RUMINATIONS ON WAR AND PEACE, Prologue to the Essay Reaching for World Peace*
by Blanca Datuin
The Age of Innocence
There was a stream out the far end of a barrio in Capas, Tarlac, where my mother and her brood of three had run to escape from the rumored impending carnage in the town. The water in the brook ran so freely we youngsters took such great delight in floating our little boats down the stream--boats fashioned out of the largest leaves we could find, or some stray paper that may luckily fly our way--on a journey to some secret destination
In our young minds, we rode on a flotilla to the other side of the world, not any which way, if we could help it. For at the helm of each boat was a captain of its own to steer it to its proper destination. In our little world, the stream was a solace, a sanctuary free from the sins of man, the water of peace and beauty. Of course, the river could run wild and the current so swift and strong it could carry you with its flow. Little did we know then what the mighty power of will could do to overcome the current and calm the storms in one's life.
It was the height of what came to be known as the battle to liberate the Philippines from the Japanese in early 1945, a period fraught with fear and uncertainties, not unlike all other times of war among peoples through the years. But for us young ones, that was the age of utter disregard for the reality of beastly acts monstrous men were capable of. We cavorted with nature in our secret world; we pranced with glee to the sound of combat planes above us. We played hide-and-seek, totally unsuspecting of the monsters of war we were supposed to be hiding from, completely unknowing of the price of the peace and safety we were seeking.
Hovering above us were combat jets of both warring sides engaged in deafening dog fights while down below roamed the Japanese soldiers combing the community for guerrillas or any civilians harboring some fallen or wounded American soldiers. Hungry Japanese marauders, on the other hand, were foraging for food, scouring hiding places of civilians for chicken or pigs for roasting. When they came upon us, I remember how everyone held his breath scared to death that the swine hidden in the closet would create a single grunt that would wipe us all. The memory of such is so confounding when you begin to wonder if that porker was worth risking our lives for. The evacuees' elders, mostly women with husbands in the underground movement, decided it was a risk they had to take with all the trust in God they could muster. For it was food for their starving children, a prized source of meat they bought in the black market with a whole sack of Japanese money they had all pitched in. I guess, fear of their young ones starving to death in the midst of that deprivation was far stronger than their fear for their own lives.
The Other Face of the Enemy
Before evacuating from the town plaza where my mother used to run a store, the enemy had stepped in with the full regalia of a Japanese sergeant. He spoke good English and had polite manner, my mother noticed, an indicaion to her that he was educated. He asked my mother where my father was, perhaps suspecting some guerilla in hiding. My mother explained painstakingly that my father was in Manila where he worked as a lawyer. Any adult son? He pursued. Yes, my mother answered, but he, too, is stranded in Manila. Indeed, lack of transportation due to the travel prohibition of the Japanese army prevented their joining us in the province or for us to join them in Manila. Such candid exchange, my mother making no attempt to hide the facts and the officer trusting my mother's words. Better close up, he finally pronounced as an order. Go where it will be safer for you and your children. And he warned us of the imminent violence in the poblacion when the "enemies" return, referring to the Americans. He spoke briskly, but with a kind of gentleness.
(to be continued)
*A rewritten version of the original essay Reaching for World Peace, awarded Second Prize in the 2002 Jose Rizal Memorial Essay Contest in Los Angeles to commemorate the 105th death anniversary on December 31 of the Philippines' National Hero. During the ceremony, the Spanish Consul General Jose Luis Dicenta "reiterated his country's recognition of 'past mistakes' and called Rizal 'one of the most actively independent characters that humanity has known." To the Filipinos, however, this was not enough. Without explicit apology, these are empty words. A grave injustice was done this peace-loving pride of the Malay race when he was accused falsely of rebellion. and executed with dispatch. The wounds of a nation would never heal without, at least, an official apology from Spain.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
YOUTH INVOLVEMENT IN THE FUTURE OF THE WORLD
Facebook notes from my granddaughter, Monica, currently attending the Global Warming Int'l Conference in Durban, South Africa
Monica Christoffels
Monica Christoffels
www.trust.org
DURBAN, Dec 2 (Reuters) - China gave U.N. climate talks a lift on Friday by confirming it may sign up to a legally binding deal to cut emissions of heat-trapping gases, a move that could help rescue talks about the future of the Kyoto Protocol, observers said.
Monica Christoffels
Monica Christoffels
www.nytimes.com
Delegates from 194 nations gather in Durban, South Africa, this week to try to advance, if only incrementally, the world's response to dangerous climate change.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
THE OTHER HALF OF ME
The Valentine That left Ahead
THE OTHER HALF OF ME
(in memory of Wilfrido D. Nolledo, author of But for the Lovers)
Beneath this mound of soil
lies the other half of me,
in wait for this self
still walking the ground
trekked together before, but
now dotted with only a pair of footprints.
I lay the roses upon the tombstone
in a ritual of love, and pray:
please God let him who loved
you continue to love you,
and you who loved him in his life
continue to love him evermore.
I sit awhile on the grass
the well of tears at last
comes unabated, unashamed as,
desolate, I speak to the other half of me,
retrieving images of the past,
the highs and lows of our together life:
the poetry we fed on that filled the soul
as our empty pouches laid concealed in the
richness of our dreams; the hurts we
unknowingly meted out to each other. What are
aches and pains for--that gnaw at layers and layers
of grit--if they cannot unearth the Phoenix in us?
Shared rage against inequity, shared agony
over the cauldrons of war, shared anguish
over injustice, shared dreams and hopes for peace.
Such passion and ecstasy, anger and humor--
all inextricably bound in the mingling
of life’s laughter and tears.
This self must go on through the motions of life
though not quite whole, not quite hale,
for the other half of me is gone.
(How strong she is, people say; if only they knew…)
Tasks must be finished, whatever the heavens drop;
but there is an end to every journey, I, too well know.
Little drops of rain moisten the soil on my other half;
the cold tomb looks up at the endless blue above,
and the earth sucks the tears of the va ulted sky.
I beg the other half of me, be patient, wait for the
Dispenser of Life to fill the tomb’s empty space by your side
and make the we of us complete again. - Blanca Datuin, 2004
2016
I reposted this last year, and then it got deleted somehow. One click, and it was gone. But I'm reposting this old copy this time on the occasion of Valentine's Day, and of Wilfrido's death anniversary on March 4.
2011,
December 19 this year marks our 52nd wedding anniversary, which my children and I still observe even though my husband, Novelist Wilfrido D. Nolledo (of But for the Lovers, Cadena de Amor and Other Short Stories, available at Amazon. com) has been gone for seven years. Ding, as he was known to family and friends, passed away barely completing his last novel, A Capella Dawn.
I usually tend to escape a revisit to the past as it brings back images both joyful and lonely. Was it Alfred Tennyson who said ""A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times"? But I dug up recently this lovely letter from a dear friend while I was sorting old letters from Ding and from close friends. It's from Cora Bisogno, the former Cora Cloma, who was my maid-of-honor at my wedding. It was supposed to have been read during our celebration of our 40th wedding anniversary in 1999 when Ding was still up and about. Cora, however, got tied up with her public relations work in New York and could not come to share the day with us. So, she did the next best thing she could do: send us this letter to be read during the party celebration. Cora is a writer herself but like many of us in our circle of friends who were diverted to other occupations, strayed away from a writing career.
Here is her own recollection of my campus romance with Ding at the University of Santo Tomas in Manila when Ding, newly graduated from the College of Philosophy and Letters (Philet) and I, on the other hand, still a babe in the woods and poet wannabe, fresh from high school, met through a mutual college friend who submitted my first short story to Ding. Those were the years when male and female students went through separate corridors in our university but, strangely, met in co-ed classrooms. (When I think of it now, it really seems so useless, those separate corridors. I don't know if it's still done now.) Even stranger perhaps to outsiders is the fact that quite a few campus romances somehow bloomed and thrived in that university despite the strict rules of the Dominican priests. As a matter of fact, a favorite joke during one of our early reunions decades ago was the dictum that the Philet College, especially, was a happy hunting ground for the right mate. A few I can recall that ended at the altar were Recah Trinidad (to become the famous sportswriter and columnist) and Fe Lacsamana; Neal Cruz (now a long-time columnist/writer) and Marina Novenario; Meny Heernandez (who became a consul) and Yoly Canseco (now a retired GSP National Director); Writer Gerry Umengan and Vilma Dagasuan (to become a magazine editor); Ernie Franco and Cherry Santamaria, summa cum laude of her batch; Rey Vidal and Lou Hernandez; Tony Siddayao and Maricruz Prada; and Eli Molina and Nelly Balthazar; and of course, Wilfrido Nolledo and yours truly. Well, perhaps, our dean, the Rev. Alfredo Panizo, O.P., didn't do a good job guarding us; in fact, we considered him a consintodor and we loved him for it, of course. Ding and I actually met right in the Dean's office, sat at the long conference table there and chatted right under Father Panizo's scrutinizing eyes, he whose office desk was just a few feet away. But he kept our confidences, yes, our beloved dean. (He eventually officiated at our wedding, who else could we have asked?) Maybe, it was his way of looking after his college children; would rather have them in the safety of our school than have them indulge in secret assignations outside. We had a good faculty, too: Manuel Viray, later to become ambassador; Erlinda Rustia, much admired professor whose respect we coveted despite her stinging verdict to those she thought were not called to be writers ("If you cannot write, go enroll at the School of Hair Science," addressed to male students thus eliciting giggles from some); sweet and bedimpled Pity Guinto-Rosales; Primi Cervania (our Spanish professor behind whom we snickered when she would stick to Spanish even when we kept asking one another "what the heck is she talking about"? And Menchit Rocha, a Chabacano from Cebu, would translate roughly Ms. Cervania's Castilian Spanish.
Those were days when courtship was so pristine and virginal that the unbridled generation of today would sadly frown upon. Yet, with Ding and myself, it was a period of getting-to-know each other and sowing the seeds of a deeper relationship beyond the physical and temporary. So, when in the following recollection of Cora, she asks "why did your marriage withstand the test of time," I'll add to her answers that it must have been those school years that we "occupied" the dean's office during my vacant period and had long talks about practically everything under the sun. In baring to me his heart, his dreams, his pains, his art, Ding impressed me with his depth. Here was a man who did not laugh at other people's mistakes or weird appearance, who had compassion and felt the pain of a suffering world, who worked hard (he was already working then) and was willing to give of himself to people he loved, and most of all, knew how to love and respect his mother.( If you want to know the character of a man, I was told, observe how he treats his mother.) Even in youth, somehow I was attracted to those values, and at that time of my young life,I don't remember having found them in the men I had known, probably because of their own youth and still developing personhood. But what touched me most was the seriousness with which Ding pursued me (four years!), yet never forcing me to do anything against my moral beliefs.
Here's Cora telling a part of that chapter in my life. I'm sharing it for whatever insights the youth of today may gain from it. Inserts in italics are mine.
MEMORIES OF DING'S COURTSHIP, an excerpt from a letter from Corazon Cloma Bisogno to Ding and Blanca on their 40th wedding anniversary.
It's amazing to realize that you've been married 40 years! I know few couples who have remained together that long. My parents' marriage ended after 18 years and my own marriage lasted only three years ...You and Ding are blessed to have met in this lifetime. Time may play tricks with my memory, clouding details of remembrances... So, forgive me if I don't do justice to our joint histories.
...We were in college when we met Ding. I believe we were sophomores when you noticed him. I think he attended one of our classes--he was a senior or had graduated already and in fact was in the graduate school at the time. He was the literary editor of the Blue Quill, our college journal--that's how we met him; we submitted poems. (Unknown to Cora and my other gangmates, Ding had been writing letters to me already even before that. I was to take over as literary editor of the Blue Quill two years after, and Ding moved on to become the literary editor of the Varsitarian, the university organ.)
I remember Prof. Erlinda Rustia raving about Ding. He was a big man on campus, soon to become a major national writer... When I met you, I thought you would enter the convent later and become a nun. You were really so pure of heart and deeply spiritual. I had been a postulant in the convent for a year, so I knew I wasn't one of those called, but I thought you were. (Was this perspective elicited by my daily visits to our university chapel together with another close friend, Nene Marquine (now Navarro), with whom I prayed the rosary during our vacant period?) Imagine my surprise and delight when you were becoming interested in Ding.
Your courtship was very quiet and private, both of you being quiet and private persons. How wonderfully astute Ding was to have an insight into your character and soul. With so many attractive and equally talented girls around, he saw your true beauty and looked into your beautiful heart and fell deeply in love. Being shy, you did not gush openly about your feelings, but I knew you were in love, because you spoke much about how kind and gentle and brilliant Ding was. You related the gist of your conversations you two had about literature, philosophy and the arts and subtly gave me a picture of a strong yet gentle man who could dominate a conversation, yet brought out the artist in you as well. Your eventual marriage was a foregone conclusion.
Your lovers' tiffs were brief little incidents that served merely to spice the relationship, add a little excitement and color, perhaps to ensure that a future life together will be interesting and perhaps bring some scintillating challenges. They were perhaps reminders that you were both, afterall, artists with the requisite temperaments to watch out for. The quick darting looks Ding would throw your way when we would accidentally (or were they really accidental?) encounter him on campus or in hallways, were eloquent expressions of his affection. I was thrilled as a happy spectator. (Wow, Cora, I didn't know you took notice of all of that.) How you would shyly avoid looking directly at him, hiding your emotions even from us who knew. How young and innocent we all were.
Your wedding day itself is a hazy memory now, as I have seen so many weddings of family and friends in the eternity of 40 years... All I can remember is that you were a pair who looked perfect together and everybody had a sense of that "happily ever after" feeling...
(Ah, walking down the aisle in a traje de boda designed and sewn by no less than the genius poet and dramatist Rolando Tinio, later to become a Philippine National Artist, and Ding in his immaculately white suit I suspected he felt uncomfortable in because he hated formal suits so.)
I felt I was embarking on a new relationship of having to share your friendship with Ding. But I was very happy for you. Now all I had to do was wait to become an extended member of your new family as an "aunt" to your future children. We kept in touch. You did not allow our friendship to become a casualty of your new life... then Ding received a grant from the U.S. Embassy to come and study in America. (Ding was actually invited to the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa, that was followed by four consecutive grants.) With children you were off to a new adventure of raising a growing family as Ding's writing career flourished.. Then our paths led to different directions as I myself immigrated later to America and started a new life. Years later we reconnected when you had a brief stint here in New York as an associate editor. We have continued communicating with each other since then though you had gone back to California to be with your children and then to Manila to get Ding to join your children.
Why did your marriage withstand the test of time? It is not just love you have for each other but respect and friendship as well. Even as you raised your children, Ding and you have been partners who have kept pace with each other. Perhaps you compromised a little by encouraging his career more than yours, but your reward has been his love and loyalty to you. You share common interests, you have grown and evolved together. You continue to fascinate each other. You are true to yourselves and live very simply. Our friendship is like your marriage, in a way. It doesn't go out of style. Forty years later, I have no doubt we can pick up where we left off the last time we saw each other, for we would still hold similar interests and values.
So, congratulations as you celebrate with your children, grandchildren and friends. I regret I cannot be there to share your joy. But my thoughts and my love are with you.
Cora
The Empty Nest
The little rascals are gone,
the Christmas tree dismantled,
the fine china back in the cupboard,
the cushions neatly resting in the sofa,
the gifts unwrapped, the loot hauled away.
Silence, emptiness fill the house, no longer a home.
One would give the world to have them back.
- Blanca Datuin,1999
Friday, November 11, 2011
Overcoming the Drought
RE-POSTING FROM THE ARCHIVE -
Almost two decades ago, on a cold December night, I drove to Los Angeles, telling my family I was just going to a meeting. In truth, I was going to receive an award from the Jose Rizal Memorial Organization in the U.S. for my essay, "Reaching for World Peace." It was a long drive and a courageous one at that, because I had to do the side streets since I had already stopped doing the freeway. Why the secrecy? I didn't think it should be fussed over. As my son Ruel would say of his own achievements, "No big deal."
I had kept my writing a secret as much as I could, so fearful was I of paling in comparison with my husband, a mogul in writing even while still on campus where we both met. It would hurt him that I should even feel that way, for he so much would have been supportive. But that's just it--our being so close in affinity would endanger my sense of identity and freedom. As it was, even the title of one of the few stories I had written after marriage was already influenced by our common love for Dylan Thomas: Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
When Ding (as he was known by his close friends) first left for Iowa University on a grant in 1965, I escaped from my loneliness upon being left alone in the Philippines by writing a short story, Go Gentle into that Good Night, published in the Philippines' Weekly Nation Magazine and then winning its Short Story of the Month Contest. It was my maiden name I used and the chairman of the Board of Judges, National Artist N.V.M. Gonzales, thinking that was my married surname, referred to me in his write-up as Mrs. Datuin, having seen me heavy with child when I claimed payment for the published work. (In those times, single mothers were not in vogue, so if you're pregnant, you must be married and if you're married you must be carrying the last name of your husband. I chose to separate my writing identity.)
In his comment on the decision, N.V.M. Gonzales wrote: "The tone and delicate handling of Mrs. Datuin's material are most remarkable especially considering the requirements which her subject calls for. It is for this that her story will be memorable to many readers."
Meeting NVM face to face thirty-two years after, during a parangal party for him in North Hollywood as hosted by Linda Nietes of Casa Linda Bookstore, I introduced myself as an author of a short story he had voted for as Short Story of the Month. His first question was "Have you written since then?" When I answered no, his reaction was, "Why did you stop writing?" How could I explain to him the years of childbearing and child-rearing when my husband, family and earning a living came first and ahead of any creative functioning. Ideas would come out like flashes of lightning when you're in the middle of laundering, cooking, teaching and then you cannot sit down and germinate them. It's like aborting babies that you desperately want to give birth to. Actually, I had written and published two other stories after that: Light to Last (Philippines Free Press), Bury Me in Santo Domingo (Weekend Magazine), and a few magazine articles.
Indulging in art is a selfish occupation: you tend to neglect your mundane obligations, in fact, even your own self. My husband had admitted to such as though a way of apologizing, which he didn't have to do, as I understood fully well the nature of his occupation. and his need to give that God-given talent to the outside world. I had seen him work clicky-clack on his Hermes typewriter till the wee hours of the morning, and all I could help him with was look after his health and serve tea and sympathy. Though I insisted he needed sleep, he couldn't resist that urge to put into writing those words and ideas that haunted him no end. When he had to submit his works for a literary competition, I took care of arranging the pages, putting them together with fasteners and stacking them in those big brown envelopes, making sure that the real name was in a separate sealed envelope. Authors' names were always anonymous. Receiving that long-awaited letter announcing his having won the competition was a welcome consolation for those long hours of writing.
But I digress too much. All I meant to do was share an excerpt from my essay, "Reaching for World Peace," which I would do for my next post.
Almost two decades ago, on a cold December night, I drove to Los Angeles, telling my family I was just going to a meeting. In truth, I was going to receive an award from the Jose Rizal Memorial Organization in the U.S. for my essay, "Reaching for World Peace." It was a long drive and a courageous one at that, because I had to do the side streets since I had already stopped doing the freeway. Why the secrecy? I didn't think it should be fussed over. As my son Ruel would say of his own achievements, "No big deal."
I had kept my writing a secret as much as I could, so fearful was I of paling in comparison with my husband, a mogul in writing even while still on campus where we both met. It would hurt him that I should even feel that way, for he so much would have been supportive. But that's just it--our being so close in affinity would endanger my sense of identity and freedom. As it was, even the title of one of the few stories I had written after marriage was already influenced by our common love for Dylan Thomas: Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
When Ding (as he was known by his close friends) first left for Iowa University on a grant in 1965, I escaped from my loneliness upon being left alone in the Philippines by writing a short story, Go Gentle into that Good Night, published in the Philippines' Weekly Nation Magazine and then winning its Short Story of the Month Contest. It was my maiden name I used and the chairman of the Board of Judges, National Artist N.V.M. Gonzales, thinking that was my married surname, referred to me in his write-up as Mrs. Datuin, having seen me heavy with child when I claimed payment for the published work. (In those times, single mothers were not in vogue, so if you're pregnant, you must be married and if you're married you must be carrying the last name of your husband. I chose to separate my writing identity.)
In his comment on the decision, N.V.M. Gonzales wrote: "The tone and delicate handling of Mrs. Datuin's material are most remarkable especially considering the requirements which her subject calls for. It is for this that her story will be memorable to many readers."
Meeting NVM face to face thirty-two years after, during a parangal party for him in North Hollywood as hosted by Linda Nietes of Casa Linda Bookstore, I introduced myself as an author of a short story he had voted for as Short Story of the Month. His first question was "Have you written since then?" When I answered no, his reaction was, "Why did you stop writing?" How could I explain to him the years of childbearing and child-rearing when my husband, family and earning a living came first and ahead of any creative functioning. Ideas would come out like flashes of lightning when you're in the middle of laundering, cooking, teaching and then you cannot sit down and germinate them. It's like aborting babies that you desperately want to give birth to. Actually, I had written and published two other stories after that: Light to Last (Philippines Free Press), Bury Me in Santo Domingo (Weekend Magazine), and a few magazine articles.
Indulging in art is a selfish occupation: you tend to neglect your mundane obligations, in fact, even your own self. My husband had admitted to such as though a way of apologizing, which he didn't have to do, as I understood fully well the nature of his occupation. and his need to give that God-given talent to the outside world. I had seen him work clicky-clack on his Hermes typewriter till the wee hours of the morning, and all I could help him with was look after his health and serve tea and sympathy. Though I insisted he needed sleep, he couldn't resist that urge to put into writing those words and ideas that haunted him no end. When he had to submit his works for a literary competition, I took care of arranging the pages, putting them together with fasteners and stacking them in those big brown envelopes, making sure that the real name was in a separate sealed envelope. Authors' names were always anonymous. Receiving that long-awaited letter announcing his having won the competition was a welcome consolation for those long hours of writing.
But I digress too much. All I meant to do was share an excerpt from my essay, "Reaching for World Peace," which I would do for my next post.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Touched by Kindness and Humility
REPOSTING THESE REFLECTIONS AS WE ARE REMINDED OF THE HUMILITY OF THE PUBLICAN IN THE GOSPEL TODAY, October 27, 2019, 13th Sunday in Ordinary Time
October 9, 2011
Many days there are in our daily life when we witness kindness and humility of those who rank higher than we are and at other times, of ordinary people like us. In today's bustling world, when everyone, it seems, is glued to one's cellphone chatting no end, or eyes focused on iphones--whoever takes notice of the kindness of strangers, the nobility of a humble act? Golden nuggets passed by unnoticed, taken for granted, ignored as though insignificant acts. No big deal, one would say. Yet, they are, at least to me. As a poet once said, how beautiful a day can be when kindness touches it, (and a simple act of humility, I must add, raises it to one of nobility).
Yesterday I witnessed something that touched my heart and later, when I was alone and recalled it, brought a lump in my throat and felt humbled by it. It was our parish' day of receiving the statue of Our Lady of Fatima for the Living Rosary Crusade that has been going around the world to pray for world peace. After a few days of intermittent downpour, the morning suddenly shone with perfect brightness. How good is the Divine Providence to let the sun shine to welcome Mary's devotees. As I was busy doing my tasks of greeting the throng of parents and youngsters and distributing the day's program, I noticed some parishioners staring at some feces down the church steppe, which I could only guess was left by a child who couldn't hold it anymore. Not wearing a Pamper in this age of throw-aways? Or, could it have been dung left by some pets? Because, earlier there were a lot of animals brought by their owners for the annual Blessing of the Animals Day ceremony out in the church patio. I didn't see the actual act of emission, so I had no way of knowing.
Anyway, two thoughtful persons tried to cover the waste with tissue paper while the rest just stood, staring at it like a sacred piece of clay. Father Preston Passos, our parish administrator, happened to be passing by perhaps to start greeting the church-goers and seeing about the organizing tasks. Seeing what everyone was staring at, he went back to the rectory and and returned in no time, dustpan and broom in hand. Without much ado, he scooped the unwanted specimen, threw it away in the trash and wiped the remains with paper towel. Then and only then did a parish personnel standing by came to the rescue and took over. But it took our beloved pastor to initiate it. Here is the perfect picture of a man of God in his black priestly cassock bending to do the task everyone else appeared helpless to accomplish.
I don't know how many other times Father Preston had shown such kindness and humility (perhaps it's second nature to him), but I can mention another occasion. Parish desk person Patty Yaque and I were struggling to hang up a class banner on one side of the fence facing our parish school street. Classes had not begun and thus, no student was around to help us. The parish maintenance officer was already gone; so was the gardener. Poor Patti Yaque was the only one left to help me as Father Rodolfo had suggested. Then out of nowhere came the Rev. Preston who would be the last person I would ask for help, knowing how knee-deep he is in dealing with an avalanche of paperwork as our church administrator. Patti must have told him we would be out there to hang a banner as a way of explaining her absence at the desk she was supposed to man. Quietly, without a word, Father Preston stretched the banner, tied to the fence one end as Patty, up in a ladder, held the other end. (No, Father Preston, being tall, didn't need a ladder.) In a jiffy, the job was finished, and after expressing satisfaction about the banner, he walked back to the Rectory to attend to what I imagined his flood of paperwork.
October 10, 2011
Today is my RCIA class at Our Lady of Peace. At exactly 8:30 A.M., all my students were there at the entrance of the parish convent where we were supposed to hold the class. It was a joy seeing them come en masse like that because it's not every Sunday all are in full attendance. Melissa, Ricardo, Rosie, Guadalupe, Janet, Mario. The Holy Spirit heard my prayer to call them. We strutted to our usual room, feeling buoyed by the enthusiasm of my adult catechumens. Then we discovered our room locked. I went out to look for the maintenance supervisor . Surely he must have the key. No he didn't. He tried each of his bunch of keys and not a single one would fit. We tried another room. No luck. We went upstairs, and lo, one was luckily opened. But no chairs, though later, somehow, one chair came into full view from a corner. I went to the other room where another RCIA class (for youngsters) was being conducted. I asked the catechist in charge if we could borrow some six empty chairs we noticed in her room. She might have latecomers, she said, and she needed the chairs.
Ah, never mind, I told my catechumens, we'll survive standing. "We can sit on the floor," they all chimed in. Great. Did you know that students of the ancient philosophers didn't have a classroom and they just sat under the tree, I asked. Well, at least we're inside a home, with a roof over our heads. That brought smiles on their faces. I would have wanted to sit on the floor myself were it not for the fact that being a septuagenarian, they would have difficulty getting me up. So, to spare them that I accepted the one chair that somehow materialized from a corner. But the image of the group sitting on the floor and listening intently to the Word of God and the story of Jesus that we can meditate on when we pray the Holy Rosary (our topic for the day, October being the month of the Holy Rosary), was so exhilarating and gratifying indeed. How lovely and loving is the Holy Spirit working on us! We prayed: "Thank you, Lord, for this gathering and this opportunity to sit on the floor to offer our love in response to Your call. As we go back to our mundane lives, don't let us lose this experience of Your gift that we share with others. Continue to guide us in our faith journey, O Holy Spirit, that we may respond in the same generous and humble ways that your followers had done before. " - Blanca Datuin
(Our Pastoral Associate, Rosie Hernandez, apologized later for not having our usual room open for the class and thank us for keeping our spirits up despite having to sit on the floor. No problem, Ms. Rosie, it gave us opportunity to offer more to the Lord. No use to fritter away our emotions over such small things.)
October 9, 2011
Many days there are in our daily life when we witness kindness and humility of those who rank higher than we are and at other times, of ordinary people like us. In today's bustling world, when everyone, it seems, is glued to one's cellphone chatting no end, or eyes focused on iphones--whoever takes notice of the kindness of strangers, the nobility of a humble act? Golden nuggets passed by unnoticed, taken for granted, ignored as though insignificant acts. No big deal, one would say. Yet, they are, at least to me. As a poet once said, how beautiful a day can be when kindness touches it, (and a simple act of humility, I must add, raises it to one of nobility).
Yesterday I witnessed something that touched my heart and later, when I was alone and recalled it, brought a lump in my throat and felt humbled by it. It was our parish' day of receiving the statue of Our Lady of Fatima for the Living Rosary Crusade that has been going around the world to pray for world peace. After a few days of intermittent downpour, the morning suddenly shone with perfect brightness. How good is the Divine Providence to let the sun shine to welcome Mary's devotees. As I was busy doing my tasks of greeting the throng of parents and youngsters and distributing the day's program, I noticed some parishioners staring at some feces down the church steppe, which I could only guess was left by a child who couldn't hold it anymore. Not wearing a Pamper in this age of throw-aways? Or, could it have been dung left by some pets? Because, earlier there were a lot of animals brought by their owners for the annual Blessing of the Animals Day ceremony out in the church patio. I didn't see the actual act of emission, so I had no way of knowing.
Anyway, two thoughtful persons tried to cover the waste with tissue paper while the rest just stood, staring at it like a sacred piece of clay. Father Preston Passos, our parish administrator, happened to be passing by perhaps to start greeting the church-goers and seeing about the organizing tasks. Seeing what everyone was staring at, he went back to the rectory and and returned in no time, dustpan and broom in hand. Without much ado, he scooped the unwanted specimen, threw it away in the trash and wiped the remains with paper towel. Then and only then did a parish personnel standing by came to the rescue and took over. But it took our beloved pastor to initiate it. Here is the perfect picture of a man of God in his black priestly cassock bending to do the task everyone else appeared helpless to accomplish.
I don't know how many other times Father Preston had shown such kindness and humility (perhaps it's second nature to him), but I can mention another occasion. Parish desk person Patty Yaque and I were struggling to hang up a class banner on one side of the fence facing our parish school street. Classes had not begun and thus, no student was around to help us. The parish maintenance officer was already gone; so was the gardener. Poor Patti Yaque was the only one left to help me as Father Rodolfo had suggested. Then out of nowhere came the Rev. Preston who would be the last person I would ask for help, knowing how knee-deep he is in dealing with an avalanche of paperwork as our church administrator. Patti must have told him we would be out there to hang a banner as a way of explaining her absence at the desk she was supposed to man. Quietly, without a word, Father Preston stretched the banner, tied to the fence one end as Patty, up in a ladder, held the other end. (No, Father Preston, being tall, didn't need a ladder.) In a jiffy, the job was finished, and after expressing satisfaction about the banner, he walked back to the Rectory to attend to what I imagined his flood of paperwork.
October 10, 2011
Today is my RCIA class at Our Lady of Peace. At exactly 8:30 A.M., all my students were there at the entrance of the parish convent where we were supposed to hold the class. It was a joy seeing them come en masse like that because it's not every Sunday all are in full attendance. Melissa, Ricardo, Rosie, Guadalupe, Janet, Mario. The Holy Spirit heard my prayer to call them. We strutted to our usual room, feeling buoyed by the enthusiasm of my adult catechumens. Then we discovered our room locked. I went out to look for the maintenance supervisor . Surely he must have the key. No he didn't. He tried each of his bunch of keys and not a single one would fit. We tried another room. No luck. We went upstairs, and lo, one was luckily opened. But no chairs, though later, somehow, one chair came into full view from a corner. I went to the other room where another RCIA class (for youngsters) was being conducted. I asked the catechist in charge if we could borrow some six empty chairs we noticed in her room. She might have latecomers, she said, and she needed the chairs.
Ah, never mind, I told my catechumens, we'll survive standing. "We can sit on the floor," they all chimed in. Great. Did you know that students of the ancient philosophers didn't have a classroom and they just sat under the tree, I asked. Well, at least we're inside a home, with a roof over our heads. That brought smiles on their faces. I would have wanted to sit on the floor myself were it not for the fact that being a septuagenarian, they would have difficulty getting me up. So, to spare them that I accepted the one chair that somehow materialized from a corner. But the image of the group sitting on the floor and listening intently to the Word of God and the story of Jesus that we can meditate on when we pray the Holy Rosary (our topic for the day, October being the month of the Holy Rosary), was so exhilarating and gratifying indeed. How lovely and loving is the Holy Spirit working on us! We prayed: "Thank you, Lord, for this gathering and this opportunity to sit on the floor to offer our love in response to Your call. As we go back to our mundane lives, don't let us lose this experience of Your gift that we share with others. Continue to guide us in our faith journey, O Holy Spirit, that we may respond in the same generous and humble ways that your followers had done before. " - Blanca Datuin
(Our Pastoral Associate, Rosie Hernandez, apologized later for not having our usual room open for the class and thank us for keeping our spirits up despite having to sit on the floor. No problem, Ms. Rosie, it gave us opportunity to offer more to the Lord. No use to fritter away our emotions over such small things.)
Monday, September 19, 2011
MY DAILY SHARE
MY DAILY SHARE
SHARE-- that now ubiquitous word, is really such an all-embracing word. It denotes giving and taking, opening up to other human beings as well as taking in what they may offer and sharing it with others. We take part in the game of life and we demand that we get a fair share of what we put in terms of money, time, effort, or whatever resources we contribute to whatever communal endeavor we have chosen to participate in. A piece of a whole, a fragment, an allotment dispensed to all participants in a shared undertaking. In the whole spectrum of life, one asks for his/her share within the context of freedom, fairness and justice. One may share, in a spirit of generosity and unselfishness, one's plate of food, one's talent, one's resources. The capitalist shares the profits of the day with his workers: that's only fair and just. And in an imitation of Christ who shares the kingdom of God with the whole of the human race, the prophets and the faithful work to spread the Word that is meant to be shared by all.
What we may want to share can be an infinity of stuff, from the material to the abstract, from the emotional to the spiritual. from the traditions to our lasting values, from the rational to the, alas, the irrational. For we can have the good and the bad in our human nature, and in casting out our demons, we share consciously or unconsciously, our despair, our bitterness, failings, our pains--all that darkness of the soul. A.y-y, there's the rub. Who wants to even listen to all that, much less share? How many times has one heard the listener say "I don't want to hear about that," when trying to unburden himself to another, ? Or, "I have enough problems of my own"? Was it Anton Chekhov or Leo Tolstoy who wrote in his stories about the apathy of some people in the face of tragedy? I can't remember now the title, but there is this story of a cab driver telling his passenger about his son who just died and the passenger impatiently just tells him to hurry in his driving. How sad! We watch or read Shakespearean tragedies, the Greek plays and other plays or novels of tragedies. Who among us does not experience catharsis?
Isn't it more tragic than the tragedy being viewed when the viewer cannot feel a cathartic purging of emotions, of spirit? The truth is that it is in our sharing the pains of others that we develop our sense of compassion. It is in our ability to commiserate that we ennoble our own sense of humanness. How empty is the soul without anything good to share. How utterly impoverished is one unwilling to give of himself to others or unwilling to give up something for others. We, after all, are kins to one another. We are humanity: peoples chained together in a cadena de amor, as it should be.
What we may want to share can be an infinity of stuff, from the material to the abstract, from the emotional to the spiritual. from the traditions to our lasting values, from the rational to the, alas, the irrational. For we can have the good and the bad in our human nature, and in casting out our demons, we share consciously or unconsciously, our despair, our bitterness, failings, our pains--all that darkness of the soul. A.y-y, there's the rub. Who wants to even listen to all that, much less share? How many times has one heard the listener say "I don't want to hear about that," when trying to unburden himself to another, ? Or, "I have enough problems of my own"? Was it Anton Chekhov or Leo Tolstoy who wrote in his stories about the apathy of some people in the face of tragedy? I can't remember now the title, but there is this story of a cab driver telling his passenger about his son who just died and the passenger impatiently just tells him to hurry in his driving. How sad! We watch or read Shakespearean tragedies, the Greek plays and other plays or novels of tragedies. Who among us does not experience catharsis?
Isn't it more tragic than the tragedy being viewed when the viewer cannot feel a cathartic purging of emotions, of spirit? The truth is that it is in our sharing the pains of others that we develop our sense of compassion. It is in our ability to commiserate that we ennoble our own sense of humanness. How empty is the soul without anything good to share. How utterly impoverished is one unwilling to give of himself to others or unwilling to give up something for others. We, after all, are kins to one another. We are humanity: peoples chained together in a cadena de amor, as it should be.
It is in the spirit of sharing that this blog will be. For in putting into words my thoughts and feelings, perhaps, some readers will find kinship that can be nurtured into something positive, and some of it pursued for an enrichment of life and on to more productive ends of lasting values. My thoughts may not be welcomed by some, they may clash with other readers' opinions, beliefs, values, even faith. That's how we all are: different from one another; each with differing personality, each a product of a different culture, family, influence, education: each is indeed unique... But share we will, nevertheless, through stories, poetry, narration, be it of the profound, the tragic, the mundane or the comic side of life.
Each has a life story to tell, opinions, knowledge, information, feelings, thoughts, ideas... Share your story, we are urged; share your values, your beliefs, your faith. This last, especially, is not one meant to be just for oneself. You don't light a candle and keep it under a bushel.You let it shine for others, too. So, let us begin while the mind is teeming with ideas still and the soul burning with love. Let us dust old publications from the cobwebs of antiquity. For life is brief and the candle might snuff out anytime. #
- - Blanca Datuin (c) 2010
St. Louis Of France
Louis was born on April 25, 1214. His father was King Louis VIII of France and his mother was Queen Blanche. The story is told that when Prince Louis was small, his mother hugged him tightly. She said, "I love you, my dear son, as much as a mother can love her child. But I would rather see you dead at my feet than ever to have you commit a mortal sin." Louis never forgot those words. He grew to cherish his Catholic faith and his upbringing. When he was twelve, his father died and he became the king. Queen Blanche ruled until her son was twenty-one. Louis became a remarkable king. He married Margaret, the daughter of a count with whom he had eleven children. A good husband and father he proved himself to be as well as a loving son to his mother, Queen Blanche, lived, to whom he showed full respect. Busy as he was, the king found time for daily Mass and the recitation of the Divine Office. He was a Third Order Franciscan and lived a simple lifestyle. Generous and fair, he ruled his people with wisdom, charity and true Christian principles. There was no separation between what he believed as a Catholic and how he lived. He knew how to settle arguments and disputes. He listened to the poor and the underprivileged. He had time for everybody, not just the rich and influential. He supported Catholic education and built monasteries. The historian, Joinville, wrote a biography of St. Louis. He recalls that he was twenty-two years in the king's service. He was daily in the king's company. And he could say that he never heard King Louis swear or use any kind of profanity in all those years. Nor did the king permit bad language in his castle. St. Louis felt an urgent obligation to help the suffering Christians in the Holy Land. He wanted to be part of the Crusades. Twice he led an army against the Turks. The first time, he was taken prisoner. But even in jail, he behaved as a true Christian knight. He was unafraid and noble in all his ways. He was freed and returned to take care of his kingdom in France. Yet as soon as he could, he started back to fight the enemies of the faith again. On the way, however, this greatly loved king contracted typhoid fever. A few hours before he died, he prayed, "Lord, I will enter into your house, worship in your holy temple, and give glory to your name." St. Louis died on August 25, 1270. He was fifty-six years old. He was proclaimed a saint by Pope Boniface VIII in 1297. "Be kindhearted to the poor, the unfortunate and the afflicted. Give them as much help and consolation as you can."-St. Louis
What's in a Name?
We begin with a story that seems incredible in these times of skepticism and unbeliefs: the life story of a remarkable saint whose mother I was named after, except that when it was found to be too Frenchy, it was changed to Blanca. I used to have some acquaintance who used to call me Blanche which I did not respond well to for the same reason my parents balked at the idea of calling me that though they found it in their religious calendar at the time of my birth without really knowing St. Blanche life.
I first read about the story of Queen Blanche when I was a child of ten. How providential that on the eve of my birthday this year, the life of her son, St. Louis IX, would appear on the sidebar of my email, reminding me of this extraordinary mother who produced two saints: Blessed Isabelle and St. Louis of France. Her words, however, reverberates: what a tall order for her own self! But how remarkable her son turned out to be. Could such a mother wishing her son rather dead than seeing him commit mortal sin really have existed? And could such good governance and religion, as Louis IX had shown mix, really happen in today's times? It's a dream devoutly to be wished!
- Aug. 26, 2010
St. Louis Of France
Louis was born on April 25, 1214. His father was King Louis VIII of France and his mother was Queen Blanche. The story is told that when Prince Louis was small, his mother hugged him tightly. She said, "I love you, my dear son, as much as a mother can love her child. But I would rather see you dead at my feet than ever to have you commit a mortal sin." Louis never forgot those words. He grew to cherish his Catholic faith and his upbringing. When he was twelve, his father died and he became the king. Queen Blanche ruled until her son was twenty-one. Louis became a remarkable king. He married Margaret, the daughter of a count with whom he had eleven children. A good husband and father he proved himself to be as well as a loving son to his mother, Queen Blanche, lived, to whom he showed full respect. Busy as he was, the king found time for daily Mass and the recitation of the Divine Office. He was a Third Order Franciscan and lived a simple lifestyle. Generous and fair, he ruled his people with wisdom, charity and true Christian principles. There was no separation between what he believed as a Catholic and how he lived. He knew how to settle arguments and disputes. He listened to the poor and the underprivileged. He had time for everybody, not just the rich and influential. He supported Catholic education and built monasteries. The historian, Joinville, wrote a biography of St. Louis. He recalls that he was twenty-two years in the king's service. He was daily in the king's company. And he could say that he never heard King Louis swear or use any kind of profanity in all those years. Nor did the king permit bad language in his castle. St. Louis felt an urgent obligation to help the suffering Christians in the Holy Land. He wanted to be part of the Crusades. Twice he led an army against the Turks. The first time, he was taken prisoner. But even in jail, he behaved as a true Christian knight. He was unafraid and noble in all his ways. He was freed and returned to take care of his kingdom in France. Yet as soon as he could, he started back to fight the enemies of the faith again. On the way, however, this greatly loved king contracted typhoid fever. A few hours before he died, he prayed, "Lord, I will enter into your house, worship in your holy temple, and give glory to your name." St. Louis died on August 25, 1270. He was fifty-six years old. He was proclaimed a saint by Pope Boniface VIII in 1297. "Be kindhearted to the poor, the unfortunate and the afflicted. Give them as much help and consolation as you can."-St. Louis
Friday, September 9, 2011
The Other Half Of Me
THE OTHER HALF OF ME
By Blanca Datuin
(in memory of Wilfrido D. Nolledo, author of But for the Lovers)
Beneath this mound of soil
lies the other half of me,
in wait for this self
still walking the ground
trekked together before, but
now dotted with only a pair of footprints.
I lay the roses upon the tombstone
in a ritual of love, and pray:
please God let him who loved
you continue to love you,
and you who loved him in his life
continue to love him evermore.
I sit awhile on the grass
the well of tears at last
comes unabated, unashamed as,
desolate, I speak to the other half of me,
retrieving images of the past,
the highs and lows of our together life:
the poetry we fed on that filled the soul
as our empty pouches laid concealed in the
richness of our dreams; the hurts we
unknowingly meted out to each other. What are
aches and pains for--that gnaw at layers and layers
of grit--if they cannot unearth the Phoenix in us?
Shared rage against inequity, shared agony
over the cauldrons of war, shared anguish
over injustice, shared dreams and hopes for peace.
Such passion and ecstasy, anger and humor--
all inextricably bound in the mingling
of life’s laughter and tears.
This self must go on through the motions of life
though not quite whole, not quite hale,
for the other half of me is gone.
(How strong she is, people say; if only they knew…)
Tasks must be finished, whatever the heavens drop;
but there is an end to every journey, I, too well, know.
Little drops of rain moisten the soil on my other half;
the cold tomb looks up at the endless blue above,
and the earth sucks the tears of the vaulted sky.
I beg the other half of me, be patient, wait for the
Dispenser of Life to fill the tomb’s empty space by your side
and make the we of us complete again. #
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Death in the Winehouse
Amy Winehouse: another victim of drug addiction, so it was reported. A young, so young a singer. Beautiful from what I have seen of her in pictures. Acclaimed artist, talented, so much future in the field of her art that is music. Found dead on July 23, 2011 at her home in north London. She is said to have joined the "27 Club," a list of music legends who have died at this young age after periods of battles with either drugs or alcoholism resulting in overdose of such or as a result of a fatal mix or a combination of different kinds of drugs: Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain and Brian Jones, all dying at the age of 27. But why 27? A conspiracy of the times? One can never explain.
I never knew Amy until now; never heard her singing; never knew how tragic was her personal life just as I never knew the lives of those other 27-year-olds till now. Except for Kurt Cobain whose name was turned into a verb by a columnist when this columnist had ended her eulogy with the caution, "Please, do not Cobain." I never knew them personally nor even knew their existence until tragedy ended their lives, but their deaths haunt me and I weep for them. These are not only the children of their parents: they are our children. Would that somebody had reached out to them, prayed for them, cared for them. Would it have made a difference? Could it? -Blanca Datuin
I never knew Amy until now; never heard her singing; never knew how tragic was her personal life just as I never knew the lives of those other 27-year-olds till now. Except for Kurt Cobain whose name was turned into a verb by a columnist when this columnist had ended her eulogy with the caution, "Please, do not Cobain." I never knew them personally nor even knew their existence until tragedy ended their lives, but their deaths haunt me and I weep for them. These are not only the children of their parents: they are our children. Would that somebody had reached out to them, prayed for them, cared for them. Would it have made a difference? Could it? -Blanca Datuin
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Washington, D.C, Revisited
Flying is not exactly my favorite mode of reaching my destination. Is it acrophobia? No, I'm not having any panic attack. Nor spinning sensation. Rather, the psychogenic arises from mental images of the 9/11 events,air collisions, crashing in midair or into the ocean , plane bursting into flame. Not exactly my desired manner of exiting the world. Frankly, if God would allow it, when my mission in life is all done, I hope to breathe my last in a more unexcited manner, with the cool quiescence of going gently into that good night. Such morbid thoughts, you would say. Would I one day perhaps qualify to be in the company of the elite pilots of AAA (Altitude Avoidance Anonymous)? Ah, fear of flying (not to be mistaken for the kind of Erica Jong's Fear of Flying)--why is it fraught with tintinnabulation not so pleasant to hear?
And so, just to play it safe, prior to this flight, I reviewed my will (though there's really not much to will except some relics of my heritage and a few fruits of my and my husband's toil and sweat). I handed over to my children my living trust and my irrevocable wishes that I hope will find fruition upon my departure from this world, if not while I'm around to see them happen. Such business as putting one's house in order seems, however, to be always doomed to be left unfinished and I have to throw up my hands in complete abandon.
Strange, though, that once I was 35,000 feet above on that beautiful Wednesday morning in July, with the Psalm of David on my lips and my omnipresent rosary prayed, peace reigned, as it always does when I'm up there; the heart sensed a calm and stillness not felt when one is down to the earth of endless commotion and agitation. I was in the palm of His hand, floating up in the air where He was the captain of my soul (as He always is) and that of my co-passengers.
An elderly man seated beside me asked, "Where are you bound?" I furrowed my eyebrows; I didn't want my peace disturbed. "Huh?" and the man said, "Oh, you don't understand English? I see." I almost burst into laughter. Me, an English teacher, and I don't understand English. I shook my head and said, "No hablo Ingles." Good thing he didn't speak Spanish or he would have discovered the deception. Poor man, I thought, he's just being friendly and wanted to while away the hours of a long flight. It was his misfortune to be seated next to one basking in solitude. Back to my window side and back to my breathtaking view of clouds, white as snow, looking magnificently like cotton candy moving ever so gracefully as our plane sped away . I sat back and closed my eyes; the peace was heavenly.
Upon landing at the Reagan International, it was dear old friend, Dave Valderrama, I saw waiting for me. Dave and his wife Nelia I had not seen for 39 years since my late husband and my children left Washington, D.C. in 1972 after a brief stay in Virginia where we had waited for my husband to finish his summer teaching stint at the University of New York in Buffalo. I was not sure I would recognize Dave, but he easily spotted me, thank God. Seeing him now with a cane, so different from the sprightly Atty.David Valderrama we had known decades ago, I murmured vaguely after the preliminary greetings and hugs, "You didn't have to come. You could have just sent your driver." But he countered, "No, I wanted to be the one to welcome an old friend back to Washington." That was so like him--the brilliant, gracious, gallant politician that won the hearts of Maryland to become the first Filipino-American to be elected state assemblyman (delegate to the State of Maryland) in the whole United States. That was in the 1980's when a lot of racism still brewed, the times rife with division among the Whites, the Blacks and the Asians.
From the airport, Dave took me straight to the Multicultural Center in Oxon Hill, Maryland: He quipped "we have a reception for you." To which I uttered, "You're kidding." "No, I'm not, there's our welcome committee" he answered. Sure enough, there was Imelda Abella, multicultural affairs liaison officer, standing right. by the door as we went up the ramp to the entrance of that grand building. I found it rather amazing how he could make one feel welcomed, although I suspected that was the regular get-together day of Dave's gang of friends from the Philippine Embassy and it just happened to be my arrival time. After a hearty dinner, almost all took turns on the mike to belt out a few Sinatra songs and some native songs for entertainment.
The multicultural Center sits on a sprawling area at 7800 Livingston Road in Oxon Hill, Maryland. It's actually a dream fulfillment of Dave's as carried out by his daughter, Kris Valderrama, who has followed her father's footsteps in politics.(She is now the current Delegate of Prince George's County to the state of Maryland.) A tour of the Center showed an ambitious multicultural project in progress, the first phase having been inaugurated two years ago, the second and third phases still waiting to materialize as much-needed funds are yet to come. The objective? To develop a gathering place where people of different ethnicity can meet, exchange cultural talents in the arts and literature. have lively discussions of current issues affecting them, resolve any existing problems and enrich relationships. Dave remembered the times when racial discord was so rampant in the area he wouldn't even be allowed to enter his room to sit in his chair as the first probate judge of Filipino ancestry.
Thursday was spent visiting Dave's wife, Nelly, who has been ailing and wheelchair-bound, no longer her old vibrant self but still with traces of her old beauty. There in a high-rise condo overlooking the beautiful Potomac River, Dave has been spending a semi-retired life, if you can call it that--the kind of life that is still stubbornly committed to service as the honorary chair of the Fil-American National Foundation, Inc. that push the reality of the Multicultural Center. Seeing him run the Center, you wouldn't believe what he's going through, looking after his wife (whom he has provided with two caregivers for a 24-hour watch) even as he battles his own heart ailment and high blood pressure. Amazing how he has kept his laconic sense of humor through all his trials.
(
Dave took me back to their old house where the packages we had left them decades ago for safekeeping were supposed to be lodged in the old garage. This was actually my mission in going to D.C.--to retrieve, more specifically, the galley proofs of my husband's novel, But for the Lovers, with the notations of Hal Scharlatt, Wilfrido's editor at E.P. Dutton Publishing in New York. It's an important piece of my husband's memorabilia. To me, it was worth coming to D.C. for. If only I would recover them... Unfortunately, the garage was a labyrinth, as Dave had warned me earlier, and even with the help of the house' caretakers, I had to give up in the humid air. Empty-handed, I was none too happy, and had to content myself with leaving instructions/request to Manny and wife to please, please try to find the boxes marked "Nolledo" when the time comes that some daughter of Dave's will decide to clear the garage.
The galley proofs of But for the Lovers that I was after bore the marginal notes of the well-known New York literary editor Scharlatt, considered a genius in his field. They would make an interesting study by literary readers or researchers. Which paragraph(s) did he delete, which paragraph(s) did he retain after Wilfrido fought for such retention. I remember him arguing with HAl, "Four hundred years my country suffered under the Spaniards and I'm asking only that this chapter not be touched!" Wilfrido won. But alas, this piece of document, however, may just have been lost in oblivion.
Back to the Multicultural Center in Oxon Hill, I found a crowd of Filipino teachers of Prince George's County, Maryland, in a powwow on how to battle the war being waged against them by the US Immigration Bureau. Leave voluntarily or be deported--that was the message they got from the Immigration that early July, 2011 because their working visas would no longer be renewed. And on that account they could not be employed or re-hired. When in the past so many years, some reportedly 1044 educators from the Philippines were recruited by the Prince George's County Public School, they were deducted H1-B from their teacher's salaries. This was discovered by the Department of Labor that declared such fees should have been paid by the employers of the teachers. Thus the teachers were owed some $4,000 each in back pay. While teachers at first hailed this as just retribution for the unjust collection of fees from them, they soon discovered the implication of the County's being barred from participating in the H1-B program--those whose visas were about to expire cannot now be re-hired. The big question the teachers wanted answered was why they were the ones being punished by being deprived now of their right to continue working. The answer of course is that if the County was being barred from participating for two years in the HI-B program, how can it now re-hire or sponsor any of these teachers? With their visas expiring in just a few days, how can they just suddenly pack up and go?
I found one of them in a corner of the Center's kitchen area, weeping silently. I approached to comfort her. "How can I leave just like that?" She said. "I have loans, mortgage I need to pay or I'll lose all that I have invested." Another said, "I have been here for eight years, have paid taxes, contributed to the improvement of the economy and the quality of education Don't the Labor people have hearts? I have built my life here!" Panic and anger, but mostly anger. Afterall, no one would like to go on staying here and be hounded as undocumented residents. They were plucked out of their residences in the Philippines and they thought the greener pasture they were promised would never turn bleak. I wasn't able to follow up what happened after I had left D.C. But I heard they had taken their protest up the steps of the White House where all the Fil-Am teachers joined them in solidarity even though they were not affected.
Eve of my departure, a visit to the Library of Congress could not be missed. Again, Dave generously lent me his car for use the whole day as he was going to New York to deliver a speech as guest speaker at a Fil-American group there. I was able to see Reme Grefalda, indefatigable publisher of the online Our ereOwn Voice, who is now with the Asian Cultural Department of the Library. If you want to browse over some ancient Asian writings or doing research on such topics, that is the place to go to. Hundreds of tourists milled all over, taking photos here and there. It's impossible to visit all the nooks and cranny, and I had to confine myself to just a few exhibits, the famous Gutenberg Bible among them.
It would have been wonderful to have revisited our old Virginia residence where my family had spent a short but memorable experience with the children happily prancing in the open back patio and sometimes swimming in the pool with family friend Andy Afable (poet from the University of the Philippines) teaching them how to swim. and me being just a full-time mother as my husband taught Creative Writing at the University of New York. Not much, however, could be packed in a three-day visit. Time to say goodbye to all the gracious staff of Dave - Cora, Nanding, Imelda and all. There were interesting stories I gathered along the way on the lives of these lovely people. But that will be for another time, another piece to be woven together. -Blanca Datuin
And so, just to play it safe, prior to this flight, I reviewed my will (though there's really not much to will except some relics of my heritage and a few fruits of my and my husband's toil and sweat). I handed over to my children my living trust and my irrevocable wishes that I hope will find fruition upon my departure from this world, if not while I'm around to see them happen. Such business as putting one's house in order seems, however, to be always doomed to be left unfinished and I have to throw up my hands in complete abandon.
Strange, though, that once I was 35,000 feet above on that beautiful Wednesday morning in July, with the Psalm of David on my lips and my omnipresent rosary prayed, peace reigned, as it always does when I'm up there; the heart sensed a calm and stillness not felt when one is down to the earth of endless commotion and agitation. I was in the palm of His hand, floating up in the air where He was the captain of my soul (as He always is) and that of my co-passengers.
An elderly man seated beside me asked, "Where are you bound?" I furrowed my eyebrows; I didn't want my peace disturbed. "Huh?" and the man said, "Oh, you don't understand English? I see." I almost burst into laughter. Me, an English teacher, and I don't understand English. I shook my head and said, "No hablo Ingles." Good thing he didn't speak Spanish or he would have discovered the deception. Poor man, I thought, he's just being friendly and wanted to while away the hours of a long flight. It was his misfortune to be seated next to one basking in solitude. Back to my window side and back to my breathtaking view of clouds, white as snow, looking magnificently like cotton candy moving ever so gracefully as our plane sped away . I sat back and closed my eyes; the peace was heavenly.
Upon landing at the Reagan International, it was dear old friend, Dave Valderrama, I saw waiting for me. Dave and his wife Nelia I had not seen for 39 years since my late husband and my children left Washington, D.C. in 1972 after a brief stay in Virginia where we had waited for my husband to finish his summer teaching stint at the University of New York in Buffalo. I was not sure I would recognize Dave, but he easily spotted me, thank God. Seeing him now with a cane, so different from the sprightly Atty.David Valderrama we had known decades ago, I murmured vaguely after the preliminary greetings and hugs, "You didn't have to come. You could have just sent your driver." But he countered, "No, I wanted to be the one to welcome an old friend back to Washington." That was so like him--the brilliant, gracious, gallant politician that won the hearts of Maryland to become the first Filipino-American to be elected state assemblyman (delegate to the State of Maryland) in the whole United States. That was in the 1980's when a lot of racism still brewed, the times rife with division among the Whites, the Blacks and the Asians.
From the airport, Dave took me straight to the Multicultural Center in Oxon Hill, Maryland: He quipped "we have a reception for you." To which I uttered, "You're kidding." "No, I'm not, there's our welcome committee" he answered. Sure enough, there was Imelda Abella, multicultural affairs liaison officer, standing right. by the door as we went up the ramp to the entrance of that grand building. I found it rather amazing how he could make one feel welcomed, although I suspected that was the regular get-together day of Dave's gang of friends from the Philippine Embassy and it just happened to be my arrival time. After a hearty dinner, almost all took turns on the mike to belt out a few Sinatra songs and some native songs for entertainment.
The multicultural Center sits on a sprawling area at 7800 Livingston Road in Oxon Hill, Maryland. It's actually a dream fulfillment of Dave's as carried out by his daughter, Kris Valderrama, who has followed her father's footsteps in politics.(She is now the current Delegate of Prince George's County to the state of Maryland.) A tour of the Center showed an ambitious multicultural project in progress, the first phase having been inaugurated two years ago, the second and third phases still waiting to materialize as much-needed funds are yet to come. The objective? To develop a gathering place where people of different ethnicity can meet, exchange cultural talents in the arts and literature. have lively discussions of current issues affecting them, resolve any existing problems and enrich relationships. Dave remembered the times when racial discord was so rampant in the area he wouldn't even be allowed to enter his room to sit in his chair as the first probate judge of Filipino ancestry.
Thursday was spent visiting Dave's wife, Nelly, who has been ailing and wheelchair-bound, no longer her old vibrant self but still with traces of her old beauty. There in a high-rise condo overlooking the beautiful Potomac River, Dave has been spending a semi-retired life, if you can call it that--the kind of life that is still stubbornly committed to service as the honorary chair of the Fil-American National Foundation, Inc. that push the reality of the Multicultural Center. Seeing him run the Center, you wouldn't believe what he's going through, looking after his wife (whom he has provided with two caregivers for a 24-hour watch) even as he battles his own heart ailment and high blood pressure. Amazing how he has kept his laconic sense of humor through all his trials.
(
Dave took me back to their old house where the packages we had left them decades ago for safekeeping were supposed to be lodged in the old garage. This was actually my mission in going to D.C.--to retrieve, more specifically, the galley proofs of my husband's novel, But for the Lovers, with the notations of Hal Scharlatt, Wilfrido's editor at E.P. Dutton Publishing in New York. It's an important piece of my husband's memorabilia. To me, it was worth coming to D.C. for. If only I would recover them... Unfortunately, the garage was a labyrinth, as Dave had warned me earlier, and even with the help of the house' caretakers, I had to give up in the humid air. Empty-handed, I was none too happy, and had to content myself with leaving instructions/request to Manny and wife to please, please try to find the boxes marked "Nolledo" when the time comes that some daughter of Dave's will decide to clear the garage.
The galley proofs of But for the Lovers that I was after bore the marginal notes of the well-known New York literary editor Scharlatt, considered a genius in his field. They would make an interesting study by literary readers or researchers. Which paragraph(s) did he delete, which paragraph(s) did he retain after Wilfrido fought for such retention. I remember him arguing with HAl, "Four hundred years my country suffered under the Spaniards and I'm asking only that this chapter not be touched!" Wilfrido won. But alas, this piece of document, however, may just have been lost in oblivion.
Back to the Multicultural Center in Oxon Hill, I found a crowd of Filipino teachers of Prince George's County, Maryland, in a powwow on how to battle the war being waged against them by the US Immigration Bureau. Leave voluntarily or be deported--that was the message they got from the Immigration that early July, 2011 because their working visas would no longer be renewed. And on that account they could not be employed or re-hired. When in the past so many years, some reportedly 1044 educators from the Philippines were recruited by the Prince George's County Public School, they were deducted H1-B from their teacher's salaries. This was discovered by the Department of Labor that declared such fees should have been paid by the employers of the teachers. Thus the teachers were owed some $4,000 each in back pay. While teachers at first hailed this as just retribution for the unjust collection of fees from them, they soon discovered the implication of the County's being barred from participating in the H1-B program--those whose visas were about to expire cannot now be re-hired. The big question the teachers wanted answered was why they were the ones being punished by being deprived now of their right to continue working. The answer of course is that if the County was being barred from participating for two years in the HI-B program, how can it now re-hire or sponsor any of these teachers? With their visas expiring in just a few days, how can they just suddenly pack up and go?
I found one of them in a corner of the Center's kitchen area, weeping silently. I approached to comfort her. "How can I leave just like that?" She said. "I have loans, mortgage I need to pay or I'll lose all that I have invested." Another said, "I have been here for eight years, have paid taxes, contributed to the improvement of the economy and the quality of education Don't the Labor people have hearts? I have built my life here!" Panic and anger, but mostly anger. Afterall, no one would like to go on staying here and be hounded as undocumented residents. They were plucked out of their residences in the Philippines and they thought the greener pasture they were promised would never turn bleak. I wasn't able to follow up what happened after I had left D.C. But I heard they had taken their protest up the steps of the White House where all the Fil-Am teachers joined them in solidarity even though they were not affected.
Eve of my departure, a visit to the Library of Congress could not be missed. Again, Dave generously lent me his car for use the whole day as he was going to New York to deliver a speech as guest speaker at a Fil-American group there. I was able to see Reme Grefalda, indefatigable publisher of the online Our ereOwn Voice, who is now with the Asian Cultural Department of the Library. If you want to browse over some ancient Asian writings or doing research on such topics, that is the place to go to. Hundreds of tourists milled all over, taking photos here and there. It's impossible to visit all the nooks and cranny, and I had to confine myself to just a few exhibits, the famous Gutenberg Bible among them.
It would have been wonderful to have revisited our old Virginia residence where my family had spent a short but memorable experience with the children happily prancing in the open back patio and sometimes swimming in the pool with family friend Andy Afable (poet from the University of the Philippines) teaching them how to swim. and me being just a full-time mother as my husband taught Creative Writing at the University of New York. Not much, however, could be packed in a three-day visit. Time to say goodbye to all the gracious staff of Dave - Cora, Nanding, Imelda and all. There were interesting stories I gathered along the way on the lives of these lovely people. But that will be for another time, another piece to be woven together. -Blanca Datuin
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Haiku and Other Arcane Pieces
Haiku
by blanca datuin
Easter
Spring sprang here
like the leap of a bunny
whiting life beginnings.
Vesper
Do you hear silence?
S-h-h-h,The lizards are praying
unmoved by the blare.
by blanca datuin
Easter
Spring sprang here
like the leap of a bunny
whiting life beginnings.
Vesper
Do you hear silence?
S-h-h-h,The lizards are praying
unmoved by the blare.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Death of three Filipinos in China
Philip See @Blanca may i suggest you review the facts, these are not firs timers. and besides how can they be victim when they took the trip to China not as OFW but as courier? enlighten us then if my facts are wrong (based on their travel documents, not the first timedid they travel to china on a no contract with any company or employer, source withheld) Hindi ba katakataka wala silang trabaho or contrata at pupunta sila sa China?"
9 hours ago ·
The above is a reaction to my comment on the three convicted Filipino drug dealers' execution today in China. This event has generated countless reactions, and on Facebook Solita Monsod, columnist and former NEDA Director, started it with her comment "
9 hours ago ·
The above is a reaction to my comment on the three convicted Filipino drug dealers' execution today in China. This event has generated countless reactions, and on Facebook Solita Monsod, columnist and former NEDA Director, started it with her comment "
- Is Philip suggesting I should deny myself sadness? Whether the convicted drug dealers are guilty or not is not the point of contention in my comment, myself, admittedly, not privy to all the facts. It's the sadness over their death and the country's helplessness to have the death sentence commuted to at least life sentence, the Philippines, from where they come, being a country that no longer practices capital punishment. I feel sad, yes. To paraphrase John Donne, each man's death diminishes us who are part of mankind. To die without being given a chance at conversion is merciless and those who condemn and give up on alleged "sinners" may cast stones if they can say without batting an eye that they are perfect. As the poet expresses, "Do not ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee."The good news is that, as gleaned from the countless comments on this thread, the Filipinos care---about the concomitant issues of death sentence, drug trafficking, poverty, indifference of the rich and powerful, corruption of some authorities that could have prevented drug trafficking. The comments may clash in opinions, some posts may express anger and some may be funny, but peoplehave taken time to express. Though one wonders, how will all that help the poor and those going down the pit of crime?
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Forwarded by a friend
Sharing a good laugh. ---
A thief in Paris planned to steal some Paintings from the Louvre.
Price of gas in France
A thief in Paris planned to steal some Paintings from the Louvre.
After careful planning, he got past security, stole the paintings, and made it safely to his van.
However, he was captured only two blocks away when his van ran out of gas.
When asked how he could mastermind such a crime and then make such an obvious error, he replied, 'Monsieur, that is the reason I stole the paintings.'
However, he was captured only two blocks away when his van ran out of gas.
When asked how he could mastermind such a crime and then make such an obvious error, he replied, 'Monsieur, that is the reason I stole the paintings.'
'I had no Monet
To buy Degas
To make the Van Gogh.'
See if you have De Gaulle to send this on to someone else.
I sent it to you because I figured I had nothing Toulouse …
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
An Excerpt from "The Nature of Man," by Blanca Datuin
More than two decades ago, I wrote a 30-page class paper on "The Nature of Man" for my psychology class in a college in Los Angeles. My instructor was one who sounded like either agnostic or atheist, judging from the opinions he dished out from time to time. Since he graded my paper "A," he must have understood well the logic of the analysis I presented and hopefully, accepted the conclusions. I would have wanted to disseminate my analysis as part of a book collection of essays, but time seems to be running out. So, let me just do the next best thing and share with you some excerpts from the last chapter of my paper since pertinent to a discussion we, in an egroup on cyberspace, had on the nature of man. So much has been written about this topic from time immemorial, but to my knowledge, the Creation has never been explained the way it has been analyzed in this paper.
Interpretation of the Biblical Narration
an excerpt from “The Nature of Man” by
Blanca Datuin, (c) 1990
The story of creation in the Bible tells of God saying, after creating the earth and the firmament and kinds of living things, "Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. Let him have dominion over the fish of the sea, the birds of the air, and the cattle, and over all the wild animals and all the creatures that crawl on the ground." In the second story of the creation, again, man's beginning is told but it focuses on another aspect of his being: "...the Lord formed man out of the clay of the ground and blew into his nostrils the breath of life, and so man became a living being." .........
There are two things in the biblical narration that this researcher observes to be very significant in explaining human nature. First is the medium out of which God made man. The second is God's breathing into his nostrils to give him life and thus, making man "in our image." "And the Lord God formed man of the slime of the earth and breathed into his face the breath of life, and man became a living soul." (Genesis, 2, 7)
Slime or clay is that fine-grained earth that, mixed with the right amount of water, can be formed into any shape the sculptor or potter wishes. It is dull, without luster, until polished to a gloss. It is soft enough for shaping purposes but hard as a rock once it is kilned to a degree. Unlike rock, however, the finished product, because made of clay, remains fragile. It can break into pieces if not handled properly. The same qualities are manifested in a human being: from being newly-born up to a certain young age, he is pliant and can be shaped into the desired form, before he gets hardened in the furnace of life He is earthy and corruptible in his basic instincts; dull of mind until honed to perfection in a process of education and re-education and as an ever-evolving person. He is also fragile and vulnerable until his coping mechanism is strengthened in a nurturing environment.
Whether taken literally or figuratively, man's body having been formed out of clay, will always infer the above-mentioned qualities of human nature. Clay is the perfect medium for an artist to whom God, in His act of creation, is likened. Clay is also that solid matter that explains the materiality of the human body. In the Christian way of thinking, however, the body is like a temple of God as it is where the soul resides. It should thus be treated with respect: it should not be abused, defiled or tainted the way a drug-dependent, for instance, or a sex maniac abuses his own as well as those of others.
The second significant point in the biblical narration is the statement about God's having blown into man's nostrils the breath of life. This is the infusion of a part of God's perfection, a part of His own nature as a spiritual being: the breath of life that animates. This is the principle of life--the soul that is capable of rising to heights of splendor an All-Good God is said to have wanted man to rise to . His potentialities abound beyond imagination even as his efforts to sift the good from the bad is fraught with much faltering, trepidation and pain.
God's breath is the external force, the efficient cause described by St. Thomas in his Summa Theologica discussed earlier in this paper. Even if taken merely as a metaphor, the act would still symbolize the privileged position of man among all His other creations. For man alone is the one breathed into by God; thus, he alone has had that kind of personal contact with God, which explains what most theologians describe as an intimate relationship between God and man. It is an act of perfect love from God that no rational person can deny. For how can one's giving of himself to another be anything else? In infusing man a part of His own perfection, God made him in His own likeness: endowed with spirit like Himself and a creator himself in many ways: a giver of life in the regenerative process of life, a poet, an artist, a lover, an engineer, an author, and in various other ways.
As can be deduced from the Story of Creation alone, man is of dual nature. Whether to be taken literally or metaphorically (as has been debated constantly between believers and non-believers), the implication remains the same, that man is made of matter and form—matter, which the body is made of, and form--the soul, which, in the words of St. Thomas Aquinas, has for its end the natural longing to be united back to its Creator. Thus, man has the bodily nature whose laws and needs must be obeyed if the body is to be healthy and not deteriorate to the utter failure of its vital functions: it must be fed, it must be nourished properly, cared for and not abused, etc. Then there is the spiritual nature whose laws must also be obeyed if the soul will fulfill its function of directing its will to its proper end of being united to its Creator: nourish it with all the possible ways at man’s disposal; let it grow to the height it is meant for by its Creator. The union of body and soul implies their interacting together in a symbiotic way.
It is not within the realm of this paper to elaborate on those possible ways the Creator gave for man to use, but suffice it to say that He gave man a very potent tool he can use in directing his way to the right route towards his end. That tool is free will, the power to choose whether to harness or squander all the Creator’s gifts to mankind. Man has the power to choose whether to rise to the sublime and above the level of the brute, above the appetitive and sentient level of life or to go down and crawl like the serpent in the Garden of Eden.
The power to reason, a principle of activity basic to man’s nature, is a dynamic term connoting certain laws of nature which are within his reasonable intellect to observe, apprehend, analyze and act upon accordingly. Fully developed, this power urges him to seek truth and justice and pushes him to realms of grandeur and beauty. An impairment of this rationality, of course, or a refusal to exercise it in the accomplishment of a life harmonious to both his bodily and spiritual nature is an imperfection that may be traced to some physical defects (brain damage, for instance), cognitive flaws or societal ills, topics not within the realm of this discussion. Rationality, in the final analysis, is man’s greatest asset, his redeeming instrument in what is, more often than not, a tumultuous life journey.
- alma viajero
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Reply to a Friend's Cry for Help
Three years ago, at the height of the LAUSD payroll debacle, when salary payments for thousands of teachers got all screwed up, one member of my former egroup wrote with this title of Cry for Help. Since I didn't get to read the first part of the thread, I thought she was asking for help (in the form of donations or loans) in behalf of a friend in financial crisis as her house was supposed to be repossessed due to some kind of fraud their loan agent committed against her family. (It turned out she was actually the one asking for help in behalf of her own self.) That email exchange had gone on for some weeks and though I was not in a position to help financially, I thought I would offer my two-cents worth suggestions. So, I wrote:
Dear Friend,
Our internet and phone cable have been down for some weeks and I have now gain access to the internet only by using my visiting son’s computer. As I read your Cry for Help, I commiserate deeply. A few questions come to mind, though. Do you know this teacher personally? If she’s a teacher, can’t she get a loan from the Teachers’ Loan Association? She can get SSI assistance, though she might not qualify because teachers have salaries higher than entry level employees. Doesn’t she have relatives who could help her? What’s the work of the husband? Does she have other children who can already be of help? And the musician daughter of hers who was "forced to stop her usic lessons," can’t she try for scholarship if she’s talented as the mother says? This teenage turning into drugs might not have been caused solely by the threat of their losing their house; there might be something deeper than that.
I ask those questions because asking donations from others may take a toll on her self-esteem as an educated person and as a teacher) assumed to be capable of coping with this kind of eventuality or unforeseen circumstance. (I have a daughter having as much financial, marital and health problems but refuses to accept money from her family though the abundant moral support she welcomes.) Many others are either in the same boat as your friend, or even worst. I am in the latter category: I have not been receiving my monthly salary as a teacher because of this LAUSD payroll debacle you must have read about or heard on TV. The origin of my problem is worst—it’s not even because of the new messed-up payroll system; it was caused by my former school location’s incompetence which they wouldn’t even take responsibility for. I’m at my wit’s end trying to fight the principal, assistant principal and timekeeper to accept accountability in reversing their errors (which they refuse to do, perhaps for fear their incompetence will be exposed). In the meantime that I’m seeking a higher-up authority to direct the changes, I’m suffering financially and morally. My bill (especially mortgage) payments are delayed and naturally, that means compounded interest payment, overdrafts, etc., and you can just imagine the moral damage these have on me: I am a widow shouldering all these financial obligations. I have heard of even worst scenarios from other affected teachers: mortgage foreclosure, repossessed cars, stopped schooling of children in college, you name it.
Fighting for justice and eking a living at the same time can sap your energy, especially if you're a small fry. You have to give priority time to your present work. The principal belongs to the powers-that-be (and was even promoted despite anomalies he had allegedly committed in the past in another school). I go on teaching, just because it is my commitment to serve. Though sometimes one can waver in faith, one must keep on praying to maintain sanity in this chaotic world.. I turn to my faith for better or for worse, and remind myself that my faith in God is all that matters in the long run. Someone once put this so nicely into words: “We must realize that it is in order to stimulate and sustain this faith that God allows the soul to be buffeted and swept away by the raging torrent of so much distress, so many troubles, so much embarrassment and weakness, and so many setbacks. For it is essential to have faith to find God behind all this.” You might want to share this quote with your friend.
Fighting for justice and eking a living at the same time can sap your energy, especially if you're a small fry. You have to give priority time to your present work. The principal belongs to the powers-that-be (and was even promoted despite anomalies he had allegedly committed in the past in another school). I go on teaching, just because it is my commitment to serve. Though sometimes one can waver in faith, one must keep on praying to maintain sanity in this chaotic world.. I turn to my faith for better or for worse, and remind myself that my faith in God is all that matters in the long run. Someone once put this so nicely into words: “We must realize that it is in order to stimulate and sustain this faith that God allows the soul to be buffeted and swept away by the raging torrent of so much distress, so many troubles, so much embarrassment and weakness, and so many setbacks. For it is essential to have faith to find God behind all this.” You might want to share this quote with your friend.
The unbelievers may have their own say again against turning our trials into trials of faith and rising against all vicissitudes in life, or about why God is allowing all this to happen. Let them. Let’s stop putting blame in God for the blunders and injustice of people. For in the long run, we, who fight for justice, will overcome, maybe not here but in the life after. I hope your friend will be inspired by the words above.
-alma viajero
-alma viajero
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Voices from Our Lady of Fatima
There are voices that cannot be ignored. When one is called to serve, one may waver. But if the voices are insistent, one has to heed. When one gets the invitation from the Curia coordinator in late January with only one slot left in a series of scheduled visits to scattered areas; one's tiny voice inside says, "grab it!" The email that comes in says, "There are others trying to get this day (February 10), so confirm asap if your parish wants It." The "It" is the statue of the National Pilgrim Virgin Lady of Fatima that has been gifted to America by the Bishop of Fatima in Portugal, blessed by Pope Paul VI and crowned by Cardinal Boyle in the National Basilica in Washington, D.C.
Why all this fuss, you might ask. For those who are not aware about Our Lady of Fatima, especially among the younger generation, she is no other than our Blessed Virgin Mother Mary who, in 1917, appeared to three children in Fatima, Portugal with three secret messages which now have already been revealed by the last of the three, Sister Lucia, who passed away on February 14, 2005 at the age of 97. The World Apostolate of Fatima is sanctioned by the Roman Catholic Church to propagate the Fatima Message to obtain world peace. Though this is the main objective of the named National Pilgrim Virgin traveling around America, the statue also serves to remind us of the world's need to rise against the present chaos by incessantly praying the rosary.
It has been reported by some forty people that the Statue had shed tears while these people were praying for intercession in front of the image. Other witnesses report of healing and conversions.No wonder then that parishes vie to be honored this amazing Visit. But as in all organizations, coursing an invitation through a humble servant of God who has no authority to say "yes" or "no" entails channels to go through. One hastens to call the Legion president once, twice and then thrice with no answer and no return call either. One calls the vice-president once, twice as well and also no answer except the machine.
Finally, one reaches the Legion vice-president; one asks her to get the approval for the visit from whoever in the parish is left to man it in the meantime that the pastor is on leave. She comes back with the report that the deacon she finds in the parish office who is believed to have the authority to approve said it can't be done that hurriedly. That sounded delay. The deacon is to tell one later that the Legion representative couldn't answer a lot of questions on the Visit. No matter. One senses, even before getting the feedback from Sister vice-president, that there might not be someone left in the parish to expedite approval. So, one takes a bold step to email directly the pastor on leave though fearful he might be sick and unable to answer. It is a risk one takes, but one trusts in the Voice that says, "Work on this, let the Holy Mother use you for spreading Her love and message to the world." It's a risk-- a fear of being looked upon as assuming a role that should be that of the Legion President. But one cannot hold back the time: the clock is ticking. In one day, the chance to have the National Pilgrim Visit might be gone and in the meantime, our souls languish in hunger for Her love and protection. How can one let go of this precious opportunity practically at our door knocking? And the Voice is insistent: "You're a servant of God; no need to wait for those who are titled."
Then comes the pastor's (Father Alexander Lewis') answer through email, "So long as the group is legitimate and approved by the Archdiocese of Los Angeles and have a document saying so, I have no problem.Please contact Rosie Hernandez or Martha at the rectory by phone and email both so that you can organize the date/location with Martha.... you will have to take care of the publicity getting, to the bulletin person, etc." How he must love Mother Mary to have acted so fast! How trustful he must be that the one he's assigning and the whole parish community can organize everything even if it's practically in the nick of time.
One's planning, organizing and communication skills, long dormant from ancient days, are once more put to use. Moreover, one's love for Mother Mary is put to test. It is a marathon of sorts. One stays up till midnight to email confirmation of the date to Bro. Victor Yap of the Curia and to the Regional Coordinator from whom one needs to get documents attesting to the legitimacy of the World Apostolate movement to present to our pastor and whoever might ask. One works frenziedly through the following two weeks to compose the news release and announcement for all the Masses, to email all parish leaders to have them mobilize their members: the Hispanic community, the Filipino community, the Vietnamese community, the senior citizens, the charismatic group, the youth group, the Our Lady of Peace school--Mother Mary being the Mother of All Mankind and not just of the Legionaries." One maps out the program. One coordinates and discusses distribution of tasks and responsibilities to one's Legion sisters and brother who all embrace such participation with enthusiasm, with love for our Mother Mary, and with excitement
.
A few snags, but nothing to worry about: where to house the official custodian bringing and guarding the precious Statue and the three ladies assisting him--Sisters Josie, Helen and Letty; last minute details---the songs, the rites, the ushers. And the lector/reader, forgotten in all the commotion, so that one has to do it, unrehearsed, as other Legion members are to assume likewise some other roles in the rites. Bro. Victor of the Curia, sending out the flier to all other parishes. Maribel Fechtner coming to the rescue (thanks to Sister Mary Foronda of St. Bridget Church) in providing the housing for the four WAF personnel. Such miraculous responses to one's plea for Mother Mary to intervene.
A sodality of Marian children coming together: the Regina Pacem Presaedium of Our Lady of Peace, Rosie, dear pastoral associate, singing Ave Maria a capella; Deacon Rey (who stayed with the devotees through the end of the day), Martha, dear secretary; Tim, ever loyal pianist; Ms. Jasso, school principal; Thanh Tran, Anthony Nguyen, Bro.Celso and his chivalrous knights of the Holy Name of Jesus; Olga Castillo of the Legion de Maria and the many others in our diverse community. All are gems in our church! But most of all, Father Alexander--(A more caring pastor one has not seen in a long time!). In one's heart of hearts, one says THANK YOU, though you may probably never get to read this!
Finally, the World Pilgrim Lady of Fatima comes to a people waiting for Mother Mary's blessing, for Her grace, for Her powerful intercession in their petitions, both for the world and for their own private supplication. Hail the Mother of God! May She always be with us to light our way and guard us as a nation and as a people looking to Her as our Holy Mother. May the world heed her pleas for incessant prayers for a world hungry for peace!
-Blanca Datuin aka Alma Viajero
Mother Mary's Message reminds us of our own responsibility for our salvation and for world peace:
Why all this fuss, you might ask. For those who are not aware about Our Lady of Fatima, especially among the younger generation, she is no other than our Blessed Virgin Mother Mary who, in 1917, appeared to three children in Fatima, Portugal with three secret messages which now have already been revealed by the last of the three, Sister Lucia, who passed away on February 14, 2005 at the age of 97. The World Apostolate of Fatima is sanctioned by the Roman Catholic Church to propagate the Fatima Message to obtain world peace. Though this is the main objective of the named National Pilgrim Virgin traveling around America, the statue also serves to remind us of the world's need to rise against the present chaos by incessantly praying the rosary.
It has been reported by some forty people that the Statue had shed tears while these people were praying for intercession in front of the image. Other witnesses report of healing and conversions.No wonder then that parishes vie to be honored this amazing Visit. But as in all organizations, coursing an invitation through a humble servant of God who has no authority to say "yes" or "no" entails channels to go through. One hastens to call the Legion president once, twice and then thrice with no answer and no return call either. One calls the vice-president once, twice as well and also no answer except the machine.
Finally, one reaches the Legion vice-president; one asks her to get the approval for the visit from whoever in the parish is left to man it in the meantime that the pastor is on leave. She comes back with the report that the deacon she finds in the parish office who is believed to have the authority to approve said it can't be done that hurriedly. That sounded delay. The deacon is to tell one later that the Legion representative couldn't answer a lot of questions on the Visit. No matter. One senses, even before getting the feedback from Sister vice-president, that there might not be someone left in the parish to expedite approval. So, one takes a bold step to email directly the pastor on leave though fearful he might be sick and unable to answer. It is a risk one takes, but one trusts in the Voice that says, "Work on this, let the Holy Mother use you for spreading Her love and message to the world." It's a risk-- a fear of being looked upon as assuming a role that should be that of the Legion President. But one cannot hold back the time: the clock is ticking. In one day, the chance to have the National Pilgrim Visit might be gone and in the meantime, our souls languish in hunger for Her love and protection. How can one let go of this precious opportunity practically at our door knocking? And the Voice is insistent: "You're a servant of God; no need to wait for those who are titled."
Then comes the pastor's (Father Alexander Lewis') answer through email, "So long as the group is legitimate and approved by the Archdiocese of Los Angeles and have a document saying so, I have no problem.Please contact Rosie Hernandez or Martha at the rectory by phone and email both so that you can organize the date/location with Martha.... you will have to take care of the publicity getting, to the bulletin person, etc." How he must love Mother Mary to have acted so fast! How trustful he must be that the one he's assigning and the whole parish community can organize everything even if it's practically in the nick of time.
One's planning, organizing and communication skills, long dormant from ancient days, are once more put to use. Moreover, one's love for Mother Mary is put to test. It is a marathon of sorts. One stays up till midnight to email confirmation of the date to Bro. Victor Yap of the Curia and to the Regional Coordinator from whom one needs to get documents attesting to the legitimacy of the World Apostolate movement to present to our pastor and whoever might ask. One works frenziedly through the following two weeks to compose the news release and announcement for all the Masses, to email all parish leaders to have them mobilize their members: the Hispanic community, the Filipino community, the Vietnamese community, the senior citizens, the charismatic group, the youth group, the Our Lady of Peace school--Mother Mary being the Mother of All Mankind and not just of the Legionaries." One maps out the program. One coordinates and discusses distribution of tasks and responsibilities to one's Legion sisters and brother who all embrace such participation with enthusiasm, with love for our Mother Mary, and with excitement
.
A few snags, but nothing to worry about: where to house the official custodian bringing and guarding the precious Statue and the three ladies assisting him--Sisters Josie, Helen and Letty; last minute details---the songs, the rites, the ushers. And the lector/reader, forgotten in all the commotion, so that one has to do it, unrehearsed, as other Legion members are to assume likewise some other roles in the rites. Bro. Victor of the Curia, sending out the flier to all other parishes. Maribel Fechtner coming to the rescue (thanks to Sister Mary Foronda of St. Bridget Church) in providing the housing for the four WAF personnel. Such miraculous responses to one's plea for Mother Mary to intervene.
A sodality of Marian children coming together: the Regina Pacem Presaedium of Our Lady of Peace, Rosie, dear pastoral associate, singing Ave Maria a capella; Deacon Rey (who stayed with the devotees through the end of the day), Martha, dear secretary; Tim, ever loyal pianist; Ms. Jasso, school principal; Thanh Tran, Anthony Nguyen, Bro.Celso and his chivalrous knights of the Holy Name of Jesus; Olga Castillo of the Legion de Maria and the many others in our diverse community. All are gems in our church! But most of all, Father Alexander--(A more caring pastor one has not seen in a long time!). In one's heart of hearts, one says THANK YOU, though you may probably never get to read this!
Finally, the World Pilgrim Lady of Fatima comes to a people waiting for Mother Mary's blessing, for Her grace, for Her powerful intercession in their petitions, both for the world and for their own private supplication. Hail the Mother of God! May She always be with us to light our way and guard us as a nation and as a people looking to Her as our Holy Mother. May the world heed her pleas for incessant prayers for a world hungry for peace!
-Blanca Datuin aka Alma Viajero
Mother Mary's Message reminds us of our own responsibility for our salvation and for world peace:
"The action of God, the Lord of history, and the co-responsibility of man in the drama of his creative freedom, are the two pillars upon which human history is built.
Our Lady, who appeared at Fatima, recalls these forgotten values. She reminds us that man's future is in God, and that we are active and responsible partners in creating that future."
Tarcisio Bertone, SDB
Archbishop Emeritus of Vercelli
Secretary of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith
Archbishop Emeritus of Vercelli
Secretary of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith
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