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.