I, Rooney

To Michael Rooney, S. J.

When I was a high school senior in Ateneo de Naga, I found it hard listening to Fr. Michael Rooney, the new adviser of the Sanctuary Society of the Sacred Heart (SSSH), a group of acolytes who served in the Mass and performed apostolates. Father Rooney replaced Fr. Johnny Sanz who was then assigned in Bukidnon.

Father Rooney spoke Filipino with a twang that sounded so awkward, one which he tried so hard to enunciate. Always appearing eager to learn to speak the language, the priest would greet us “Magandang umaga” or “Kumusta kayo?” with an inflection that was only his.

Though soft-spoken, his Tagalog rather sounded ridiculous to me that I would just be distracted by the way he spoke and not understand what he would say.

Even the way he’d call my name every time I met him in the hallways made me feel uncomfortable.

Whenever I heard him say Mass in the Xavier Chapel, I could not help but while away my time, thinking other thoughts because I could hardly make out what the priest was saying.

But I found it interesting because the speaker himself did not seem to match the words he was speaking. Fr. Michael Rooney looked Caucasian but spoke Filipino—it was just incongruous.

The priest always sounded funny to me.

Yet, everything the priest did was anything but funny. In the brief company I shared with him as a member of the altar boys, I always found him amiable, and cheerful. Towering just like Father Phelan, Father Rooney hovered over us, students, someway like a coach, unfailing to smile and always rooting for us in whatever we would do, always there to make us aspire.

But why did he have to speak Filipino? I suppose Father Rooney spoke Tagalog, or even Bikol because he had to, if only to relate with everyone in Ateneo, the community he had been assigned to serve.

Like that of any other Jesuit seeking to lay down his life for his friend, his should have been the most difficult tradeoff. Perhaps Fr. Rooney’s calling which is hinged on selflessness and vulnerability to ridicule just required that he sound ridiculous (or otherwise interesting), if only to make people listen to what he had to say.

I suppose when Fr. Rooney became a Jesuit, he also knew that he should learn the language of the people with whom he will be called to serve. So he sought to learn it himself, not even thinking of how ridiculous he would sound.

I admire him for his constant eagerness to learn our own mother tongue, Filipino, inasmuch as I feel guilty of not using it myself.

Language was not one to prevent him from doing what he ought to do. For in the fifteen years he had served in the community, through his unfailing efforts for the Ateneo, of which I just heard or learned from others, I can only surmise he surely got his message across.

Surmise—that’s the word. I can only surmise all these because as soon as I entered Ateneo college, Fr. Rooney had already become an obscure figure to me.

I just saw him in one of the pictures taken during my mother’s wake in Tinambac, Camarines Sur sometime in 1996. In the picture, he was seated in one of the pews. He was carrying an umbrella. It rained hard on my mother’s funeral. Fr. Rooney looked so forlorn—looking like he’s almost crying. Or as if he’s listening hard to one of the eulogies being given for my mother—one of which I myself gave in behalf of my brothers and sisters. Later, I would know that a bus-load of members of Ateneo community came to the Bagacay cemetery for our mother’s last rites.

I remember some of my classmates who were in the funeral but I hardly knew Fr. Rooney was there. I was surprised to see him in one of the pictures. During those days in college, being into a number of other things, I would not just be one to pay much attention.

I felt awkward when Mr. Gerry Brizuela, my fellow acolyte in those days, asked me for this tribute. Nothing is more ironic here than not being able to say anything much about the man of the hour.

I hardly knew the man, if at all.

It makes me want to cry, knowing I have not understood what he really said. Because in the rare instances he talked to me, or appeared trying hard to talk to me, I was hardly listening.