GMA, pero....

Ay. Am. Sori.

Gayunma'y tuloy lang ang pag-usad ng kasaysayan, at ang ritwal na pagsaling-kamay ng bagong gobyerno (PNoy na ngayon) ay, tulad ng dati, mistulang pagtaya sa loterya. Kung nakataya ka, nagbabaka-sakali kang sa pagkakataong ito'y tatama ka na. Singkad na magtatatlong buwan nang walang pugto kang nananalangin, naiinip, nasasabik sa iyong tama. Ang tagaaaal nga naman at parang islomosyon ang hakbang-hakbang na proseso sa paghahanda pa lang sa pagbola. Nakamanman ka. Maghihintay. Magwe-waiting. Magwe-jueteng.

At magwe-waiting nang magwe-jueteng nang magwe-jueteng....

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A Smoker's 'Laban' Diary

(Or, why bother with Noynoy's smoking when you won't get anywhere close to the President's seat and thus spared from secondhand smoke? LOL)

APRIL 1978. Marlboros cost about 7 pesos a pack. Unilab factory work can only afford me Fortunes and tricycle fare to the Pariancillo for the Laban rally, excited as I was to see them candidates, advertised fighters ala Joe Frazier, to come out smokin'.

If Noynoy was already a smoker back then, I surely didn't get a puff of proof of it, as I only managed a glimpse of him leaving the stage, his white t-shirt emblazoned with "Lakas ng Bayan" in faded red. I wondered if his speech agitated the crowd that filled Pasig Pariancillo on that April night rally leading to the Interim Batasang Pambansa elections.

Pinch-hitting for his imprisoned dad in the '78 campaign, I understood Noynoy was the curiosity in the Pariancillo rally -- but I arrived an hour late and missed his campaign pitch. Funny, but as a first-time voter then, I knew I needed no oppositionist speeches as I was already firmed up on writing bold LABAN letters on the ballot come d-day of block voting (which Ninoy Sr. lambasted and pooh-poohed as "bulok voting", and rightly so). But still, I felt I needed to see this and that oppositon stalwart in person.

It was the night and stage of the late Bobbit Sanchez emceeing, but humdrum was Soc Rodrigo waxing poetic. Planas was introduced as "the opposition's Joan of Arc" and Trinidad Herrera as "Jimmy Carter's friend". Huh?? Roces' pila-pila canned comedy piece was funny alright, but painfully hilarious was Maceda's "Dear Kuya Eddie" satire, with a dog leash props that went with it. I thought I saw some beauty who looked like Gina Pareño handing out leaflets from inside her car. And I was sure it was labor leader turned Laban candidate (turned dead NPA guerilla warrior years later) Alex Boncayao who I saw aboard an owner-type jeep negotiating its way through the crowd.

I came... I saw... I raised my clenched fist on that big Laban rally. But the bigger opposition rally, no, the people's rally, would come on the eve of the elections.

We banged and we screamed, we howled and La-ban-La-ban'd, on that one "New Year's Eve revelry in April". Cars and tricycles revved up to the max. Cans plus calderos equals noise. The Metro-wide noise barrage was ear-splitting, specially for someone who's armed with a claw hammer banging at the huge Meralco steel post at the corner of Mendoza and San Guillermo Avenue in Buting. Eiww... where did Lito get that hammer, btw?

Pasig was not on fire, so reported by friends who joined the spontaneous march to Kapasigan. But bonfires littered and lit some parts of the avenue. When the smoke cleared, uneasy quiet blanketed the tambayan as we were exhausted from all the revelry cum rebellion -- then to bed with another kind of smoke we retreated, stoned.

Smooth and sleepy went the morning polls in Buting Elementary precincts the day after. By early afternoon, an invading platoon of white-shirt, maong pants, combat boots-wearing flying voters were chased out and away from the polling campus amid diplomatese and expletives, fists and flying kicks, rocks and hollow blocks courtesy of like-minded barrio toughies and Labanites. Other than that incident, no uprising was reported in the barangay.

So there. In that decade of living dangerously, April 7, 1978 ended rather anti-climactically. Ninoy heard the noise while in prison. Bulok voting was finally understood to be one devious block that thwarted the people's will. A pack of Marlboro pegged still at 7 bucks, but factory work could only afford me Fortunes.  And aware that Marcos' martial law remained enforced, we were consoled by the fact that our collective anger found vents in a political exercise the dictator grudgingly allowed. Paraphrasing an old leftist dictum: "elections opiate the people", addicts and nicotine-addicts slept rather (un)soundly.

It's been thirty-two years as the noise I still make every now and then are mere whimpers. And in spite of numerous past attempts to quit, this blogger remains a smoker. Just like the President-apparent. My President Noynoy.

"Long live smokers!" Ah, we sure do need the prayer. ;-(

* * * * * * * * * *              * * * * * * * * * * * *

Rest In Peace,  GIOVANNI  CHICO, 1958-2010.  Childhood buddy, dear friend.
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Children Devoured

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(on the the 24th anniversary of Edsa 1 People Power Revolution)

"Revolution is like Saturn, it devours its own children."

-- Georg Buchner- dramatist, revolutionary

NOT to add anything more to the long drawn-out internecine squabble and unmitigated violence (verbal, on-print, bloody) defined in each of the kilometric lists of articles, books, blogs, songs and graffiti that celebrate, lament, dissect or eulogize that phenomenon that shook the world -- including the small urban-poor shanty toilet I was then brooding in -- on the Friday night a shot was fired that reverberated mercilessly all over metro, dragging my feet to brave the haze and maze in a sea of people  stranded on  a weekend picnic  along  concrete highway  that  ultimately fenced  two military camps, then lost my voice screaming with militants at the  barricades by the Palace hours before the disrobed emperor fled 24 Febuaries ago... ho-hum.  Oh, well, I have already chipped in some old "Edsa: Pebrero"  lines and I don't intend to weave new ones anyways.

It's a continuing option for scholars and historians and some sour-graping militants to perform autopsy, ad nauseam, on devoured children, er, revolution lost... no, children and/of the revolution. After all, the "revolution has many fathers," whatever that means. Could it also be that the revolution has many coroners?  LOL. But then, what in turn devoured them fathers?   Ah, whatever! 

What have children got to do with power and revolution?  Uhm... let's see:

                   If  A  Child
                by Amanda Cater

If a child lives with criticism, he learns to condemn.
If a child lives with hostility, he learns to fight.
If a child lives with ridicule, he learns to be shy.
If a child lives with shame, he learns to feel guilty.
If a child lives with tolerance, he learns to be patient.
If a child lives with encouragement, he learns confidence.

If a child lives with praise, he learns to appreciate.
If a child lives with fairness, he learns justice.
If a child lives with security, he learns to have faith.
If a child lives with approval, he learns to like himself.
If a child lives with acceptance and friendship...
he learns to find love in the world.

Or, let's hear it from Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,

so He loves also the bow that is stable.  

And lastly,

If I Had My Child to Raise Over Again
 by Diane Loomans

If I had my child to raise all over again,
I'd finger-paint more and point the finger less.
I'd do less correcting and more connecting.
I'd take my eyes off my watch, and watch with my eyes.
I would care to know less and know to care more.
I'd take more hikes and fly more kites.
I'd stop playing serious, and seriously play.
I'd run through more fields and gaze at more stars.
I'd do more hugging and less tugging.
I would be firm less often, and affirm much more.
I'd build self-esteem first, and the house later.
I'd teach less about the love of power, and more about
the power of love.

What have children got to do with power and revolution?  Ah, plenty! 
Wasn't he a parent himself who assured the world:
"Revolution is the midwife of every old society pregnant with a new one" ?

One 'Miguel Perpiñan Bantugan'

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THERE appears to be a considerable number of Perpeña/Perpenia posted on the pages of Facebook, and thus, it's about time some answers are served to long-dangling questions as to why, when, how, from where and whom did this 'mysterious' surname Perpenia or Perpeña originate. 

It's not this article's intent to trace the etymology of the word/name, or seek to discover a Perpena among the list of historical figures, ancient or more recent. Just google the word, if you so need to know.

This blog's only purpose is to share the short stories, informal testimonies, anecdotes and sketches as to how Perpeña has taken roots in the small barrio of Buting in Pasig, that eventually branched out, and now dispersed in  tiny pockets across real earth and cyberspace -- although 'Perpeña' is not as widely-used or as common a surname like Cruz or Santos, Lapeña or Sobrepeña, Peña or Perpiñan.

Woven from threads of stories as told by elders, Perpenia/Perpeña took shape this way:

Then barely past his teens, Miguel Perpiñan Bantugan (who his parents were and if he had siblings: omitted) stowed away from hometown Bagac, Bataan and found refuge in suburban Manila. He enlisted in and served the Filipino Army (Philippine Scouts?) stationed in Fort William McKinley (later renamed Fort Bonifacio) sometime in the 1910's, and there started his original surname Bantugan's mis-adventure, or lost-venture.

Could Miguel Bantugan's claim to neglibile fame as he might have wished was his family name-change? Unverifiable is this anecdote: That Miguel's tiff with his father made him leave home, dropped 'Bantugan' and used his mother's maiden surname 'Perpiñan' instead. Iliterate, Miguel perhaps  might have had cluelessly accepted his new family name inadvertently misspelled, that until now reads: Perpeña.

Also in McKinley did pretty boy Miguel meet laundrywoman Beatriz Cruz Santos, native of barrio Buting, Pasig. A narrow river separates the Fort from the barrio, and as always, waterways are for journeymen and conquerors to cross in pursuit of hearts and fertile lands.

In a barrio whose edge a small river, then undisturbed, snakes by, lover boy Mike Bantugan, aka Miguel Perpeña, sowed terror, er, his seeds. And who in Bagac, or even the stow-away himself, would have had foreseen that generations later, Miguel lagalag would line-up direct descendants by the dozens, bearers of his Bantugan genes identified by his proxy, misspelled, maternal Perpiñan surname:  Perfenia, Perpenia, and Perpeña.

None of Miguel's grandchildren and present-day descendants ever met him. For sure, this soldier-of-fortune's journey from Bagac to Buting was by no means a cakewalk, and as if he heeded the archaic call "go forth and multiply," his progeny today can collectively sigh: "Lolo Migz made it look so easy."

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Isang 'Miguel Perpiñan Bantugan'

Ngayong nakatala ang marami-rami na ring Perpeña/Perpenia sa mga pahina ng Facebook, napapanahong tugunan ang malaon nang nakalambiting tandang pananong sa kung saan, paano, kanino nagmula ang misteryosong apelyidong 'Perpenia' at 'Perpeña' .

Hindi layong himayin ng mensaheng ito ang etimolohiya ng salita/apelyido, o alamin kung sino pang Perpena ang naitalang makasasaysang pigura, moderno man o sinauna. Aba'y may Google naman, ikaw na ang bahala.

Nais lamang ibahagi ng artikulong ito ang mga nakalap na maikling kwento, salaysay, tsismis at drowing sa kung paanong napunla at tumubo ang Perpeña, partikular sa isang maliit na baryo ng Buting sa Pasig, nagsanga-sanga, at ngayon nga'y may salinlahing nahasik na sa ilang sulok ng mundo at cyberspace -- sabihin mang di kasing lawak at popular ang apelyidong Perpeña hambing sa iba pang apelyido, hal., Cruz o Santos, Lapeña o Sobrepeña, Peña o Perpiñan.

Mula sa pinagtagni-tagning mga salaysay ng matatanda, ganito masasabing nagkahugis ang Perpeña/Perpenia:

Naglagalag ang noo'y binatang si Miguel Perpiñan Bantugan (ewan muna kung sino ang kanyang mga magulang at kung meron mang mga kapatid) mula sa Bagac, Bataan at napadpad sa Kamaynilaan. Sabi'y nagpalista at nanilbihan si Miguel sa Hukbong Pilipino (Philippine Scouts?) bandang 1910's sa Fort William McKinley (na kalauna'y naging Fort Bonifacio), at dito na nagsimulang maglagalag din (o mas marapat, malaglag) ang dapat ay "Bantugan" na tunay niyang apelyido.

Anu't napabantog si Miguel Bantugan sa apelyidong Perpeña? Tsismis na ang alitan ni Miguel at ama ang dahilan kung bakit siya naglayas, dahilan din marahil kung bakit minabuti niyang ilaglag ang 'Bantugan' at apelyido na lang ng ina ang gamitin: Perpiñan. Pagkat di marunong magbasa o magsulat si Miguel lagalag, nauwi ang kanyang apelyido sa Perpeña.

Sa McKinley na rin nakilala ni pritiboy Miguel ang labanderang si Beatriz Cruz Santos, taal na taga-barrio Buting sa bayan ng Pasig. Maliit na ilog ang naghihiwalay sa McKinley at sa barrio, at para sa mga mapagsapalaran at masusugid, ilog itong tinatawid  para sa kakamting puso at bagong daigdig.  

Sa baryong ginigiliran ng ilog na ito naghasik ng lagim, este, ng punla, si lover boy Mike Bantugan, alyas Miguel Perpeña. At malay ba ng layás na ito at maging ng mga ninuno niya sa Bagac, na ilang henerasyon makalipas ay aani siya ng dose-dosenang apo na may dugong Perpiñan-Bantugan,  sa  mismong  mga nagdadala o may kaugnayan sa mga apelyidong:  Perfenia, Perpenia, at Perpeña.

Wala ni isa sa mga apo ni Miguel ang namulatan siyang nabubuhay pa. Siguradong ang paglalakbay niya mula Bagac hanggang Buting ay hindi naging madali; at wari'y tumugon din siya sa sinaunang atas na "humayo at magparami,"  at ngayon nga'y masasabi ng kanyang salinlahi: "Parang di man lang pinagpawisan si Lolo Migz."

Yuletide Musings of a Jesus Fan

"It has become a commonplace that, were Jesus to return today,

he would be appalled at what is being done in his name....

We owe Jesus the honour of separating his genuinely original

and radical ethics from the supernatural nonsense which he inevitably

espoused as a man of his time.." -- Richard Dawkins

MOST, if not all, of the earliest Christians in ancient Rome were branded atheists because they frowned on the emperor cult and refused to recognize the Emperor as god, even as many of them were arrested, tortured and killed -- so explained the documentary "Rivals of Jesus" shown in The National Geographic Channel. Indeed, these early Christians were atheists with respect to the Roman emperor/god, gods and goddesses. They were, shall we say,

atheists for Jesus.

Similarly, today's Christians (Catholics included) are atheists with respect to other gods, in the same manner that other religionists are to the Judeo-Christian god. Uniformly, we're all atheists with respect to Zeus and Thor. And does anyone still pray to the Flying Spaghetti Monster? (wink!)

Physicist Mano Singham wrote: "If one asks followers of one particular god why they do not believe in a different one, you will usually find that they argue much like atheists, citing the lack of evidence or reasons for belief. The difference is that they apply the rule only selectively, to rule out all other gods except their own preferred one, although there is no empirical difference between them."

My take on  the foregoing: The plethora of gods ultimately makes a god-believer a theist and at the same time an atheist. If you'd not get schizoid with that...!

However, not a few religionists would argue that no matter what religion one belongs to, and even with the different name(s) for the god(s) he/she worships, these names universally refer to the same and only one God.  Aha! the "only-one-God" with multiple bios/CV's and resumes? Like the three-hundred or three-persons-in-one? Ooh... the latter sounds more like the sacheted Nescafe!

Additionally and not necessarily relevant, what explains the fact that Buddhism does not have a god?  Nothing, none, nada is the same as the Abrahamic God?

Alas, we were all born without faith, without belief, without any clue whatsoever of the god-hypothesis. That's prety clear. It's only when indoctrination started in varied stages of our life in various little and big ways did we begin to consciously or unconsciously adopt the faith in a non-existent god -- either by having that faith slowly instilled in us or forcibly rammed down our throats.

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I can't remember in my childhood when Santa Claus and christmas socks were first introduced to my gullible christmas gift-excited mind; or the moment in our house when I first saw pictures and icons of Jesus' face, as a baby in a nativity frame or as a half-naked man crucified, and to my ear somebody whispered saying he's the son of God.

But I do remember viewing a tv program months after 9/11, wherein a little girl was asked who the man in the picture (Bin Laden) shown to her was. Without hesitation she quickly answered : Jesus Christ.

Pardon the kid, but we're all aware that the popular image of Jesus is so embedded in our minds that many geniuses could see him in about anywhere: From formation of clouds to burnt marks of a toasted bread, from abstract designs of bathroom tiles and soiled urinals to worn out soles of flip-flops. Yet, a National Geographic documentary posited that Jesus may have looked like a dark-skinned, curly-haired, beardless man resembling that of the Judas character in the rock opera film "Jesus Christ Superstar".

Which leads me to gutsily croon this Rice/Webber non-christmas "carole":

Every time I look at you I don't understand,

Why you let the things you did get so out of hand,

You could have managed better if you had it planned,

Now why'd you choose such a backward time and such a strange land?

If you'd come today you could have reached the whole nation,

Israel in 4 BC had no mass communication.

Well, Judas-look-alike or not, Jesus would have topped Google search hits if the net and Facebook were already in vogue when he was rumored to be walking on water or raising the dead in old Galilee or thereabouts. Conversely, if he were to show up in these parts in this post-Marcos era, he would be an admirable heroic human rights activist, and would possibly be listed as a victim of torture (read: crucified), and/ or unfortunately gone desaparicido. Partly because Jesus possessed the radical ethics that Dawkins describes him to have! 

Now, this question intrigued me the happy holidays through: If Jesus were to return today, would  he be an atheist or agnostic, too?  My gut feel: Yes, probably! You know he's depicted in the Bible to have knowledgeably debated with religious elders when he was still a kid. He was, at the very least, a maverick.

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When this blogger was still a pre-schooler, I had difficulty distinguishing Jose Rizal from Andres Bonifacio. It seemed I saw Rizal in Bonifacio and vice-versa. It was only when I was able to recognize the old ('60's) two-peso bill wherein, if memory serves, Bonifacio and Mabini shared 'topbilling' on the banknote, and contrasting it to Rizal's one-peso bill did I clearly define who was who. So you can say that money educates the ignorant about history, and also makes hero-worshippers out of pre-schoolers. And oh, how brilliant was that person who originally thought of deflecting money-worship toward other forms of fanaticism. LOL.

Anyway, my drift here is: To be a fan of popular celebrities and historical figures brings its own strategic reward. A fan values the admirable traits of the idol/role model and perhaps deliberately emulates the latter, and presumably in the long evolutionary  process, somehow  those characteristics  are replicated  in meme-like fashion thereby enriching the human gene pool. Good to know, thus, there are Catholic followers of Martin Luther King, non-Mason fans of Rizal, or Noranian admirers of Vilma.

But I maintain that atheist fans of Jesus must not be confused with atheists for Jesus. You see, I'm no more than a mere Jesus fan now.

Worshipping these celebrities and historical figures as gods is altogether a delusional matter, as one Rizalista cult proves to be no ordinary fans club. Go figure that one female member who was interviewed on TV about her interpretation of the "INRI" that's associated with the crucified Jesus: she emphatically lectured viewers that the "R" stands for "Rizal".  Arrrr...!

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It's Rizal Day, btw, and am flirting still with the holiday muse. I just thought I need to fulfill a "promise" made in a previous blog to scribble about this atheists-for-Jesus thingy. And I don't in any way feel am wasting time... not on Yule, as I always knew:  'tis a season to be jolly!

Now, let's ask Dawkins: What if you're wrong?

Freedom From Religion

"When one person suffers from a delusion, it is called insanity.

When many people suffer from a delusion, it is called Religion.”

 -- cf. Robert M. Pirsig, author of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,"

quoted by Richard Dawkins in  “The God Delusion.”

A CONCERNED friend asked why I have lost my faith.

I said, no, it's not faith that I lost -- I still have it. I still have my sense of hope, my sense of faith. I have faith in my relatives and friends. I still have them -- or I hope I still have them. I have faith in them. They're just around. I see them whenever there's chance, whenever schedules permit. I have faith in them because they are here. And there.

'Faith'? Allow me to quote Sam Harris: "If you tell someone to have faith in himself, that is not to recommend delusional certainty, it is to recommend a positive attitude in the face of uncertainty... We should not confuse that kind of faith with the faith that really is the permission that religious people give one another to believe things strongly on bad evidence" or absence of evidence.

I have faith in the goodness of men/women -- and in the wisdom of a few. I have faith in science. Science explains and gives me a sense of relative certainty, with technology speedying and firming up that certainty degree. A mouse leads me to pages of information and knowledge that click with me. I can rely on this pitiful technological mouse. This mouse, trapped by my right hand, is here... with me.

What I have lost is faith in what is not here nor there. What I lost is the belief in the belief. Believing in the belief in what is evidently neither here nor there has for most of my life enslaved me, confused and frightened me -- and am sure is continually doing so to most people.

Now am free.

My friend asked why I, the prayerful 'altar boy', became an atheist.

Uhm... atheist I am not. Well... almost not.

I'm no Whitney Brown  who gave us this soundbyte: "I’m not an atheist. How can you not believe in something that does not exist?"  Uhm... how's that again?

I'm agnostic... really. Even Richard Dawkins, one of the most notable militant atheists today, considers himself a 6.9 agnostic (or atheist, depending on which end, or any point of the numbered onion skin thread that connects two extremes of opposite certainty you choose to hang on to), with "7," let's say, as representative of the strong uncompromising atheist. Professor Dawkins humbly puts himself in that category for the humble reason that he's a scientist. What science is and what a scientist does, feel free to google.

I'm nowhere near Dawkins' 6.9, although "69" conforms with uncompromising sexuality to which my sexth sense is also nowhere near. Brangelina, the couple, are agnostics/atheists, so is Daniel Radcliffe of the "Harry Potter" fame. (Dang! Why do I need to name-drop?)

Why I became not a "Brod Pitt" but instead a "Don't Taser Me, Bro... Prrrtt" is a long story that I could summarily trace back to the old old angelic rituals of Angelus days.

Anyone heard of "angelus"?

Well, it's when dusk slowly fell, and hi-fi radio sound went like this: Dong!... Dong!... Dong!... Ga...bi.. ng... lagim.... Oops! I mean: "Orasyon na naman... ganap na ika-anim ng gabi... oras ng pagmumuni-muni... blah blah blah...."

Surviving listeners and fans of the late radio announcer Johnny "Wow-wow" de Leon of the old DZXL can fill in the blanks. But I must confess that DeLeon's hi-fi angelus sound of the Angelus hour creeped into my pre-schooler bones and nerves -- it was like the "Twilight Zone."

For the little boy that I was during Johnny's wowowees, Angelus was a wall in our house adorned by crucifixes, icons, statues and portraits of saints that 6 children plus a mother faced, all of us on our knees, with memorized rosary script that we murmurred in unison. No adlibs and alibis allowed, or you'd get beat. Then ridiculed.

Unaware that I was learning not to like the wall and all, the church to me became an extension of the wall, literally perhaps, as the small village chapel was no more than a hundred steps away from the capizeed frontwindow of our house. So you see, if I was late for Sunday mass or refused to proceed for childish reasons such as fever and swollen tonsils, or missed one intentionally, which were rather rare, father was quick to brand me a mason, a moro, a komunista, a Gusto-mo-bang-mapunta-sa-Lulumboy? (do you want to end up in Lulumboy?) -- lost as to who or what 'Lulumboy' was. Oh, the dad might have figuratively or colloquially referred to the Boystown, a juvenile rehab located somewhere in, uhm... until now I can't figure where.

The kind of verbal scares and insults (not including yet the harsh physical beatings) that made the little boy downright confused and subconsciously believed that he was bad -- and maybe as "bad" as a good mason, a prayerful moro, or a productive komunista, while tearfully and painfully listening to the angry gospels according to his saintly child-beating father -- a father, who, like most fire-breathing priests and pastors, habitually make their listeners feel miserable by creating in them a sense of self-loathing and inordinate fear.

Lucky enough I wasn't named 'Lulumboy'.

Catholic grade school wasn't Lulumboy, alright, yet it was there that I got to swallow the teaching that, we, and even newborn babies are steeped in original sin, and thus, deserve to burn in hell.  Eventually, street-honed adolescence and youthful activism made me the wavering believer who coldly despised the wall and churchbell klengs and bangs but occassionally and quietly recited the rosary mysteries and other prayers anyways, that, looking back, were done impulsively out of stress, tension, nervousness and outriight fear.

I must admit that the rosary and some other Catholic rituals, in no small way, helped calm me down. Ala Diazepams they served to relatively clear the confusion in my head, the pounding on my chest, the sweating of my cheeks -- momentarily at best. But the tension and fear remained. Of what, I had no clear idea.

Until recently, by some clicks of the mouse, I came across Mother Theresa's Crisis of Faith, then read Dawkins' "The God Delusion"  and had a clear grasp of what the stress, tension, nervousness and fear was all about.

What diazepam? quietly I asked, smiling, while embedding this classic standup of funnyman  George Carlin: "Religion is Bullshit!"