Bicolandia: Land of the Magayon
Work in progress. Keep posted
Monday, November 19, 2007
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Last Night in Madrid
The cool iberian wind played with my hair as it must have with Rizal’s over a century ago. Very few people here still know his name though it is carved permanently in the marker at Hotel Ingles. Most would probably pass by that place oblivious to the history behind its unremarkable 3-star façade and the noble soul that was once its guest.There at the hotel, over a hundred years ago, expatriate indios from Las Islas Filipinas---conspicuous for their brown skin amidst a crowd of pale faces---met and laid the ground work for the Propaganda Movement against the Spanish colonizers. Time was when the only Filipinos who ever reached this land were from the privileged class seeking higher education. Ilustrados having thus been enlightened, they would scheme their grand plans for their beloved and beleaguered motherland.
These days, Madrid has become just one among the many destinations for the Filipino diaspora of men and women, some already college-educated, most still working menial jobs nonetheless. All bound by a common purpose of seeking fortunes which eluded them back home. From political, the Filipino quest has shifted to economic liberation, a century hence. For all the brilliance of Dr. Jose Rizal, he could not have seen it coming. The fruits of decades of Filipino governments ran like hell.
Generations have come and gone and I’m sure so much about Madrid has changed, I had a sense though that much about this city has also remained the same. As I veered farther away from Gran Via towards Plaza del Sol, I passed by La Mallorquina. I wondered if Rizal ever walked the same path and stopped by to sample their signature crema neapolitana? Did the Lunas? Or del Pilar or Jaena? Did they ever dine at El Botin? Or whiled away the time feeding pigeons at Plaza Mayor? As I do during late afternoons each time I visit and my business for the day are all done.
Too much of my country’s history is intertwined with this place. Somehow, I regret that slowly, generations from the later part of the last century have discarded most vestiges, save perhaps for our still devout Catholicism, of its influence in our daily lives. Español, now considered archaic and passé by today’s MTV crowd, is no longer being taught in school. Spanish-sounding surnames no longer dominate the country’s elite. The Chinoys have taken over. Even our concept of beauty has changed. For example, no longer is the entertainment industry an almost exclusive abode of men and women with aquiline features. It has become Asian, even ethnic in complexion.
Either we have become only too eager to sweep our colonial past under the proverbial rug or we had simply moved on culturally. The three centuries of convent life superseded by decades of Hollywood and now, globalization.
Where I grew up in the residential Sampaloc district, all but a few of the streets which used to pay homage to names and places associated with Rizal and the country’s linkages to Spain, have now been changed---to glorify obscure personalities most likely for the sake of nothing more than mere political expediency. But in Madrid, some of these old forgotten names can be remembered. From Retiro, that beautiful park with its landmark artificial lake lined with alleys---named after each of the former colonies including Filipinas---to Don Quijote and Sancho Panza whose statues can be found at Plaza de España. In addition to streets named after places such as Extremadura, Algeciras or Andalucia or virtues including Lealtad (loyalty), Honradez (honesty) and Sobriedad (sobriety).
During my first trip to Spain, I remember wondering how these people look like. These people whose ancestors once conquered mine and, in the process, left behind their imprint both good and bad. Are they still aware of what had happened? Or has the Philippines become a mere footnote in their study of the past? Just as very few of today’s Americans can still make sense of proper nouns such as Bataan and Corregidor. And just as with most Filipinos today, Spain and its legacies have somehow become ambiguous. Factoids to be quickly memorized only when academically required, if at all, and when the imposed retrospection has served its purpose, just as easily forgotten.
On a more personal level, I recall how I wondered then about the possibility, no matter its improbability, of meeting by chance someone of my surname. Someone with whom I could trace a common heraldry. Not that I had any illusions of nobility for even then, I knew enough Spanish to understand that my middle and last names suggest what could only be their humble beginnings. Even more, both my parents belong to the first generation in their respective clans fortunate enough to finish higher education.
Still, I must admit guilt for not readily quelching from my mind those dream images of that first Cabañes or that first Cabral boarding the galleon---probably as a ship mate or a cook---off to a journey that would take weeks if not months, to a distant and obscure Pacific shore never to return again.
Even yesterday, those thoughts still flashed in my mind. As I fed the pigeons at Plaza Mayor.... As the cool iberian wind played with my hair.... And then I pondered.... That beggar sleeping near the station in Callao...could he be a distant relative? Or did my forefathers acquire their surnames only by decree? The answers may forever escape me.
Still, in these parts, Madrid is my oasis. Nowhere else, in all my sojourns into Europe, have I ever felt more comfortable than each time I stopped by Madrid. Beyond just the usual tourist attractions which are, after all, delightful only during the first (or maybe until the second) visit, the Spanish capital was able to offer me something more. The crafts. The music. The shopping. The warmth. The everyday sights and sounds. The food? Siempre!
The truth is, even prior to coming over for the first time, I had already developed a penchant for Spanish cuisine. If at all, it only reinforced my love for callos, fabadas, the various paellas, and tapas of all kinds. After meals, I would go around the pastelerias or confiterias to sample a bit of everything and end up enjoying most. Even my taste for wine has tilted in favor of the simplicity of tempranillos over the complicated cab sauvs, refreshing parellada muscat over any other whites, and would actually prefer a good cava over your average champagne anytime! Best served, of course, with chorizo iberico, jamon jabugo, or simply tortilla de patatas y cebollas. Needless to say, my trips would never be complete without stopping by the basement deli at El Corte Ingles.
For shopping, whenever my itinerary allowed me to spend weekends in Madrid, I would make it a point to browse the flea market after Sunday mass. San Isidro, the city’s patron is the same as that of my hometown. Often, where there are crowds, there would be caballeros plucking their guitars in a style that reveals the true the origin of those old Tagalog serenades with their pleasantly prolonged and elaborate preludes.
Indeed, Madrid embraces. As it has embraced me with its warm hospitality throughout these years and each of the half dozen times that I’ve had the pleasure of visiting. Yet, even with its atmosphere that is somewhat familiar to me right from when I first set foot, each visit has enabled me to discover something new. About the city. About its people. About my motherland. About my heritage. About myself.
Does my heart belong to this place?
Though my looks are not distinctly Asian, in Madrid, I can deceive no one. At the tapas bar at Las Cuevas where I met up with a former schoolmate who is now a local resident, the accordionist recognized our origins straight away and started playing “Dahil Sa Iyo” much to our amusement. After dinner, we headed off to a nearby souvenir store to pick up a few items and the shopkeeper mistook me for either Chilean or Peruvian.
Last night in Madrid, it dawned on me that I am, after all, still an indio. Regardless of whether I may or may not be a far-down descendant of a peninsulare, that does not take anything away from who or what I really am today. Los señores y las señoritas can consider me an indio anytime. And I say that without any tinge of shame or regret.
If the label puts me in the same league or sets me closer to even just the coat tails of Rizal, Luna, Hidalgo, del Pilar, Jaena, Ponce and the rest of the indios bravos, I should be proud and I am! In Madrid, I walked the same paths these men have once traversed, heard some of the same sounds they heard, and saw some of the same sights they had seen.
Leaving now, I wonder how a place could draw you so close without claiming you as its own. And as Rizal must have felt on the last night he was here, I am excited to be an indio on his way back home.
Copyright ©2006 Ronnie C. Cabañes
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Herald the Bedans Coming
Real men wear red. Or so Bedans love to say. The Araneta Coliseum is painted from ringside to bleachers on all sides by Bedans proudly wearing their school color. This year’s team is probably the strongest in recent memory, sweeping all but one of their regular season games. It has been over a decade since the Red Lions figured in the Finals, almost three since they last won the crown.
In 1978, at the height of martial law, the San Beda Red Lions and the Ateneo Blue Eagles---two rivals with long-standing traditions of school loyalty and pride---bitterly fought for the championships yet once again. With mascots representing the courageous red king of the jungle and that of the noble blue king of the sky, symbolizing what are arguably the best colleges of law and, certainly, the most prestigious exclusive boys schools in the land. Until that time, they were the most dominant teams in the NCAA. These two would often take turns raising the trophy and win it frequently at the expense of the other or while breaking the other's championship run.
And though the crowds from both sides have always been anything but docile, that year, the contest between San Beda and Ateneo was marred by hooliganism so violent, that the final match had to be played behind closed doors with the Bedans emerging as winners and the heartbroken Ateneans deciding to leave the league to join another. I would only watch from the sidelines as these events unraveled as by then, I have already left SBC. Martial law has not been so kind on my family’s fortunes and pragmatism had to take over.
I knew how proud my father was when as a toddler many years before, I was admitted into San Beda. This was his school too. His Benedictine education was his ticket out of life as a farmer’s son from tough and rugged Bicolandia. Being the eldest in his brood, his emancipation, in turn, paved the path---either by way of his direct support or simply by example---for his younger siblings to have a similarly better chance in life. My father and, eventually, two of my uncles gained scholarships playing wind instruments for the SBC band. Because my dad was big and stocky, he would play the sousaphone tuba---such was the load this eldest son had to carry---while his smaller and younger brothers would play the more glamorous trumphet or trombone.
Thus, to my family of plebian origins, San Beda was more than just a school which boys in the clan would attend. It was a school to which we owe gratitude. And this explains, in part, our affection to this small red school in Mendiola.
Earlier on---not unlike most other young boys who emulate their fathers---I had dreams of one day graduating as a Bedan, just like my dad. My early ambition was to become a Bedan lawyer. It was within these walls that I had first learned to aspire and strive in an atmosphere that nurtures dreams and cuddles the dreamer. Within its walls, it didn’t take very long for me to realize how special the school really is. When I had to leave, after 8 years as a San Beda boy, it was not without sadness; even a tinge of resentment perhaps. I could only now imagine how my father felt.
San Beda, just like a lot of other schools might claim, strives for academic excellence. Though only a small college by comparison to many others, it packs a big punch! It clearly stands well above even most of the much bigger universities in the country with a list of distinguished alumni just as long, if not longer. But beyond excellence, few schools---with the exception of the Ateneo, La Salle and possibly Letran---could boast to having such rich traditions which foster a deep sense of pride and loyalty among its students. Traditions which make life within its four walls unforgettable. Surely, some of the most adorable memories of my childhood, some of my most treasured friendships, and some of my most enduring values were anchored here.
“Herald the Bedans coming
may their fellowship never cease...”
For being a Bedan is not just enrolling in a school. It is belonging to a community. It is knowing everyone else and if you didn’t, the quickest way to distinguish your batch from those younger or older is the mere mention of which “this” or “that” person from a markedly Bedan clan was your batchmate. There are whole families of Bedans. It is common to end up with peers whose grandfathers may have known each other, whose fathers may have been classmates with mine, or whose brothers and cousins were colleagues of my own. All reared and bound by the same ideals taught by this institution. The ways of Pax and Ora et Labora.
“...Molded by bold, undaunted men of prayer, work and peace
Through the carefree days of our boyhood
and the visions of our youth,
You gave us the wisdom of Benedict's soul...”
Being a Bedan means being molded by men who were not just teachers who taught, they were coaches who inspired. During my time, Mr. Antonio Isip customarily handed out specially printed cards with a thumbs-up sign and a poem entitled “The Boy I Like”. At the back is a hand-written note professing why the recipient is considered exceptional. Of all the honors and awards I’ve received, that card from one of the most admired teachers in campus is certainly among one of the most cherished.
Being a Bedan means growing up in reverence of Our Lady of Monserrat and imploring the guidance of the Holy Infant of Prague. It means regularly hearing the most solemn of masses within walls of the most beautiful chapel in the world. With a view of the lush gardens of the Abbey and the hallowed courtyard of the old grade school building where the fountain of knowledge is nestled.
At that fountain, I had spent countless hours after school in my early years catching tadpoles and missing my impatient “fetcher” who would leave after having waited for me in vain at the dismissal area. The guards would then take me to the security office where I would cry for the rest of the afternoon until my older sister or cousins come for me. (At least during our time, being a Bedan means the likelihood---as my sisters and cousins did---that female members of your clan would attend the nearby College of the Holy Spirit and they, in turn, are classmates with the sisters or cousins of your Bedan peers.)
In later years, if I were not caught up playing a variety of games with school friends, I would find my way to the chapel after class and there, I would kneel along its wooden pews in prayer for good grades. A habit that would continue well into my college years and beyond, even when I was no longer a student there.
Being a Bedan means learning to celebrate. The Frolics, the Pista and Pasko sa Nayon. Festivities which bring the community together and where everyone, it seems, would contribute as an active participant---not just a mere fence sitter. Just as as every student is encouraged to do so in any of its many clubs or activities. There is almost certainly one for each person, no matter what the persuasion. At SBC, everybody has a circle he can call his own.
And if there ever were scores to settle, there was always the back of the swimming pool where, after you had let off some steam and blows are exchanged, you shake hands with your foe like true gentlemen. Yes, at San Beda, even skirmishing had its rituals.
To be a Bedan meant that among the earliest rhymes one would encounter are the cheers. Cheering is an outlet for expression of love and pride in one’s identity as a Bedan. For who else but a true Red Lion can make sense of “lama-lama-rika-naka-suma” or “alaka-laka-yebo-yebo-rah”? Naturally, rival schools will try to respond in kind. To SBC’s Polly Wolly Wanna asking with unabashed belligerence “We’re from San Beda! Who are you?” Ateneo would respond with its No Name Yell defiantly declaring “We’re from Ateneo! No one could be prouder.”
Even the bands would get into the act. After ours is done playing “Tijuana Taxi”, “Spanish Flea” or the theme from Lucky Strike (informally known among students of yore as the “King Size” song), theirs from opposing teams would play other NCAA staples like “Cerezo Rosa”, “Santa Maria”, “When The Saints Go Marching In”, "Till the End of Time" or even the theme from Marlboro.
But the Indian Yell remains unequalled. The rest of the schools could muster nothing that may even come close to its powerful and rousing cadence. The first few beats of the drumroll, the first few bars of blaring trumphets and the air is charged; the crowd goes wild! As the Little Bedan Indians dash into the center court, tomahawks in tow and red and white war paint painted on their faces, contesting crowds could only watch in awe. Perhaps bellow a few cat calls here and there, all in a feeble attempt to put a damper on the one- uppance. But by then, the Bedan spirits would have already been lifted from whatever depths.
The Little Bedan Indians is SBC Grade School’s single biggest contribution to Bedan pride. It instantly wakes up and rekindles memories of everything else we like about San Beda.
Quite understandably, it has been easy for people from some other schools to dismiss this as petty and parochial. Yet some others, in a rival league where the influence of Ateneo and La Salle have pervaded, were subsequently obliged to haphazardly fabricate their own if only to keep up with appearances, missing the point entirely. For such unabashed and vibrant displays of partisanship cannot simply be driven by “me too” pretenses. Even from the time when the minds are young, they had to be carefully cultivated as outlets for a deep sense of school spirit. Function should take precedence over form, not the other way around. Lest, you end up with crowds where only the cheerleaders are cheering.
When my wife was able to watch the Little Bedan Indians for the first time, she was amazed at how men, from the middle-aged to the elderly, and boys, from tots to twenties, are joined together in jubilant cheer. Indeed, the Indian Yell cuts across generations and brings them together. It captures the Bedan spirit. And for such a small college, she was amazed at how it is able to draw such a huge and enthusiastic audience!
To be a Bedan means that among the first songs one would learn to sing is The Bedan Hymn, sang with the solemnity of a Gregorian chant. “Herald the Bedans Coming.…” At the end of every program and every contest, big or small, Bedans are taught to raise their fists to the tune of this song, no matter the outcome. At San Beda, you take this song seriously or, perhaps, you are not a Bedan at all.
“...When we encounter trials and hardships,
we shall bring you honor and fame!
For nothing but these show our loyalty, clear,
to our alma mater's name..."
To me, The Hymn has been and continues to be a source of inspiration. In the darkest days of my stormy high school years, I was reminded by a beloved Benedictine priest, friend, and counselor of a pledge that I had made earlier in my life. “I will give you honor and fame!” Words lifted from the Hymn. From then on, I have often taken refuge in the words of this song during times of challenges when I most needed motivation. As a working student struggling in the toughest engineering school in the country, as a young professional striving to make a name, or as an expat in a foreign land proving that Filipinos can compete with the best in the world.
"....Bring out the challenges, we'll win them all
and fear neither fire nor blood!
Bedans will answer the clarion call..."
Being a Bedan means facing, nay, even daring fate to bring forth those challenges knowing fully well that each trial and hardship presents, as the song goes, yet another opportunity to gain honor and fame not just for oneself but for an ideal that is much bigger, a cause much nobler than mere self-glorification. As red is the color of courage, Bedans are taught to fear neither fire nor blood. As generations of Bedans have so valiantly displayed and shown the way. For San Beda, our country, and God!
The mark of the lion rampant, invisible as it were to the naked eye, is something that Bedans carry with them wherever they may go, no matter the circumstances. Its coat of arms once worn in our left breast pockets remains etched in our hearts long after we have walked away from the shadow of the obelisk in the sacred grounds of our dear alma mater. Once a Bedan, always a Bedan. It is often said.
It has been a while since the Abbey walls echoed with the lions' mighty roar. The crowd has dwindled not so much because we have lost faith. But more so because the sight our our beloved team losing was just too much to bear. But the crowd is back this year and with a vengeance! "Herald the Bedans coming…" Today, all roads lead to the arena where we are here to cheer our team and renew our bonds of Bedan brotherhood.
As I stand up to sing The Bedan Hymn at game’s end, I could barely raise my clenched fist with my trembling arm. I look around me and I see not a few tears, swelling from overjoyed eyes not unlike my own. Bodies and souls are bursting with emotion. Voices quivering and crackling as we are joined together in singing a song we know so well. One which we've always sung from the heart. It has been so long. And for the great Red and White, so overdue. "Herald the Bedans coming..." Today, we have come. And we have conquered.
I look up towards the bleachers where the SBC band are seated. My father would have been proud if he were here. Our team has won! Suddenly, I see a faint sparkle coming from the flared bell of the tuba. Perhaps, from the heavens above, my father has come here too. To watch and cheer. To lend the conspicuous boom of his instrument to this gathering of Bedans from near and far.
If only in spirit.
Postscript: As the San Beda Red Lions went on to win the NCAA championships and ended a 28-year drought against another team in blue, the so-called curse of the Blue Eagles was now broken. Ironically, the boys from Katipunan, in spite of a similar near-immaculate record in the elimination rounds of the UAAP, would bow down in the finals to the Growling Tigers of UST. It seems 2006 is, regardless of what the oriental calendar says, The Year of the Cat.
In the subsequent National Champions League, SBC made it all the way to the finals for the first time since its inception. Ateneo, however, was eliminated early thus averting a much-anticipated match-up between the red and blue schools as champions of their respective leagues. The Red Lions would eventually square off and defeat the Blue Eagles in the less regarded Homegrown Cup in a battle of teams with depleted line-ups.
Copyright ©2006 Ronnie C. Cabañes
Photos from the San Beda College website.
In 1978, at the height of martial law, the San Beda Red Lions and the Ateneo Blue Eagles---two rivals with long-standing traditions of school loyalty and pride---bitterly fought for the championships yet once again. With mascots representing the courageous red king of the jungle and that of the noble blue king of the sky, symbolizing what are arguably the best colleges of law and, certainly, the most prestigious exclusive boys schools in the land. Until that time, they were the most dominant teams in the NCAA. These two would often take turns raising the trophy and win it frequently at the expense of the other or while breaking the other's championship run.And though the crowds from both sides have always been anything but docile, that year, the contest between San Beda and Ateneo was marred by hooliganism so violent, that the final match had to be played behind closed doors with the Bedans emerging as winners and the heartbroken Ateneans deciding to leave the league to join another. I would only watch from the sidelines as these events unraveled as by then, I have already left SBC. Martial law has not been so kind on my family’s fortunes and pragmatism had to take over.
I knew how proud my father was when as a toddler many years before, I was admitted into San Beda. This was his school too. His Benedictine education was his ticket out of life as a farmer’s son from tough and rugged Bicolandia. Being the eldest in his brood, his emancipation, in turn, paved the path---either by way of his direct support or simply by example---for his younger siblings to have a similarly better chance in life. My father and, eventually, two of my uncles gained scholarships playing wind instruments for the SBC band. Because my dad was big and stocky, he would play the sousaphone tuba---such was the load this eldest son had to carry---while his smaller and younger brothers would play the more glamorous trumphet or trombone.
Thus, to my family of plebian origins, San Beda was more than just a school which boys in the clan would attend. It was a school to which we owe gratitude. And this explains, in part, our affection to this small red school in Mendiola.
Earlier on---not unlike most other young boys who emulate their fathers---I had dreams of one day graduating as a Bedan, just like my dad. My early ambition was to become a Bedan lawyer. It was within these walls that I had first learned to aspire and strive in an atmosphere that nurtures dreams and cuddles the dreamer. Within its walls, it didn’t take very long for me to realize how special the school really is. When I had to leave, after 8 years as a San Beda boy, it was not without sadness; even a tinge of resentment perhaps. I could only now imagine how my father felt.
San Beda, just like a lot of other schools might claim, strives for academic excellence. Though only a small college by comparison to many others, it packs a big punch! It clearly stands well above even most of the much bigger universities in the country with a list of distinguished alumni just as long, if not longer. But beyond excellence, few schools---with the exception of the Ateneo, La Salle and possibly Letran---could boast to having such rich traditions which foster a deep sense of pride and loyalty among its students. Traditions which make life within its four walls unforgettable. Surely, some of the most adorable memories of my childhood, some of my most treasured friendships, and some of my most enduring values were anchored here.
“Herald the Bedans coming
may their fellowship never cease...”
For being a Bedan is not just enrolling in a school. It is belonging to a community. It is knowing everyone else and if you didn’t, the quickest way to distinguish your batch from those younger or older is the mere mention of which “this” or “that” person from a markedly Bedan clan was your batchmate. There are whole families of Bedans. It is common to end up with peers whose grandfathers may have known each other, whose fathers may have been classmates with mine, or whose brothers and cousins were colleagues of my own. All reared and bound by the same ideals taught by this institution. The ways of Pax and Ora et Labora.
“...Molded by bold, undaunted men of prayer, work and peace
Through the carefree days of our boyhood
and the visions of our youth,
You gave us the wisdom of Benedict's soul...”
Being a Bedan means being molded by men who were not just teachers who taught, they were coaches who inspired. During my time, Mr. Antonio Isip customarily handed out specially printed cards with a thumbs-up sign and a poem entitled “The Boy I Like”. At the back is a hand-written note professing why the recipient is considered exceptional. Of all the honors and awards I’ve received, that card from one of the most admired teachers in campus is certainly among one of the most cherished.
Being a Bedan means growing up in reverence of Our Lady of Monserrat and imploring the guidance of the Holy Infant of Prague. It means regularly hearing the most solemn of masses within walls of the most beautiful chapel in the world. With a view of the lush gardens of the Abbey and the hallowed courtyard of the old grade school building where the fountain of knowledge is nestled.
At that fountain, I had spent countless hours after school in my early years catching tadpoles and missing my impatient “fetcher” who would leave after having waited for me in vain at the dismissal area. The guards would then take me to the security office where I would cry for the rest of the afternoon until my older sister or cousins come for me. (At least during our time, being a Bedan means the likelihood---as my sisters and cousins did---that female members of your clan would attend the nearby College of the Holy Spirit and they, in turn, are classmates with the sisters or cousins of your Bedan peers.)
In later years, if I were not caught up playing a variety of games with school friends, I would find my way to the chapel after class and there, I would kneel along its wooden pews in prayer for good grades. A habit that would continue well into my college years and beyond, even when I was no longer a student there.
Being a Bedan means learning to celebrate. The Frolics, the Pista and Pasko sa Nayon. Festivities which bring the community together and where everyone, it seems, would contribute as an active participant---not just a mere fence sitter. Just as as every student is encouraged to do so in any of its many clubs or activities. There is almost certainly one for each person, no matter what the persuasion. At SBC, everybody has a circle he can call his own.
And if there ever were scores to settle, there was always the back of the swimming pool where, after you had let off some steam and blows are exchanged, you shake hands with your foe like true gentlemen. Yes, at San Beda, even skirmishing had its rituals.
To be a Bedan meant that among the earliest rhymes one would encounter are the cheers. Cheering is an outlet for expression of love and pride in one’s identity as a Bedan. For who else but a true Red Lion can make sense of “lama-lama-rika-naka-suma” or “alaka-laka-yebo-yebo-rah”? Naturally, rival schools will try to respond in kind. To SBC’s Polly Wolly Wanna asking with unabashed belligerence “We’re from San Beda! Who are you?” Ateneo would respond with its No Name Yell defiantly declaring “We’re from Ateneo! No one could be prouder.”Even the bands would get into the act. After ours is done playing “Tijuana Taxi”, “Spanish Flea” or the theme from Lucky Strike (informally known among students of yore as the “King Size” song), theirs from opposing teams would play other NCAA staples like “Cerezo Rosa”, “Santa Maria”, “When The Saints Go Marching In”, "Till the End of Time" or even the theme from Marlboro.
But the Indian Yell remains unequalled. The rest of the schools could muster nothing that may even come close to its powerful and rousing cadence. The first few beats of the drumroll, the first few bars of blaring trumphets and the air is charged; the crowd goes wild! As the Little Bedan Indians dash into the center court, tomahawks in tow and red and white war paint painted on their faces, contesting crowds could only watch in awe. Perhaps bellow a few cat calls here and there, all in a feeble attempt to put a damper on the one- uppance. But by then, the Bedan spirits would have already been lifted from whatever depths.The Little Bedan Indians is SBC Grade School’s single biggest contribution to Bedan pride. It instantly wakes up and rekindles memories of everything else we like about San Beda.
Quite understandably, it has been easy for people from some other schools to dismiss this as petty and parochial. Yet some others, in a rival league where the influence of Ateneo and La Salle have pervaded, were subsequently obliged to haphazardly fabricate their own if only to keep up with appearances, missing the point entirely. For such unabashed and vibrant displays of partisanship cannot simply be driven by “me too” pretenses. Even from the time when the minds are young, they had to be carefully cultivated as outlets for a deep sense of school spirit. Function should take precedence over form, not the other way around. Lest, you end up with crowds where only the cheerleaders are cheering.
When my wife was able to watch the Little Bedan Indians for the first time, she was amazed at how men, from the middle-aged to the elderly, and boys, from tots to twenties, are joined together in jubilant cheer. Indeed, the Indian Yell cuts across generations and brings them together. It captures the Bedan spirit. And for such a small college, she was amazed at how it is able to draw such a huge and enthusiastic audience!
To be a Bedan means that among the first songs one would learn to sing is The Bedan Hymn, sang with the solemnity of a Gregorian chant. “Herald the Bedans Coming.…” At the end of every program and every contest, big or small, Bedans are taught to raise their fists to the tune of this song, no matter the outcome. At San Beda, you take this song seriously or, perhaps, you are not a Bedan at all.
“...When we encounter trials and hardships,
we shall bring you honor and fame!
For nothing but these show our loyalty, clear,
to our alma mater's name..."
To me, The Hymn has been and continues to be a source of inspiration. In the darkest days of my stormy high school years, I was reminded by a beloved Benedictine priest, friend, and counselor of a pledge that I had made earlier in my life. “I will give you honor and fame!” Words lifted from the Hymn. From then on, I have often taken refuge in the words of this song during times of challenges when I most needed motivation. As a working student struggling in the toughest engineering school in the country, as a young professional striving to make a name, or as an expat in a foreign land proving that Filipinos can compete with the best in the world.
"....Bring out the challenges, we'll win them all
and fear neither fire nor blood!
Bedans will answer the clarion call..."
Being a Bedan means facing, nay, even daring fate to bring forth those challenges knowing fully well that each trial and hardship presents, as the song goes, yet another opportunity to gain honor and fame not just for oneself but for an ideal that is much bigger, a cause much nobler than mere self-glorification. As red is the color of courage, Bedans are taught to fear neither fire nor blood. As generations of Bedans have so valiantly displayed and shown the way. For San Beda, our country, and God!
The mark of the lion rampant, invisible as it were to the naked eye, is something that Bedans carry with them wherever they may go, no matter the circumstances. Its coat of arms once worn in our left breast pockets remains etched in our hearts long after we have walked away from the shadow of the obelisk in the sacred grounds of our dear alma mater. Once a Bedan, always a Bedan. It is often said.
It has been a while since the Abbey walls echoed with the lions' mighty roar. The crowd has dwindled not so much because we have lost faith. But more so because the sight our our beloved team losing was just too much to bear. But the crowd is back this year and with a vengeance! "Herald the Bedans coming…" Today, all roads lead to the arena where we are here to cheer our team and renew our bonds of Bedan brotherhood.
As I stand up to sing The Bedan Hymn at game’s end, I could barely raise my clenched fist with my trembling arm. I look around me and I see not a few tears, swelling from overjoyed eyes not unlike my own. Bodies and souls are bursting with emotion. Voices quivering and crackling as we are joined together in singing a song we know so well. One which we've always sung from the heart. It has been so long. And for the great Red and White, so overdue. "Herald the Bedans coming..." Today, we have come. And we have conquered.I look up towards the bleachers where the SBC band are seated. My father would have been proud if he were here. Our team has won! Suddenly, I see a faint sparkle coming from the flared bell of the tuba. Perhaps, from the heavens above, my father has come here too. To watch and cheer. To lend the conspicuous boom of his instrument to this gathering of Bedans from near and far.
If only in spirit.
Postscript: As the San Beda Red Lions went on to win the NCAA championships and ended a 28-year drought against another team in blue, the so-called curse of the Blue Eagles was now broken. Ironically, the boys from Katipunan, in spite of a similar near-immaculate record in the elimination rounds of the UAAP, would bow down in the finals to the Growling Tigers of UST. It seems 2006 is, regardless of what the oriental calendar says, The Year of the Cat.
In the subsequent National Champions League, SBC made it all the way to the finals for the first time since its inception. Ateneo, however, was eliminated early thus averting a much-anticipated match-up between the red and blue schools as champions of their respective leagues. The Red Lions would eventually square off and defeat the Blue Eagles in the less regarded Homegrown Cup in a battle of teams with depleted line-ups.
Copyright ©2006 Ronnie C. Cabañes
Photos from the San Beda College website.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Tales of a Prodigal Thomasian
This recollection was first written a year ago right after I attended the alumni homecoming of my high school batch. No less than 25 years after we graduated and a quarter of a century of being out of touch.After that evening, I should be forgiven if the reunion left me, as I suspect it did most of us, so overwhelmed with thoughts and emotions that it took a while to make sense of them all. And at least in my case, it took a long flight from Manila on my way to London for me to give my reflection a semblance of organization and set my thoughts into writing. There were just so many words waiting to be written.
Let me begin by saying that my experience at Santo Tomas deviated significantly from the mainstream and so certain perspectives should be unique to me. In all honesty, I wouldn’t be surprised at all if they strike others as "weird". During the round table introductions at a subsequent visit to the school, I did mention that I probably hold the dubious distinction of being the one who "almost" didn't make it to the current batch of silver jubilarians. That statement provides the context on which these accounts were written.
As this article progresses, it will be increasingly clear why I regard the visual presentation of those images from high school to be not only a nostalgic trip but, for most parts, a revelation as well. Many of the images, as they were shown during the homecoming, I was seeing only for the first time.
Except for initial attempts to be a YDT officer---which quickly turned me off because it required that I cut my hair at a time when long hair was "in"---I was never really a part of any school-sanctioned club or activity. The only times I was ever inside the auditorium of the Main Building was during the early part of first year and finally, during graduation day in 1980. Otherwise, every school program only presented yet another opportunity for me and my friends to cut classes.
In high school, for the first time in my young life, I had the freedom to go without a guardian. And so cut classes, I did. Me and my cohorts. Having just grown our wings, we were eager to fly. No matter the direction. We were young and felt immortal. We proceeded, often without caution, and played ever closer towards bright and dangerous light.
It didn’t help that I entered Santo Tomas with a tinge of reluctance, even sadness that my transfer, in the paradigm of my callow mind, meant that I could no longer follow the footsteps of my father whom I adored. It didn’t help that I was wont to compare my new environment to that which I left behind and it struck me as conservative and fragmented; wanting in alternatives to the traditions and the community spirit to which I had been accustomed. Yet, fate would have it no other way. And I rebelled.
Looking back, it appears that the only talent I exhibited in high school was getting into trouble. By my third year, I was a member of a fraternity. And not just any fraternity. I happened to join one which seemed to be the most pre-disposed to hostilities. In high school, I was ripe for their picking. The fraternity system offered at least a semblance of tradition and pretensions of brotherhood and community.Moreover, where the formal clubs appeared to be reserved domain of the bright boys, the frats welcomed even basket cases like me with open arms. There, I could excel. There, I could lead. It didn’t matter at that time that all these were superficial and, in the end, did more harm than good.
The reunion provided a venue for me to mend bridges and make peace with kindred souls who otherwise would never get into a tiff but with whom, back in high school, we ended up at opposing poles of the juvenile frat wars. From thereon, I it has been my hope that we could remain forever friends.No, I wasn't always an incorrigible student. That was why I was delighted to see batchmates whom I grew up with at San Beda. Witnesses to my metamorphosis from a consistent honor student as a Red Cub into a USTHS wayward. I was equally pleased to see classmates from my much tamer freshman and sophomore years when I was still, relatively, well-behaved.
Yet, for every face I saw, there would be more faces that I would look for. These would include the few colleagues who dared to attend Mapua just as I did. They could have served as my witnesses that there, I did pretty well. There, I would lead the student council and become editor of MIT's own, The New Builder. There, they were witnesses to how I hacked life as a working student struggling to keep his scholarship in the engineering school with--at least at that time when Mapua was still Mapua--- the toughest selective retention systems in the land.
I recall my days with the college school paper and how, without any formal training in journalism, my staff and I would learn a lot from reading copies of other school publications that would be mailed to us each month. This included The Varsitarian. I thought it had one of the most admirable lay-outs among all student papers at that time. I remember reading the name of the Varsitarian’s editor and not knowing for sure if she was a HS batchmate. Perhaps that is yet another indication of how out of touch I had been at UST?
Because up until the later part of senior year in high school, the only girls from USTHS that I personally knew were mostly family friends and relations. Somehow, I went to more parties with my cousins and non-Tomasino friends and so ended up meeting more girls from other schools. School fairs? Except when we were freshmen, I don't remember USTHS ever having a fair thereafter. I do remember attending Sienna's with my classmates every year. And Holy Spirit's because my sisters were there. So too was my girlfriend for most of high school.
As the slide show played on, the images that flashed in my mind included the first few times in my life that I made my mother cry. First, when I got very poor grades in Algebra. Next, when I presented her with a slip from Mr. Tagaro, then the Administrative Assistant for the Boys Sections, asking her to come to his office after I got into a fight. People talk about how USTHS is part of who they are. Well, these events were major turning points in my life!
It was my failing in Algebra under Mrs. Angeles that challenged me take up engineering in college. Somehow, I wanted to redeem myself as I probably did. Algebra was the only math subject I ever failed. Not a small feat considering that I took up BSEE which had the most math. During the board exams after graduation, the math segment was where I got my highest scores!
It took Mr. Tagaro and my class adviser, Mrs. Teresita Taas to make me realize the depths into which I had fallen. From then on, I walked back on to the path that was straight and narrow. By the fourth grading period, my grades would be in stark contrast to those of the first. I guess it’s a safe bet to say that by then, I had the highest marks in class in Physics and Trigonometry. And English Literature? That should already be a given!
Where San Beda gave me William Ernest Henley, Walt Whitman and Lewis Caroll, UST introduced me to the likes of Edgar Allan Poe and I became on a first-name basis with Bill (William to you, folks!) Shakespeare. Though as a recalcitrant teenager, I never really studied and merely went by from what I could recall from the lectures (since I cut so many classes, there wasn't much to recall and this explains my failing grades in Algebra), I kept on reading about history and literature.
Santo Tomas probably had the most extensive collection of literature books in the country and to me, that was a blessing. Though not exactly your garden-variety library-habitue, I did go there. Away from the watchful eyes of my frat brods whom I know would consider it conduct unbecoming. There I would read, one chapter at a time, Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck and Catcher In the Rye by J.D. Salinger.
Quite understandably, during my four-year stay, my favorite mentors would include Mrs. Mañago, Miss Ochoa, Mrs. Gutierrez, and Mrs. Songco. English and history teachers whose inspiration would serve me in good stead at MIT where appreciation for the classics enabled me to earn higher-than-normal grades in the soft subjects, pull up my GPA, and keep my scholarship. Many times, Humanities and related subjects would be my life-savers. Plus, they provided much-needed refuge from the otherwise dull technical stuff.
Sadly, the decision to transfer after high school was also driven by my personal need to leave UST if only to start afresh in a new environment. I thought it would be more difficult for me to arrest my downward spiral had I stayed on. As I chose to enter MIT, I recall that during the admissions interview, the guidance counselor took notice of the poor grades written on my report card particularly during the earlier periods. And then, the huge upswing towards the later columns. Most of all, she couldn't make out how I managed to get such a high score in my NCEE! Neither could I explain these to her. Not in a handful of sentences, at least.
I could not have survived the tough life in MIT and beyond were it not for the book-smarts I developed at San Beda combined with the street-smarts I learned at UST. Traits from the red school and those from the gold were put into good use at Mapua whose colors, interestingly enough, were red and gold.
At the end of almost every semester, it has become necessary for me to haggle for higher grades with a professor or two. This or, if I failed to make the required average, I would lose my scholarship and there wouldn’t be any next sem for me. Negotiating has become the gist of even what I do today in the field of international relations. Skills that had their debut one fateful day inside Mr. Tagaro’s office when I had to give him one good reason after another in a desperate effort to convince him that I should be given another chance. The clincher was this: "Someday", I promised him, "I shall make you proud!"
When I became editor in college, I made it a point to visit Mr. Tagaro and Mrs. Taas to personally hand them a copy of my first issue. If only to assure them that I turned out okay. That day, I recall seeing two boys waiting just outside Mr. Tagaro’s office. From where I sat, I observed how they were talking in whispers and seem to be wringing their hands nervously. I saw myself in these troubled kids. On my way out, I remember asking Mr. Tagaro to take it easy on them as he did to me.
Today, knowing how I had remained so faceless in high school, one might be tempted to ask: was I really there? After our initial contact, I am aware how some batchmates would check and double-check the Veritas just to make sure. They would not be alone in their uncertainty. Until now, in my professional environment, I have always been labeled as a Bedan-Mapuan. Am I really a Thomasian as well? Proudly I would answer: YES I AM!
Because even away from España, UST lingered. How could it not? I grew up in a Sampaloc street where the cross atop the Main Building could be seen each and every day. Like it or not, as a “Batang Sampaloc”, I was bound to have Thomasian sentiments. The school was an ominous part of the landscape that I grew up in. And even if not for the school itself, there would always be old friendships that will draw me back to that time in my life within its space. They are an undeniable part of who I am.
Often, I would miss my carefree days at Santo Tomas. I would pass by it almost everyday on my way from home to Mapua in Intramuros and back. In later college years, I was frequently bereft of jeepney fare and I would walk my way. It was quite an ordeal. As a respite, once in a while, I would take the time to pass by the chapel of the Santissimo Rosario. Every now and then, I would be going out with a UST coed and I would find reason to visit her at the campus. It was always good to get a glimpse of the old school grounds.
Occasionally, I would spend afternoon hours by the football field. There, I would gaze back with fondness at the memory of my first sip of beer, my first puff of weed, my first taste of rejection from a crush and ---what the heck!---even the unexplainable feeling of liberation and anxiety after my first time to cut class. Adolescence was a time for many firsts and it was while in high school that I went through most of them.
It was at UST where I caught my first glimpse of the world as it truly is. The transformation of my sheltered boyhood existence into life in living color. Complete with its ups and downs. It was there where I first learned to embrace change, even if it meant changing my dreams. To realize the hows and whys of adapting to widely heterogenous and disparate crowds each marching to the beat of a different drum. These, I went through at Santo Tomas with friends who have stayed on. Friends who have left. And friends who have passed away.
After the slide show was over, after the chit-chats and the revelry, I was left with a wish is that the bonds re-established and the new friendships made that night would not just be for naught. I have waited 25 years to be back with people who have touched my life in many different ways. I may not have another 25 years left to go. It was my hope that I should not have to wait that long to be with them once again.
Back in high school, we had a song that went like this: "The magic of UST High…" I thought then that it was so cheesy I refused to sing it. After all, I was quite apparently a reluctant Thomasian and most definitely a stubborn Taurean. The magic? I wasn't sure then. But 25 years after, now, I understand.
Copyright ©2006 Ronnie C. Cabañes
Sunday, August 27, 2006
My Place in Pulilan
For each of us, there is a place which has the power to evoke memories from a special time in our lives. A place whose images bring us back to a time of wonderment and innocence, images that have lasted the onslaught of years, impervious to milestones and subsequent experiences which, though they may be more glorious and bold, have not drowned the mainspring of who we are, what we are, and how we came to be.
I had been to many places in my lifetime. My journey has taken me to five of the seven continents covering, as of last count, half a hundred cities in over two dozen countries, clocking no less than a million miles in Northwest/KLM alone. Yet none of these places could take my breath away, make time stand still, and cause my mind to wander off to another time by the mere mention of its name in the way that one small town, not too far from where I am today, can do.
Let me take you on a journey to my special place.
As an introduction, allow me to state that I am a Tagalog. I’ve got Bicolano, Spanish, Portuguese, Malay and (for good measure) maybe even some Chinese in me but for most parts, I am a Tagalog.
Though my province has produced illustrious names including the two del Pilars, Marcelo and Gregorio, Trinidad Tecson, Mariano Ponce, and Pio Valenzuela, among others, it is quite surprising that it has not produced a single Philippine president. But while only few of its sons and daughters were able to ascend to national stature in the realm of politics, it has more than its fair share of artists, writers and poets including national artists Virgilio Almario, Nicanor Abelardo, Amado V. Hernandez, and Jose Corazon de Jesus. Bulacan, after all, is the birthplace of Francisco Balagtas and of the balagtasan!
Let me be candid and say that none of these distinguished gentlemen whose names I just mentioned come from my beloved town, Pulilan. And while some historians place one of the ancient lords of Pulilan as a witness to the inscription of the country’s oldest surviving written record, my town’s hold on the national consciousness is most likely limited to its celebrated fiesta.
As a young boy, I remember peeking through the barandillas below the windows in our ancestral house to watch the old ladies dressed in baro’t saya while they danced the pandanggo and the marching band played folk songs even older than the ladies. In the afternoon during the fiesta, we would all watch the carabaos on parade, with their horns and hooves oiled for extra sheen, their hair shaved in a pattern. Most are adorned with flowers and ribbons and a few would be pulling carts just as fancily embellished. They are on their way to church in the kabayanan where the carabaos would kneel obediently as the farmers and their beasts pay homage to San Isidro Labrador, the town’s patron.
My maternal grandparent’s house, so I was told, is the oldest bahay na bato in our barrio of Balatong, named after soy beans which I never saw ever being planted there. That is the house where my mother’s family grew up in and so whenever we were in Bulacan, that’s where we stayed. Sometimes, four families --including ours and those of my other Manila-based cousins --would sleep there. We would lay down the woven mats and hang the mosquito nets and --presto!--we would all fit in. Either the living room, with its wide apitong floor planks were that spacious, or because we were simply small.
Only its ground floor was made of stone from thick and wide adobe laid down alternately and without steel reinforcements. It was originally used as a garage for the calesa although at the time of my youth, it merely served as a warehouse of sorts for sacks of palay and darak. The rest of the house was made almost entirely of wood from its trusses to its posts, sidings and walls. It was cozy and a gentle breeze would constantly pass through it owing to its large ventanas and ventanillas. Except for the old ivory statue which rested prominently atop the altar, the furnishings were modest and few and so we were free to run and play to our hearts desire without fear of bumping into or breaking anything.
The Cabrals of Pulilan were not at all as prominent as those from neighboring Hagonoy. But in the barrios of Balatong and Inaon where they resided, they were distinct because of their hispanic features. I took after my Lolo Temyong. Maybe not anywhere as handsome but enough to make me my Lola Kulasa’s favorite apo. Especially after Lolo died, whenever school was off, I would be my Lola’s frequent companion. In the summer, I would spend more time in Pulilan than any of my siblings and more than any of my other Manila cousins, in fact.
And so, I would know secrets about that house that none of them ever knew about. For example, on the floor in the bedroom underneath the almario, there used to be a secret door leading to a compartment where two, maybe three adults could squeeze. During the Japanese occupation, it was used for hiding purposes whenever sakang soldiers would inspect houses for guerillas. Lola Kulasa told me stories about the war and how at that time, the ceilings were used for storing rice which was in short supply because nobody farmed the fields. How, quite fortunately, they never ran out of rice until the American liberation.
Breakfasts in the old house are a treat. I can’t remember any place else in the world where champorado could taste so divine. Or carabao’s milk poured onto a bowl of fried rice with daing on the side. The bibingka? Or pandesal na putok generously smothered with butter from that shining red can? Or fried duck eggs? Or ensaymada straight from Malolos?
Although at that time in the 70s, the old house was already equipped with a refrigerator, the old paminggalan was still there and it never ran out of anything that can be pinched and eaten between meals. From the banggeras in the dining room and kitchen, one could see the pens where the chickens were kept and beyond the yard were rice fields as far as the eyes could see.
Kuya Enteng, the youngest of my Pulilan cousins although still a few years older than I, was always assigned to take care of me. (Years later, when he started going to college in Manila, he would shed the “Enteng” in favor of the more cosmopolitan “Vic”.) Together, we would take long walks. Sometimes even all the way to bayan which was at least five kilometers away. Along the road, we would take detours picking caimito or chico where we can. When in season, balimbing and macopa would fall and lay scattered on the ground. Even camachile which I never liked but would pick anyway because Nana Minang, my aunt, likes them.
In May, we would pick common flowers. Anything from kalasusi, santan, gumamela, even kampupot and take it to the visita, the small barrio chapel. Kuya Enteng told me that flowers are to be offered to the Virgen Milagrosa and that in lieu of flowers, one has to pray the rosary where each Hail Mary represents the equivalent of one rose. Picking flowers is a lot easier so that’s what we did.
At night, we would go downstairs to the bodega with flashlights in tow. The best and biggest spiders can only be caught in the late evenings. We were always on the look out for the gagambang kuryente, the fiercest of the various species of fighting spiders, but would take gagambang bahay just the same. We would place the poor creatures in matchboxes specially fitted with compartments separating one from the other. Once, I chanced on a gagambang salapitik which, when I took it back with me to Manila, won quite a number of bouts with rival spiders over a stick of walis tingting.
Among my constant playmates in Pulilan was a neighbor named Ramon who was also a Bedan but one grade younger than me. Theirs was the house in front of the basketball court and since the bigger folks usually played in the afternoon, we’d have the courts all to ourselves in the mornings! Together we would play ball for endless hours chanting Bedan cheers and singing the "Indian Yell". Each time we missed or fumbled, we’d blame it all or make fun of Ateneo, La Salle, Letran or Baste.
When we had enough money in our pockets, we’d drag our sweaty bodies and stop by Nana Celing’s store for “de bote” as we used to call softdrinks back then. My elders would frown on this. They’d rather we drink juice of some kind and they’d make juice from everything. Kalamansi, dayap, guyabano, sampaloc, kamias or santol. Forbidden to eat junk food, our merienda would almost always involve rice or its by-products. Sweet jam or ripe mangoes with rice, condensed milk poured on rice, minatamis na saging or langka with rice, ube halaya or leche flan with rice. Everything was fair game with rice. Alternately, we would eat suman, biko, espasol, puto or leftover bibingka from the night before.
Tata Eseng, being my mom’s oldest brother and patriarch of the clan, would always exhort the bachelors in the family: “Marami tayong bigas kaya’t kung kayo’y mag-aasawa, humanap kayo ng mula sa angkan na maraming ulam.” (Roughly, this translates as: “We come from a clan that has lots of rice so, if you’re going to get married, look for a spouse from a clan which has lots of viands.”)
Each time I had to come back to Manila, it was almost always with mixed emotions. Happy that I would be back with my family and siblings again. Sad because I would be leaving behind all the fun and the freedom of movement which I never get in the city. As kids, we were not allowed to play in the streets or outside the house and we know very few of our neighbors in Sampaloc.
In my early grade school years, I would begin the first few weeks of each school year shedding off the accent that I acquired in the summer. My burgis classmates, most of whom are exposed only to Manila-style Tagalog, found it odd to listen to me speak obscure words they have not heard of. I once recited “Invictus” in front of the class with my impeccable Bulakeño accent and my seatmate thought I was hilarious! Imitation, so they say, is the highest form of flattery. I didn’t think so. How many fights did I get myself into defending the honor of my heritage as other boys get overboard in imitating the way I spoke?
Soon enough, I would get rid of the accent. But the depth of my Tagalog vocabulary and my talent in verbal fencing never went away. Having been exposed to such colorful and poetic language, I can conjure at least fifty ways to say that a classmate is stupid. And while the average San Beda boy could only muster four or five synonyms for the word “ugly”, I could whip up a whole litany of how ugly I think he is and how he got to be so. Haha! Among my pals, I usually came up with the best explanation of why a teacher’s hair was combed a certain way, or why a passerby walks with a limp. I put this talent into good use writing poems in Tagalog for “Ani”, our annual literary magazine.
During schooldays, I would miss the afternoon siestas and the evening stories of kapres, tiyanaks, dwendes and aswangs which the womenfolk never seem to run out of. I would miss lying down on my Lola’s lap while I watch her and Nana Minang prepare nganga. How they would spread the apog and mascada on the ikmo leaf. Cut a piece of hitso using a strangely shaped scissor called kalukate and grind it in an adobe mortar using an oversized bolt as pestle. The rationale they often gave for chewing nganga was to make their teeth strong and this would elicit laughter because my Lola was bungal.
The food too, I would miss. Simple as they may be, such viands as pinangat na sapsap, pritong kanduli, tapang usa, hinalabos na hipon, adobong pinatuyo, even the more humdrum paksiw na bangus, sinigang na baboy or tinapang salinas dipped in halubebay never tasted quite the same back in Manila. Perhaps it’s the breeze. The lawiswis ng kawayan that accompanies every Pulilan mealtime. Or could it be that the mundane practice of putting a leg up on the bangko truly works wonders on the appetite?
And the champorado, I would crave for it over and over again.
It has been months since I was there. Nowadays, my family, my sisters and I would only go to Pulilan occasionally, each year less frequently than the year before. Only during birthdates and anniversaries celebrated at the pantyon where, after clearing vines away from the grilles and cleaning the chamber of dust and cobwebs, we would light candles, lay flowers and say our short prayers. My parents are both gone and at their request, they were buried there at the family mausoleum in the town cemetery beside the church of San Isidro.
We seldom go to bukid, if at all. As my grandparents and my mother’s generation, aunts and uncles, have all passed away and a good number of our cousins have relocated elsewhere, there is very little reason to go back to Balatong. There are fewer and fewer people still left there for us to visit, and we have no more place in which to stay. Though the barrio has not really changed that much (only apparently smaller) and a lot of the houses are as they were some decades back, we no longer recognize as many faces as we used to.
Last time I was there on an errand, I noticed that even the caimito tree where we used to pick fruit is still there. Leaves still dancing to the gentle sway of the wind, branches heavy with ripe fruit, sturdily standing tall inside what used to be Ka Orang’s yard. Should I stop by? But then, it dawned on me that she is no longer there.
Minutes later, with my son seated beside me, we drove pass our old house. I felt a bit of unease as I gazed at that sanctuary which was, once upon a time, so personal and familiar but which today has become so seemingly distant and reticent. There is a longing, an urge to show my son the secret doors, the places where the spiders hide, the rooms and the games we played in each, the stories told, the laughter shared. But that would be next to impossible. Strangers live there now.
And Ramon. My childhood friend and playmate no longer lives in the house across the basketball court. Two decades have already passed since he was shot in the middle of a demonstration at Mendiola a few weeks after former senator Benigno Aquino was himself murdered. Coming from two separate generations, these two Bedans shared the same fate and were both fallen by a bullet. One on the footsteps of a plane that brought him home, the other near the doorstep of his beloved alma mater. Ramon’s tomb lies along the path that leads to our pantyon.
Sad it is to realize that the only place in Pulilan I can still call my own is a tiny plot of land where loved ones I once saw in the flesh, very much alive, and who were all important parts of my life, have chosen to take their final stay. And they who were witnesses to my experience, whose testimonials could substantiate my claim to having once walked the streets and played the fields of this rustic town, they are now silent. Their lips could no longer affirm that I still belong to this place.
But for as long as I keep its endearing memories in my heart and its language rests in my tongue--- replete with its florid and fiery splendor---Pulilan will always have a special place in me.
Copyright ©2006 Ronnie C. Cabañes
Pindutin ITO upang mabasa ang salin sa Tagalog.
I had been to many places in my lifetime. My journey has taken me to five of the seven continents covering, as of last count, half a hundred cities in over two dozen countries, clocking no less than a million miles in Northwest/KLM alone. Yet none of these places could take my breath away, make time stand still, and cause my mind to wander off to another time by the mere mention of its name in the way that one small town, not too far from where I am today, can do.
Let me take you on a journey to my special place.
As an introduction, allow me to state that I am a Tagalog. I’ve got Bicolano, Spanish, Portuguese, Malay and (for good measure) maybe even some Chinese in me but for most parts, I am a Tagalog.
Though my province has produced illustrious names including the two del Pilars, Marcelo and Gregorio, Trinidad Tecson, Mariano Ponce, and Pio Valenzuela, among others, it is quite surprising that it has not produced a single Philippine president. But while only few of its sons and daughters were able to ascend to national stature in the realm of politics, it has more than its fair share of artists, writers and poets including national artists Virgilio Almario, Nicanor Abelardo, Amado V. Hernandez, and Jose Corazon de Jesus. Bulacan, after all, is the birthplace of Francisco Balagtas and of the balagtasan!
Let me be candid and say that none of these distinguished gentlemen whose names I just mentioned come from my beloved town, Pulilan. And while some historians place one of the ancient lords of Pulilan as a witness to the inscription of the country’s oldest surviving written record, my town’s hold on the national consciousness is most likely limited to its celebrated fiesta.
As a young boy, I remember peeking through the barandillas below the windows in our ancestral house to watch the old ladies dressed in baro’t saya while they danced the pandanggo and the marching band played folk songs even older than the ladies. In the afternoon during the fiesta, we would all watch the carabaos on parade, with their horns and hooves oiled for extra sheen, their hair shaved in a pattern. Most are adorned with flowers and ribbons and a few would be pulling carts just as fancily embellished. They are on their way to church in the kabayanan where the carabaos would kneel obediently as the farmers and their beasts pay homage to San Isidro Labrador, the town’s patron.My maternal grandparent’s house, so I was told, is the oldest bahay na bato in our barrio of Balatong, named after soy beans which I never saw ever being planted there. That is the house where my mother’s family grew up in and so whenever we were in Bulacan, that’s where we stayed. Sometimes, four families --including ours and those of my other Manila-based cousins --would sleep there. We would lay down the woven mats and hang the mosquito nets and --presto!--we would all fit in. Either the living room, with its wide apitong floor planks were that spacious, or because we were simply small.
Only its ground floor was made of stone from thick and wide adobe laid down alternately and without steel reinforcements. It was originally used as a garage for the calesa although at the time of my youth, it merely served as a warehouse of sorts for sacks of palay and darak. The rest of the house was made almost entirely of wood from its trusses to its posts, sidings and walls. It was cozy and a gentle breeze would constantly pass through it owing to its large ventanas and ventanillas. Except for the old ivory statue which rested prominently atop the altar, the furnishings were modest and few and so we were free to run and play to our hearts desire without fear of bumping into or breaking anything.
The Cabrals of Pulilan were not at all as prominent as those from neighboring Hagonoy. But in the barrios of Balatong and Inaon where they resided, they were distinct because of their hispanic features. I took after my Lolo Temyong. Maybe not anywhere as handsome but enough to make me my Lola Kulasa’s favorite apo. Especially after Lolo died, whenever school was off, I would be my Lola’s frequent companion. In the summer, I would spend more time in Pulilan than any of my siblings and more than any of my other Manila cousins, in fact.
And so, I would know secrets about that house that none of them ever knew about. For example, on the floor in the bedroom underneath the almario, there used to be a secret door leading to a compartment where two, maybe three adults could squeeze. During the Japanese occupation, it was used for hiding purposes whenever sakang soldiers would inspect houses for guerillas. Lola Kulasa told me stories about the war and how at that time, the ceilings were used for storing rice which was in short supply because nobody farmed the fields. How, quite fortunately, they never ran out of rice until the American liberation.
Breakfasts in the old house are a treat. I can’t remember any place else in the world where champorado could taste so divine. Or carabao’s milk poured onto a bowl of fried rice with daing on the side. The bibingka? Or pandesal na putok generously smothered with butter from that shining red can? Or fried duck eggs? Or ensaymada straight from Malolos?
Although at that time in the 70s, the old house was already equipped with a refrigerator, the old paminggalan was still there and it never ran out of anything that can be pinched and eaten between meals. From the banggeras in the dining room and kitchen, one could see the pens where the chickens were kept and beyond the yard were rice fields as far as the eyes could see.
Kuya Enteng, the youngest of my Pulilan cousins although still a few years older than I, was always assigned to take care of me. (Years later, when he started going to college in Manila, he would shed the “Enteng” in favor of the more cosmopolitan “Vic”.) Together, we would take long walks. Sometimes even all the way to bayan which was at least five kilometers away. Along the road, we would take detours picking caimito or chico where we can. When in season, balimbing and macopa would fall and lay scattered on the ground. Even camachile which I never liked but would pick anyway because Nana Minang, my aunt, likes them.In May, we would pick common flowers. Anything from kalasusi, santan, gumamela, even kampupot and take it to the visita, the small barrio chapel. Kuya Enteng told me that flowers are to be offered to the Virgen Milagrosa and that in lieu of flowers, one has to pray the rosary where each Hail Mary represents the equivalent of one rose. Picking flowers is a lot easier so that’s what we did.
At night, we would go downstairs to the bodega with flashlights in tow. The best and biggest spiders can only be caught in the late evenings. We were always on the look out for the gagambang kuryente, the fiercest of the various species of fighting spiders, but would take gagambang bahay just the same. We would place the poor creatures in matchboxes specially fitted with compartments separating one from the other. Once, I chanced on a gagambang salapitik which, when I took it back with me to Manila, won quite a number of bouts with rival spiders over a stick of walis tingting.
Among my constant playmates in Pulilan was a neighbor named Ramon who was also a Bedan but one grade younger than me. Theirs was the house in front of the basketball court and since the bigger folks usually played in the afternoon, we’d have the courts all to ourselves in the mornings! Together we would play ball for endless hours chanting Bedan cheers and singing the "Indian Yell". Each time we missed or fumbled, we’d blame it all or make fun of Ateneo, La Salle, Letran or Baste.
When we had enough money in our pockets, we’d drag our sweaty bodies and stop by Nana Celing’s store for “de bote” as we used to call softdrinks back then. My elders would frown on this. They’d rather we drink juice of some kind and they’d make juice from everything. Kalamansi, dayap, guyabano, sampaloc, kamias or santol. Forbidden to eat junk food, our merienda would almost always involve rice or its by-products. Sweet jam or ripe mangoes with rice, condensed milk poured on rice, minatamis na saging or langka with rice, ube halaya or leche flan with rice. Everything was fair game with rice. Alternately, we would eat suman, biko, espasol, puto or leftover bibingka from the night before.
Tata Eseng, being my mom’s oldest brother and patriarch of the clan, would always exhort the bachelors in the family: “Marami tayong bigas kaya’t kung kayo’y mag-aasawa, humanap kayo ng mula sa angkan na maraming ulam.” (Roughly, this translates as: “We come from a clan that has lots of rice so, if you’re going to get married, look for a spouse from a clan which has lots of viands.”)
Each time I had to come back to Manila, it was almost always with mixed emotions. Happy that I would be back with my family and siblings again. Sad because I would be leaving behind all the fun and the freedom of movement which I never get in the city. As kids, we were not allowed to play in the streets or outside the house and we know very few of our neighbors in Sampaloc.
In my early grade school years, I would begin the first few weeks of each school year shedding off the accent that I acquired in the summer. My burgis classmates, most of whom are exposed only to Manila-style Tagalog, found it odd to listen to me speak obscure words they have not heard of. I once recited “Invictus” in front of the class with my impeccable Bulakeño accent and my seatmate thought I was hilarious! Imitation, so they say, is the highest form of flattery. I didn’t think so. How many fights did I get myself into defending the honor of my heritage as other boys get overboard in imitating the way I spoke?
Soon enough, I would get rid of the accent. But the depth of my Tagalog vocabulary and my talent in verbal fencing never went away. Having been exposed to such colorful and poetic language, I can conjure at least fifty ways to say that a classmate is stupid. And while the average San Beda boy could only muster four or five synonyms for the word “ugly”, I could whip up a whole litany of how ugly I think he is and how he got to be so. Haha! Among my pals, I usually came up with the best explanation of why a teacher’s hair was combed a certain way, or why a passerby walks with a limp. I put this talent into good use writing poems in Tagalog for “Ani”, our annual literary magazine.
During schooldays, I would miss the afternoon siestas and the evening stories of kapres, tiyanaks, dwendes and aswangs which the womenfolk never seem to run out of. I would miss lying down on my Lola’s lap while I watch her and Nana Minang prepare nganga. How they would spread the apog and mascada on the ikmo leaf. Cut a piece of hitso using a strangely shaped scissor called kalukate and grind it in an adobe mortar using an oversized bolt as pestle. The rationale they often gave for chewing nganga was to make their teeth strong and this would elicit laughter because my Lola was bungal.
The food too, I would miss. Simple as they may be, such viands as pinangat na sapsap, pritong kanduli, tapang usa, hinalabos na hipon, adobong pinatuyo, even the more humdrum paksiw na bangus, sinigang na baboy or tinapang salinas dipped in halubebay never tasted quite the same back in Manila. Perhaps it’s the breeze. The lawiswis ng kawayan that accompanies every Pulilan mealtime. Or could it be that the mundane practice of putting a leg up on the bangko truly works wonders on the appetite?
And the champorado, I would crave for it over and over again.
It has been months since I was there. Nowadays, my family, my sisters and I would only go to Pulilan occasionally, each year less frequently than the year before. Only during birthdates and anniversaries celebrated at the pantyon where, after clearing vines away from the grilles and cleaning the chamber of dust and cobwebs, we would light candles, lay flowers and say our short prayers. My parents are both gone and at their request, they were buried there at the family mausoleum in the town cemetery beside the church of San Isidro.
We seldom go to bukid, if at all. As my grandparents and my mother’s generation, aunts and uncles, have all passed away and a good number of our cousins have relocated elsewhere, there is very little reason to go back to Balatong. There are fewer and fewer people still left there for us to visit, and we have no more place in which to stay. Though the barrio has not really changed that much (only apparently smaller) and a lot of the houses are as they were some decades back, we no longer recognize as many faces as we used to.Last time I was there on an errand, I noticed that even the caimito tree where we used to pick fruit is still there. Leaves still dancing to the gentle sway of the wind, branches heavy with ripe fruit, sturdily standing tall inside what used to be Ka Orang’s yard. Should I stop by? But then, it dawned on me that she is no longer there.
Minutes later, with my son seated beside me, we drove pass our old house. I felt a bit of unease as I gazed at that sanctuary which was, once upon a time, so personal and familiar but which today has become so seemingly distant and reticent. There is a longing, an urge to show my son the secret doors, the places where the spiders hide, the rooms and the games we played in each, the stories told, the laughter shared. But that would be next to impossible. Strangers live there now.
And Ramon. My childhood friend and playmate no longer lives in the house across the basketball court. Two decades have already passed since he was shot in the middle of a demonstration at Mendiola a few weeks after former senator Benigno Aquino was himself murdered. Coming from two separate generations, these two Bedans shared the same fate and were both fallen by a bullet. One on the footsteps of a plane that brought him home, the other near the doorstep of his beloved alma mater. Ramon’s tomb lies along the path that leads to our pantyon.
Sad it is to realize that the only place in Pulilan I can still call my own is a tiny plot of land where loved ones I once saw in the flesh, very much alive, and who were all important parts of my life, have chosen to take their final stay. And they who were witnesses to my experience, whose testimonials could substantiate my claim to having once walked the streets and played the fields of this rustic town, they are now silent. Their lips could no longer affirm that I still belong to this place.
But for as long as I keep its endearing memories in my heart and its language rests in my tongue--- replete with its florid and fiery splendor---Pulilan will always have a special place in me.
Copyright ©2006 Ronnie C. Cabañes
Pindutin ITO upang mabasa ang salin sa Tagalog.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Tennis, Mitzi & Me
Eric was quite surprised when I asked him to play tennis with me that Sunday afternoon. It had been no less than six months since I last played with him or with anybody for that matter. Throughout that long period, all my time was divided between my studies, work, and Mitzi. These days when I seldom find myself unoccupied, maintaining a girlfriend and at the same time indulging in a sport as demanding as tennis is no mean feat. Eventually, I end up making good in one and neglecting the other.
The weather was fine. The sun was temperate enough so as not to hurt one’s eyes with glare when one goes to serve; no strong wind current that may jeopardize the ball’s direction and make it go wild. A writer may liken a tennis game not only to a conflict between two men but also to a classic battle between man and the elements. And just like any other game, the kindness that Mother Time would allow herself to give affects the course of any love affair.
The clubhouse was just a cigarette away from our place. As our car turned right into the parking space, I noticed all the courts were already taken. It was a quarter to five and that’s to be expected. That meant we were in for a long wait. If there’s anything in my life that I hate most, that’s waiting. Just the other day, Mitzi came thirty minutes late for our date and boy, did I blow my top! Mitzi became my girl when we were still in high school and upon graduation, her parents sent her to the States to study and so we split up “for practicality’s sake.” On her return, we found ourselves back into each other’s arms again. Still, she had a lot to learn when it comes to being punctual. What started out as a simple exchange of ungentle words eventually ended up in a bitter argument which saw us turning our backs on each other.
So there I was trying to forget. Tennis is one of the best outlets one can find. Hit the ball hard enough and you can just imagine yourself smashing your life’s problems away into oblivion. If Mitzi and our affair can make me forget the goings on in this damned world and set my racket aside for a while, so can I forget her by keeping myself busy wielding my racket now that she’s gone, so I philosophized. As Eric and I finally had our chance to play, however, I realized I simply can not get my game going. My backhands were a hopeless lot. My forehands were just terrible. My serves almost always land in the net. The first three games alone ended up in the same forgettable score: 40-love. Oh well, life is indeed like a tennis game. The more “loves” you get, the more you lose. Eric could only shake his head. I beat him the last time, you know. “Is something wrong with you?” He asked. I said “No!”
The match commenced in no time at all. I lost. Eric and I took a brisk shower to shed off the smell of sweat. A hotdog sandwich and a bottle of Coke after that saw me searching my pockets for twenty-five centavo coins. I may have lost the game but-- boy! --I won’t allow myself to lose my girl just like that. As I headed for the lobby to get my hands on the nearest pay phone, it dawned on me that my racket won’t help me forget this time. Mitzi was the one who introduced me to the sport in the first place. I dialed the number and it was busy….Darn it!
Copyright ©1984 The New Builder
The weather was fine. The sun was temperate enough so as not to hurt one’s eyes with glare when one goes to serve; no strong wind current that may jeopardize the ball’s direction and make it go wild. A writer may liken a tennis game not only to a conflict between two men but also to a classic battle between man and the elements. And just like any other game, the kindness that Mother Time would allow herself to give affects the course of any love affair.
The clubhouse was just a cigarette away from our place. As our car turned right into the parking space, I noticed all the courts were already taken. It was a quarter to five and that’s to be expected. That meant we were in for a long wait. If there’s anything in my life that I hate most, that’s waiting. Just the other day, Mitzi came thirty minutes late for our date and boy, did I blow my top! Mitzi became my girl when we were still in high school and upon graduation, her parents sent her to the States to study and so we split up “for practicality’s sake.” On her return, we found ourselves back into each other’s arms again. Still, she had a lot to learn when it comes to being punctual. What started out as a simple exchange of ungentle words eventually ended up in a bitter argument which saw us turning our backs on each other.
So there I was trying to forget. Tennis is one of the best outlets one can find. Hit the ball hard enough and you can just imagine yourself smashing your life’s problems away into oblivion. If Mitzi and our affair can make me forget the goings on in this damned world and set my racket aside for a while, so can I forget her by keeping myself busy wielding my racket now that she’s gone, so I philosophized. As Eric and I finally had our chance to play, however, I realized I simply can not get my game going. My backhands were a hopeless lot. My forehands were just terrible. My serves almost always land in the net. The first three games alone ended up in the same forgettable score: 40-love. Oh well, life is indeed like a tennis game. The more “loves” you get, the more you lose. Eric could only shake his head. I beat him the last time, you know. “Is something wrong with you?” He asked. I said “No!”
The match commenced in no time at all. I lost. Eric and I took a brisk shower to shed off the smell of sweat. A hotdog sandwich and a bottle of Coke after that saw me searching my pockets for twenty-five centavo coins. I may have lost the game but-- boy! --I won’t allow myself to lose my girl just like that. As I headed for the lobby to get my hands on the nearest pay phone, it dawned on me that my racket won’t help me forget this time. Mitzi was the one who introduced me to the sport in the first place. I dialed the number and it was busy….Darn it!
Copyright ©1984 The New Builder
About Me
- Name: .
ROCKY CABAÑES has been dabbling into poetry from the time he was in grade school at San Beda where he was first introduced to the works of the literary greats. A few of his own works made it to the pages of the annual literary magazine "Ani". In college, despite his initial ambition to become a lawyer, he instead pursued an engineering degree and graduated from the Mapua Institute of Technology where he became a staffwriter for The New Builder and ultimately, its Editor-In-Chief in 1984. After graduation, his focus on developing a successful career in the telecoms industry---which ran the gamut from sales to business development, corporate planning and international relations--both in the Philippines and abroad, temporarily halted his literary writing. However, it enabled him to broaden his life experiences and perspectives through frequent travel and overseas assignments. Throughout this time,his passion for poetry never waned.
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Previous Posts
- Bicolandia: Land of the Magayon
- Lessons From Kapitan
- Within the Walls
- Last Night in Madrid
- Herald the Bedans Coming
- Tales of a Prodigal Thomasian
- My Place in Pulilan
- Tennis, Mitzi & Me
