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
A sharing of whatever there is in this life that is worth sharing or that we can learn from.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
A MUST-READ FOR PRO-CHOICE ACTIVISTS
Sharing stories about some people who could have been victims of abortion and info that pro-choice activists might want to reflect on in making choices about abortion.
From Washington comes the news that a new biography of Apple founder Steve Jobs indicates the business visionary was glad he did not become a victim of abortion.
Wow, what gems that could have been expelled from the uterus in today's mores! How many millions unborn fetuses have there been ejected, cast out, pierced into lifeless beings? Yes, pierced, as with a lance, right into the sac and sometimes, the head of the fetus, the gory details of which a witness to such an operation trembles to tell. And some woman would say it's her body and she has a right to choose what to do with her body and what grows in her body. Has she? A re-definition of right is perhaps in order here, or a distinction between right and license.
Thousands of women at a crossroad have chosen to follow their conscience not to kill but to take the alternative of giving their babies for adoption. Some adopted children have grown up to become famous, as can be seen from a partial list below.
But what if the baby turns out to be otherwise--perhaps, a failure, a loser? Or, a deformed, crippled, with mangled parts, etc? A human being, nevertheless, that we have no right to do away with. There are many out there with so much love in their hearts that they're willing to take up the challenges of adopting such a child will pose. When we beget our own biological children, we don't really know how they'll come out or grow up into. It's a risk one takes, as all of us must take most everyday of our lives.
I'm an adoptive mother myself. And though the child grew up in the same environment as my biological children, went to exclusive schools and given all the opportunities to succeed, a wrong choice of partner has turned her life into misery. But I admire her for not having given away a single child of hers and has chosen to embrace them with love, the way she grew up with all the caring and love of two parents. And we have remained closely connected. As I often told her when she was a child (a quote from the great Chilean poet Gabriela Mistral ), "You may not have grown in my tummy, but you grew right under my heart."
Let's take a look at some famous adoptions and read the story that follows about a product of a rape. Read the next story about a gravely ill pregnant mother who chose to risk her life against the advise to abort. See how the child she chose to carry to full term has grown to be.



From Washington comes the news that a new biography of Apple founder Steve Jobs indicates the business visionary was glad he did not become a victim of abortion.
“My conception and birth were beautiful stories of life. They were not stories about choices. They were stories of my parents’ selfless love of life and their unwavering faith in God who knows and sets the bounds and ends of our lives”
- Tim Tebow, an American football player who is currently the starting quarterback for the Denver Broncos of the National .. Wow, what gems that could have been expelled from the uterus in today's mores! How many millions unborn fetuses have there been ejected, cast out, pierced into lifeless beings? Yes, pierced, as with a lance, right into the sac and sometimes, the head of the fetus, the gory details of which a witness to such an operation trembles to tell. And some woman would say it's her body and she has a right to choose what to do with her body and what grows in her body. Has she? A re-definition of right is perhaps in order here, or a distinction between right and license.
Thousands of women at a crossroad have chosen to follow their conscience not to kill but to take the alternative of giving their babies for adoption. Some adopted children have grown up to become famous, as can be seen from a partial list below.
But what if the baby turns out to be otherwise--perhaps, a failure, a loser? Or, a deformed, crippled, with mangled parts, etc? A human being, nevertheless, that we have no right to do away with. There are many out there with so much love in their hearts that they're willing to take up the challenges of adopting such a child will pose. When we beget our own biological children, we don't really know how they'll come out or grow up into. It's a risk one takes, as all of us must take most everyday of our lives.
I'm an adoptive mother myself. And though the child grew up in the same environment as my biological children, went to exclusive schools and given all the opportunities to succeed, a wrong choice of partner has turned her life into misery. But I admire her for not having given away a single child of hers and has chosen to embrace them with love, the way she grew up with all the caring and love of two parents. And we have remained closely connected. As I often told her when she was a child (a quote from the great Chilean poet Gabriela Mistral ), "You may not have grown in my tummy, but you grew right under my heart."
Let's take a look at some famous adoptions and read the story that follows about a product of a rape. Read the next story about a gravely ill pregnant mother who chose to risk her life against the advise to abort. See how the child she chose to carry to full term has grown to be.




Famous adoptions
The story of Moses from Exodus 1:15-2:10 and his mother releasing him to the care of the Pharoah’s daughter shows the deep love of a birthmother for her child and the gift of life she gives when she releases her child for adoption. -from a Bible Lesson
Some famous adopted people:
![]() | Faith Hill is not only a famous country music singer, but also an Adopted Child. "Having been adopted, I really have a strong sense-a necessity almost-for stability. A foundation where my family is concerned. [Success] would be meaningless without anyone to share it with." | |
![]() | Bill Clinton was not only the President of the USA, but also an Adopted Child. "We must work tirelessly to make sure that every boy and girl in America who is up for adoption has a family waiting to reach him or her… This is a season of miracles, and perhaps there is no greater miracle than finding a loving home for a child who needs one." | |
![]() | Dave Thomas is not only the famous owner of the Wendy's food chain, but also a proud adopted child. "Everyone's got to be for a child to have a home and love. I mean I don't know anyone who would be against that." | |
![]() | John Lennon was not only a famous musician, but an adopted child as well. His aunt adopted him when he was born and raised him. | |
![]() | Jesse Jackson is not only a minister but also a proud Adopted Child. "Charlie Henry (Jackson) adopted me and gave me his name, his love, his encouragement, discipline and a high sense of self-respect." | |
![]() | Greg Louganis is not only a former Olympic diver but also an Adopted Child. "Mom said that what really cinched the deal was my smile. Once she saw that, she didn't want to look at any other babies." | |
![]() | Kate Mulgrew is not only a famous actress, but a proud birthmother as well. "Life is sacred to me on all levels. Abortion does not compute with my philosophy." | |
![]() | David Crosby is not only a famous singer, but also a proud birthfather. His biological son quotes, "He was worried about me being this angry young man-'You abandoned me,' that sort of thing. That wasn't even an issue." |
Mom reunites with biological child 77 years later
SAN CLEMENTE, Calif. (AP) — For most of her 100 years, Minka Disbrow tried to find out what became of the precious baby girl she gave up for adoption after being raped as a teen.
She hoped, but never imagined, she'd see her Betty Jane again.
The cruel act of violence bore in Disbrow an enduring love for the child. She kept a black and white photograph of the baby bundled in blankets and tucked inside a basket.
It was the last she saw of the girl — until the phone rang in her California apartment in 2006 with the voice of an Alabama man and a story she could have only dreamed.
Disbrow, the daughter of Dutch immigrants, weathered a harsh childhood milking cows on South Dakota dairy farms. Her stepfather thought high school was for city kids who had nothing else to do. She finished eighth grade in a country schoolhouse with just one teacher and worked long hours at the dairy.
On a summer day in 1928 while picnicking with girls from a sewing class, Disbrow and her friend Elizabeth were jumped by three men as they went for a walk in their long dresses.
Both were raped.
"We didn't know what to do. We didn't know what to say. So when we went back, nothing was said," Disbrow recalled.
Months passed. Her body began to change.
Disbrow, who had been told babies were brought by storks, didn't know what was happening.
Her mother and stepfather sent her to a Lutheran home for pregnant girls. At 17, she gave birth to a blond-haired baby with a deep dimple in her chin and named her Betty Jane.
In her heart, Disbrow longed to keep her. But her head and her mother told her she couldn't bring an infant back to the farm.
A pastor and his wife were looking to adopt a child. She hoped they could give Betty Jane the home she couldn't.
"I loved that baby so much. I wanted what was best," Disbrow said.
She never met them, or knew their names. But over the years, Disbrow wrote dozens of letters to the adoption agency to find out how her daughter was faring. The agency replied faithfully with updates until there was a change in management, and they eventually lost touch.
Disbrow's life went on. She married a fruit salesman who became a wartime pilot and drafting engineer and they had two children. She worked as a dressmaker, silk saleswoman and school cafeteria manager in cities spanning from Rhode Island to Minnesota and Northern California before moving to the seaside town of San Clemente an hour's drive north of San Diego.
Every year, she thought about Betty Jane on her May 22 birthday.
Five years ago, Disbrow prayed she might get the chance to see her.
"Lord, if you would just let me see her," Disbrow remembers praying. "I promise you I will never bother her."
On July 2, the phone rang.
It was a man from Alabama. He started asking Disbrow, then 94, about her background.
Worried about identity theft, Disbrow cut him off, and peppered him with questions.
Then, the man asked if she'd like to speak with Betty Jane.
Her name was now Ruth Lee. She had been raised by a Norwegian pastor and his wife and had gone on to marry and have six children including the Alabama man, a teacher and astronaut Mark Lee, a veteran of four space flights who has circled the world 517 times. She worked for nearly 20 years at Walmart — and especially enjoyed tending to the garden area.
Lee knew she was adopted her whole life, and grew up a happy child.
It wasn't until she was in her 70s that the search for her biological parents began.
Lee started suffering from heart problems and doctors asked about the family's medical history. She knew nothing about it. Her son, Brian, decided to try to find out more and petitioned the court in South Dakota for his mother's adoption records.
He got a stack of more than 270 pages including a written account of the assault and handwritten letters from a young Disbrow, asking about the tiny baby she had cradled for a month.
He then went online to try to find one of Disbrow's relatives — possibly through an obituary.
"I was looking for somebody I thought was probably not living," said Lee's now-54-year-old son. He typed Disbrow's name into a web directory and was shocked when a phone listing popped up. "I kind of stopped breathing for a second."
On the phone with her biological daughter, Disbrow was in disbelief. Her legs began to tremble. She couldn't understand how a naïve dairy farm girl without an education could have such accomplished grandchildren.
A month later, Ruth Lee and Brian Lee flew to California. They arrived at Disbrow's meticulous apartment on a palm tree-lined street armed with a gigantic bouquet of flowers.
Disbrow couldn't get over how Lee's hands were like her mother's. Lee was amazed at the women's similar taste in clothing. They pored over family photo albums and caught up on the years Disbrow had missed.
"It was just like we had never parted," Disbrow said. "Like you were with the family all your life."
Since then, the families have met numerous times. Disbrow has gone to visit grandchildren and great-grandchildren in Wisconsin and Texas. She is planning to travel to Alabama in the spring, where they will celebrate her recently marked 100th birthday.
Disbrow has started sharing her story with members of her church and community. The Orange County Register ran a story about Disbrow's journey in December. The family's improbable reunion also made the local newspaper in Viroqua, Lee's hometown in western Wisconsin.
"It has been such a surreal, amazing experience that I still think sometimes that I will wake up and it will just be a beautiful dream," the 82-year-old Lee said.
Disbrow's daughter Dianna Huhn, 65, of Portland, Ore., said the reunion has filled a void for her mother — one that for many years, the sharp, stylish woman with sparkling blue eyes kept a deep, dark secret.
"I have never seen my mother as happy," said Huhn.
The New Yorker, Adopted Celebrities
Lynette Cole - Miss USA 2000
Melissa Gilbert - Actress
Priscilla Presley - Actress
Sarah McLachlan - Singer
Scott Hamilton - Professional Figure Skater
Edward Albee (playwright)
John J. Audubon (naturalist)
Les Brown (motivational speaker)
Sen. Robert Byrd
Peter and Kitty Carruthers (skaters)
Nat King Cole (singer)
Christina Crawford (author)
Faith Daniel's (TV news personality)
Ted Danson (actor) (he is adopted and has adopted a child also)
Eric Dickerson (professional football)
President Gerald Ford
Melissa Gilbert (actress)
Newt Gingrich (politics) Scott Hamilton (skater)
Debi Harry (singer)
Brent Jasmer (actor)
Steven Paul Jobs (co-founder of Apple Computers)
Matthew and Patrick Laborteaux (actors)
Rep. Jim Lightfoot
Art Linkletter (TV personality)
Charlotte Anne Lopez (Miss Teen USA)
James McArthur (actor, son of Helen Hayes)
James Michener (author)
Tom Monaghan (founder of Domino's Pizza, owner of Detroit Tigers)
Marilyn Monroe (actress)
Moses (Biblical leader)
Dan O'Brien( Olympic gold medalist-Decathlon)
Hugh O'Connor (actor)
Jim Palmer (prof. baseball)
Michael Reagan (President's son)
Nancy Reagan (First Lady)
Wilson Riles (educator)
Victoria Rowell (actress)
By Nick Vicera (Originally published in Filipinas Magazine, July 2009)
Another story forwarded by Marino Bual, a friend from cyberspace:
Source: http://www.filipinasmag.com/?p=496 Pete
Amidst the roaring chants of adoring fans, Tim Tebow towers like a giant in the football field as he directs the offense of his collegiate championship team, the University of Florida Gators . As the first college sophomore to win the much-coveted Heisman Trophy, given to only the best college football players, he can stand as an equal to such football legends as Mike Ditka, Joe Schmidt, or Joe Montana.
But Tim’s personal story goes beyond football. His other greatness lies in walking around as a virtual unknown in the muddy streets, dirty markets and slums of Mindanao where he preaches a message of love to those whose lives are mired in misery and poverty.
“My conception and birth were beautiful stories of life. They were not stories about choices. They were stories of my parents’ selfless love of life and their unwavering faith in God who knows and sets the bounds and ends of our lives” says Tim, in describing the agonizing circumstance and joyful outcome of his birth in the Philippines, where his parents, Bob and Pam Tebow, worked for five years as Baptist Church missionaries in South Cotabato, Mindanao some 24 years ago.
Because of the poor sanitation that was and still is a common situation in the rural areas of the Philippines , Tim’s mother contracted dysentery while pregnant with him. She fell into a coma. To combat her infection, her Filipino doctor administered a high dose of antibiotics that triggered the side effect of placental abruption.
The Philippines , a predominantly Catholic country, outlaws abortion except in cases when the life of the mother is endangered. Thus, the attending physician of Pam Tebow recommended abortion. “But my Christian faith led me to decide otherwise,” says Pam. “I was flown to Makati , the country’s business capital, to seek the second advice of a medical specialist. With my strong trust in God and in the power of prayers, and encouraged by the care of my new doctor, I carried Tim to term and delivered him a normal infant.”
“That baby who was at first handed a stillbirth sentence in the Philippines would later carry a U.S. college football team to two national championships and is marked to go down as one of the greatest players ever to play the game of football,” says Urban Meyer, head coach of the University of Florida Gators, the 2006 and 2008 Bowl Championship Series (BCS) collegiate champion, with whom Tim has played as quarterback.
Twenty years after his birth in the Philippines , Tim grabbed the sports headlines in the U.S. by contributing as a key reserve in the 2006 collegiate football national championship against Ohio State University . In that championship game, he threw for one touchdown and rushed for another, finishing with 39 rushing yards, which helped secure the 41-14 victory for his Gators team.
Instant Celebrity
Tim first appeared in the sports radar screen in 2006 as one of the nation’s top recruits for college football. He became an instant sports celebrity. He was featured in an ESPN “Faces in Sports” documentary and got the unique branding of a dual threat quarterback because of his mobility to elude or run past defenders of opposing teams. His innate mobility gives him that flexibility to dictate games at will, passing or running, with him either handing the ball off, running it himself, or pitching it to his running back.
Highly sought by coaches of 80 collegiate institutions, Tim chose to attend the University of Florida , the alma mater of both his parents. He made his college debut coming off the bench against Southern Mississippi University. His biggest game in his first college season came against the Louisiana State University when he maneuvered all three of his team’s touchdowns, passing for two and rushing for another.
Tim lived up to the expectations of sports analysts of major news networks. He always played fearless in the field, rushed yards, ran games by himself, and earned the nicknames “running freight truck” and “superman Tebow.” It only took him two years in college to break playing records and post new ones. He is the first and only player in NCAA history to rush and pass for at least 20 touchdowns in both categories in the same season. He compiled 55 touchdowns in his 2007 sophomore season—32 passing and 23 rushing—the most in the history of college football. His rushing touchdowns of that season were the most by a quarterback and are a record-setting feat.
In January of this year at the Dolphin Stadium in Miami , Florida , Tim wowed 73,468 people that were in attendance for the 2008 BCS National Championship against the University of Oklahoma Sooners . After the Sooners’ first failed ten-yard conversion, the towering 6’3” 240-pound left-handed Gators quarterback in his number 15 jersey stepped on the field at 11:47 of the first quarter, and immediately the sea of blue-shirted Gator Nation fans erupted in roaring chants. Four minutes into the second quarter, he threw a pass to his wide receiver Louis Murphy for the first touchdown of the game.
The Oklahoma Sooners retaliated with their own touchdown in the same quarter. The defenses of both teams then became stifling and the game tied at 14-14 three minutes into the last period. The Florida Gators scored a field goal midway through the period and cushioned themselves with a 17-14 lead. With 3:07 left on the game clock and at second-and-goal face-off at the Sooners’ four-yard line, Tim soared for his trademark jump pass with pinpoint accuracy to his other wide receiver David Nelson and gave their Gator team a final 24-14 lead, and all the way to their second national football championship in three seasons. Tim was voted the best offensive player of the game, accounting for 340 yards of total offenses, 109 of which was rushing, and two passing touchdowns.
The Filipino Connection
“My parents moved back here in the U.S. when I was three years old,” Tim recollects. “As I was still a toddler when I was there, I have vague memories of my having lived in the Philippines , except perhaps my having been in the care of my Filipina yaya (babysitter). But one thing for sure, I have a deep attachment to the country and its people. I have been joining my dad’s Christian mission to the Philippines every summer these last four years, and these trips have been my eye opener to the things that need to be done for the less fortunate people, especially children, in that part of our world.”
What Tim’s dad started in the Philippines some twenty years ago as a young missionary is now a strong and established ministry of 45 Filipino evangelist staff and 13 workers now funded by the Bob Tebow Evangelistic Association of Jacksonville, Florida. It’s located in Cotabato in Mindanao —the hotbed of the southern Muslim insurgency. “The mission is about bringing the faith of Jesus and the goodwill of the American people to over 15 million people in the island.
Through our church planting ministry, we have worked with over 10,000 local churches in the Philippines to build new churches. We also work closely with a local seminary to train local pastors. We hold seasonal charity clinics to provide free healthcare services and distribute medicines to poor people who can’t afford to see a doctor, much more, buy medicines,” says Tebow’s dad, Bob. “We also have built an orphanage, the Uncle Dick’s Home that now houses more than fifty homeless orphans.”
Every summer, when schools are on break, Tim goes to that barangay (barrio) in the Philippines where his dad had set up his mission. There, as a virtual unknown and away from the media spotlight, he walks the streets of Cotabato and visits the markets of Digos with the Holy Bible in his hand to preach the gospel of Jesus. He saddles homeless kids on his shoulder in the slums of Sarangani and plays kuya (big brother) to them while handing out candies and chocolates. He bathes in cold water just like the natives do, and runs errands for volunteer doctors and nurses who perform surgeries on indigent patients in makeshift operating tables.
A world away from their home in Jacksonville , Florida , that faces the Atlantic, Tim finds himself in a different playing field in the island of Mindanao that is nestled in the Pacific. “It is a much different ballgame,” he says. “There, I hear no roaring chants from fans rooting for a touchdown, but deafening silence as people desire to receive the words of Jesus that I preach about. I see none of those eyes of adulation when we win games, but eyes of faith of people searching for Jesus who I talk about,” Tim relates. “You kind of find out from the get-go, what sets faith apart and what a game is just about.”
With all his outstanding achievements in football, Tim will definitely emerge as the top NFL draft pick of his 2010 class as soon he steps out of college. But he has set his sight and his heart on other things, too—that little orphanage of more than fifty children in Mindanao that his father had founded. “Those kids make me more grounded and help me put things in proper perspective,” he says. “At the end of the day, what matters may not only be about scoring a touchdown, but also winning the future of those kids who do not get the opportunity to receive that touch of hope and love that you and I may have the means of giving.”
1. Christopher C. Hugo says:
Once a year, the Filipino community in the United States celebrates our Independence Day through a variety of festivities culminating in a parade and a version of the Philippine fiesta. I never participate in any of these celebrations except in one instance when my family visited the Philippine Fiesta in New Jersey about 3 years ago out of sheer curiosity.
Why? Because, I am not an “Independence Day Pinoy.” I celebrate the Filipino every day:
1. Though difficult (according to my Filipino neighbors), I teach my kids about Philippine culture and language and to be proud Filipinos.
Just recently, while we were vacationing in Ohio , my sister-in-law (who was then with my kids in a mall) bumped into a group of Filipinos who were surprised to hear my kids speaking in Filipino. When my sister-in-law told me about this incident, I replied: “Why not? My kids are Filipinos although they were born in the U.S. ”
Europeans, Hispanics, and other Asians living in the U.S. continue to be proud of their heritage despite being away from their respective motherlands. Why should we be different? Could this be one of the reasons why we continue to lag behind our Asian brothers and sisters such as Japan , South Korea , China , Vietnam , Malaysia , etc.?
2. I condemn Filipinos abroad who openly attack the Philippines /Philippine government for its apparent shortcomings. For a Filipino to do the same, he must have done something (i.e., paid taxes, followed traffic rules, honestly worked as a public servant, etc.) to improve the Philippines while he was still living there.
If a Filipino abroad did not do anything (or is not doing something) to improve the lot of the Filipino, he has forfeited his right to openly criticize the Filipino or the Philippines .
A few years ago, I met an “Iskolar ng Bayan,” living in the Midwest, who had nothing positive to say about the Filipino or the Philippines . I wanted to confront him then but out of respect for the event’s sponsor, I did not. This ingrate, who obtained his world class medical education from a premier Philippine public university courtesy of the Filipino taxpayer, had the temerity to malign the Philippines despite failing to give back to his Motherland (Almost immediately after obtaining his MD and passing the licensure examinations, he left for the United States and has since then sporadically vacationed in the Philippines for brief periods). Certainly, this person has lost his right to criticize the Filipino or the Philippines .
3. When vacationing in the Philippines, I strive follow the traffic rules. I refuse to believe that such rules are mere suggestions as a friend of mine once told me. In fact, I refuse to believe that it (following such rules) can’t be done in the Philippines . If we follow the rules in our adopted countries, it behooves us to do the same while in our Motherland.
Two years ago, I needed a police clearance for a consultancy job in the Philippines . I waited in line for almost 5 hours to obtain the clearance albeit I could have gotten the same by merely calling a friend. We cannot criticize the system and at the same time use it to our advantage whenever convenient.
Yesterday, I had a visitor (a learned man, a native Filipino and now a US citizen) who in the same breath lambasted what he calls the Philippine “bureaucracy” while he proudly exhibited his joy for taking advantage of the system’s alleged inequities (Apparently, he only paid a fraction of the property tax for his estate in Metro Manila because he knows someone at the City Assessor’s office). Such hypocrisy!
I am not saying that Filipinos abroad cannot criticize the Filipino or the Philippines . But before we do so, let us ask ourselves what have we done for our Motherland? There are more than enough Filipino armchair critics. Let us not increase their numbers. What we need are Filipinos who can propose and implement solutions for the ills of the Philippines .
I am not a perfect Filipino. Nobody is. However, I endeavor to celebrate the Filipino every day, not only during the Independence Day or when Manny Pacquiao is winning. I know in my heart that one can never go wrong for passionately loving our Motherland. [07/06/2010]
__,_._,___
The New Yorker, Adopted Celebrities
Lynette Cole - Miss USA 2000
Melissa Gilbert - Actress
Priscilla Presley - Actress
Sarah McLachlan - Singer
Scott Hamilton - Professional Figure Skater
Edward Albee (playwright)
John J. Audubon (naturalist)
Les Brown (motivational speaker)
Sen. Robert Byrd
Peter and Kitty Carruthers (skaters)
Nat King Cole (singer)
Christina Crawford (author)
Faith Daniel's (TV news personality)
Ted Danson (actor) (he is adopted and has adopted a child also)
Eric Dickerson (professional football)
President Gerald Ford
Melissa Gilbert (actress)
Newt Gingrich (politics) Scott Hamilton (skater)
Debi Harry (singer)
Brent Jasmer (actor)
Steven Paul Jobs (co-founder of Apple Computers)
Matthew and Patrick Laborteaux (actors)
Rep. Jim Lightfoot
Art Linkletter (TV personality)
Charlotte Anne Lopez (Miss Teen USA)
James McArthur (actor, son of Helen Hayes)
James Michener (author)
Tom Monaghan (founder of Domino's Pizza, owner of Detroit Tigers)
Marilyn Monroe (actress)
Moses (Biblical leader)
Dan O'Brien( Olympic gold medalist-Decathlon)
Hugh O'Connor (actor)
Jim Palmer (prof. baseball)
Michael Reagan (President's son)
Nancy Reagan (First Lady)
Wilson Riles (educator)
Victoria Rowell (actress)
Adoptive Parent Celebrities
Calista Flockhart - Actress
Dan Marino - Professional Athlete
Ed McMahon - Entertainer
Jane Fonda - Actress
Kirby Puckett - Professional Athlete
Magic Johnson - Professional Athlete
Maury Povich - Talk Show Host
Ozzy and Sharon Osborne - Singer and Actress
Willie Mays - Hall of Fame Professional Athlete
Brooke Adams
Woody Allen (director)
Julie Andrews (singer/actress)
Eve Arden (actress)
Pearl Bailey (singer/actress)
Harry Belafonte (singer)
Regina Belle (singer)
Lloyd Bentsen (Sec. of Treasury)
Taurean Blacque (actor)
Erma Bombeck (humorist)
Mai Britt (actress, ex-wife of Sammy Davis Jr.)
Charles Bronson and Jill Ireland (actors)
Denise Scott Brown (architect)
Art Buchwald (humorist)
George Burns (comedian)
Sen. Ben Nighthorse Campbell
Kitty Caruthers (skating champion)
Rt. Hon. Jean Chretien and Aline (Prime Minister, Canada)
Jamie Lee Curtis (actress)
Ted Danson (actor)
Bette Davis (actress)
Sammy Davis, Jr. (entertainer)
Oscar de la Renta (fashion designer)
John DeLorean (industrialist)
Patty Duke (actress)
John Gregory Dunn and Joan Didion (authors)
Peter Falk (actor)
Henry Fonda (actor)
Joan Fontaine (actress)
Robert Fulghum (author)
Teri Garr (actress)
Lou Gosselt, Jr. (actor)
Karen Grassle (actress)
Horace George Hamilton
Valerie Harper (actress)
Helen Hayes (actress)
Sen. Jesse Helms
Bob and Dorothy Hope (comedian/singer)
Sen. Gordon Humphrey
Kate Jackson (actress)
Jill Krementz (author)
Kris Kristofferson (singer)
Patti LaBelle (singer)
Hedy Lamarr (actress)
Michael Landon (actor)
Jerry Lewis (comedian, singer, dancer, actor, entertainer )
Willle Mays (prof. baseball)
Sen. John McCain
Ed McMahon (TV personality)
Richard King Mellon
Donna Mills (actress)
Paul Newman (actor)
Carroll O'Connor (actor)
Marie Osmond (singer)
Estelle Parsons (actress)
Michelle Pfeiffer (actress)
Kirby Puckett (prof. baseball)
Sarah Purcell (TV personality)
Sally Jessy Raphael (TV personalily)
President Ronald Reagan
Roy Rogers/Dale Evans (actors)
Al Roker (TV personality)
Linda Ronstadt (singer)
Isabella Rossellini (model, actress)
Susan Ruttan (actress)
Gail Sheehy (author)
Sen. Paul Simon
Arthur Ochs Sulzberger, Sr. (newspaper publisher)
Gloria Swanson (actress)
Robert Urich (actor) and wife Heather Mendes (actress)
Robert Venturi (architect)
Kurt Vonnegut (author)
Jane Wallace (TV personality)
Marcia Wallace (actress)
Barbara Walters (TV personality)
Jann Wenner (magazine editor)
Diane Wiest (actress)
Jo Beth Williams (actress)
Judy Woodruff (TV news personality)
Ted Danson (actor) (he is adopted and has adopted a child too)
Dan Marino - Professional Athlete
Ed McMahon - Entertainer
Jane Fonda - Actress
Kirby Puckett - Professional Athlete
Magic Johnson - Professional Athlete
Maury Povich - Talk Show Host
Ozzy and Sharon Osborne - Singer and Actress
Willie Mays - Hall of Fame Professional Athlete
Brooke Adams
Woody Allen (director)
Julie Andrews (singer/actress)
Eve Arden (actress)
Pearl Bailey (singer/actress)
Harry Belafonte (singer)
Regina Belle (singer)
Lloyd Bentsen (Sec. of Treasury)
Taurean Blacque (actor)
Erma Bombeck (humorist)
Mai Britt (actress, ex-wife of Sammy Davis Jr.)
Charles Bronson and Jill Ireland (actors)
Denise Scott Brown (architect)
Art Buchwald (humorist)
George Burns (comedian)
Sen. Ben Nighthorse Campbell
Kitty Caruthers (skating champion)
Rt. Hon. Jean Chretien and Aline (Prime Minister, Canada)
Jamie Lee Curtis (actress)
Ted Danson (actor)
Bette Davis (actress)
Sammy Davis, Jr. (entertainer)
Oscar de la Renta (fashion designer)
John DeLorean (industrialist)
Patty Duke (actress)
John Gregory Dunn and Joan Didion (authors)
Peter Falk (actor)
Henry Fonda (actor)
Joan Fontaine (actress)
Robert Fulghum (author)
Teri Garr (actress)
Lou Gosselt, Jr. (actor)
Karen Grassle (actress)
Horace George Hamilton
Valerie Harper (actress)
Helen Hayes (actress)
Sen. Jesse Helms
Bob and Dorothy Hope (comedian/singer)
Sen. Gordon Humphrey
Kate Jackson (actress)
Jill Krementz (author)
Kris Kristofferson (singer)
Patti LaBelle (singer)
Hedy Lamarr (actress)
Michael Landon (actor)
Jerry Lewis (comedian, singer, dancer, actor, entertainer )
Willle Mays (prof. baseball)
Sen. John McCain
Ed McMahon (TV personality)
Richard King Mellon
Donna Mills (actress)
Paul Newman (actor)
Carroll O'Connor (actor)
Marie Osmond (singer)
Estelle Parsons (actress)
Michelle Pfeiffer (actress)
Kirby Puckett (prof. baseball)
Sarah Purcell (TV personality)
Sally Jessy Raphael (TV personalily)
President Ronald Reagan
Roy Rogers/Dale Evans (actors)
Al Roker (TV personality)
Linda Ronstadt (singer)
Isabella Rossellini (model, actress)
Susan Ruttan (actress)
Gail Sheehy (author)
Sen. Paul Simon
Arthur Ochs Sulzberger, Sr. (newspaper publisher)
Gloria Swanson (actress)
Robert Urich (actor) and wife Heather Mendes (actress)
Robert Venturi (architect)
Kurt Vonnegut (author)
Jane Wallace (TV personality)
Marcia Wallace (actress)
Barbara Walters (TV personality)
Jann Wenner (magazine editor)
Diane Wiest (actress)
Jo Beth Williams (actress)
Judy Woodruff (TV news personality)
Ted Danson (actor) (he is adopted and has adopted a child too)
Saturday, December 31, 2011
EXCERPTS FROM "RUMINATIONS ON WAR AND PEACE"
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.
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.
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 Christoffelsthe best news I've heard all week - now if only we could get the US to agree as well!
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
“In reality, the most effective thing we can do to address climate change is for all relevant countries to act vigorously at home,” [U.S. chief negotiator] Mr. Stern said, noting that most countries have adopted emissions targets or national action plans that will be followed regardless of the negotiations toward a future agreement.
“At the same time,” he added, “climate is a classic ‘global comm...See More
“At the same time,” he added, “climate is a classic ‘global comm...See More
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.)
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