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.

Doyong

When I was younger, I would go to my uncle’s house to read old copies of Balalong and Bikol Banner, two city publications where my uncle worked as a serious journalist in the 1980s. Of course, these two papers folded up even before I could grow up—most probably because the politician financiers were ousted from “public service.”

Many times I would sneak into their house to read them, or simply look at my uncle’s article and
photograph on the paper. Such sight was simply interesting to me—someone is saying something and his face is there for the reader to see.

I would always want to see and [read] my uncle’s weekly columns. Some of them were prized possessions in their cabinet—piles of newspaper issues perhaps stored for posterity, until typhoons came and went and soaked them all to oblivion.

Being the eldest son, Doyong, (the corrupted form of "Junior," or the more pejorative "Dayunyor"), my uncle would now and then publicly brandish any of his media projects to us—his nephews and nieces—even his children—that principles are what he stood for; thus,
his work.

In my mother’s brood, he was the one who worked for the media. While my grandparents took pride in that, some folks—it seemed to me—just could not agree or were at all satisfied by the whole idea. Media workhas always appealed to him that until now, I was told, he is still working for a political clan in Camarines Sur, helping them in most of their media projects.

His love of words has been pervasive that in one of our clan reunions—sometime in 1985—her children [my cousins] staged a strike, hoisting placards protesting against “measures” enforced by Lolo Meling and Lola Eta [themselves the status quo owning the poultry and livestock that provided the grand family's livelihood]—perfectly mimicking the turbulent scenes apparent during the Marcos regime.

Just like any writer, my uncle has sincerely professed the love of words. He loves words, and fortunately he profits from it, not like other journalists and media persons who may have just been enslaved by it. My uncle has been a PR man most of his life—serving people in government positions. And as a journalist, he had many political connections. For a time, he even worked as vice-mayor in our town.

Just like a popular mediaman, he can easily ask projects from the governor or congressman of this clan—having been friends with them for so long now. And in one-time projects involving a large amount of money, his family is largely to benefit, his media practice is occasionally profitable that their lives would suddenly change in an instant.

But like most journalists serving the interests of politicians, my uncle and his family would sometimes wallow in poverty—simply, that gross lack of means to sustain themselves. Many times he and his family went hungry perhaps owing to such choice of profession.

But these were all before. Now, things have changed for him and his family as he has had his first set of grandchildren. One of his daughters is now based in Saudi Arabia as a medical worker; while her first two daughters are engaged in information technology and similar professions. Things are simply looking up for my uncle and his family.

In the past, his love of words had long started a family and earned for it their means of sustenance—and truly, deprived them of better opportunities. Yet, until now perhaps—such love of words has not given him up. Or shall I say—he has not given up on what he has chosen to do all his life.

All for the love of words.

Salvation

I cringe at the sight of the Scourging at the Pillar in Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ. Whenever I watch it on DVD, I skip that part where Jim Caviezel’s bloodied body is flogged heavily like an animal, his skin ripped apart by the Roman soldiers. I fast-forward to the part where Abenader, Pilate's chief guard, scolds the soldiers for having almost killed Jesus. The first time I saw it on a wide-screen sometime in 2004, I tossed and turned and could not look, almost wanting to leave my seat, but could not.

Scandal

Back in the eighties, whenever my aunt’s movie (ware)house (they used their copra bodega for Betamax showing) showed bold movies, the owners would announce it would be exclusive screening and then send all the children out. Not once did I ever peek into any of these shows. One time, before we were sent out, their neighbors and friends were excited after they were told they would watch Kiri. But before I and kids my age were ushered out and the door was finally shut and bolted, I already saw something.

I hardly made out anything from it, though. I thought I hardly saw anything at all.

Not Just Another Dog Story

While they say dog is man’s best friend, I then say man is dog’s worst friend.

Take the case of Gundina, our pet dog who mothered a brood of other canines that witnessed tragic events in our poor household in the late 80s. 

One bleak day, when Mother found out that she was bitten by a mad dog in the barrio, she immediately requested our equally mad uncle to shoot the dog using his old shotgun. Mother had simply decided that she wouldn’t be able to recover. 

I remember that day when they cornered her in our backyard one morning after she was out in the streets for days. I heard its final cry and it told me something. Gundina, I learned, never wished to be mad, I thought. She was not just a dog. I mean she was a special one.

She had been Mother’s companion through the years—from the time Mother started to labor single-handedly for her six growing children, after being widowed too early to the time Mother was still laboring much to bring us, her children further, and further forward.

This dog always accompanied Mother when she went to teach grade-six pupils in the barrio school. She would not fail to go with Mother when she went to school, or she would be by her feet beneath the narra desk where she would type away countless souvenir programs for the Cursillo classes held in her father Emiliano’s house, who was himself a great educator.

Gundina witnessed numerous batches of grade-school graduates whom her Master had taught through the years. I always wonder—but she exuded one serenity of such simple creature—and perhaps composure in all instances. I wonder how the animal learned such sense of self-possession after having spent so much time attending to her Master’s teaching work inside a grade-six classroom.

Gundina had grace when she walked, almost like a cat as she sauntered with her Master along the street. The panorama was just impressive—Master and Friend coming together from the day’s laborious schoolwork, strolling towards the sunset, walking almost in cadence—the dog becoming the grace that her Master had, and the Master affecting her pet with such a flourish. The tandem was just one of a kind.

Or I do not know of anyone whom she had bitten—strangers, friends, us, or whoever. If all canine victims filed a blotter case before the Office of Human Affairs Against Canines—I am sure—I would not find Gundina in the record. She was a kind dog. I hardly remember when our family acquired her—all I knew was that there was a dog in our household named Gundina, and she was a gentle ordinary-breed dog with some hazy spots on her off-white hair.

But this one fine day nothing about her was unclear anymore—we were left with no option. When we found out she had been stray for long—and then mad, I felt badly sad. After everything that was shared, such togetherness would have to end—from the unholy and empty afternoons in the classroom to the rabuz sessions in the barangay—Mother could only give her the needed coup de grace to end her “insanity”. And maybe to do justice to her loyalty all those years.

Naturally, Mother could not at all afford to bring her good friend to some sort of a veterinarian or something. No one ever knew of one in the barrio I suppose. In those days in that small place, mad dogs just ended up as one thing—either good or bad pulutan.

How could Gundina’s matter of-life-and-death ever enter her Master’s mind when her four sons in the bigger city were finding it difficult to survive their high school? With a miserable income, Gundina’s Master could hardly provide for her children.

She just had other things she needed to do. She must have thought Gundina’s loyalty could extend to her not being made a priority. Well, the canine’s wails while being gunned down by the furious hunter (and his equally war-freak sidekicks) just vanished. Then it was over.

II.

Then there was Gandhi, a towering figure in our grandparents’ libod (backyard), a sprawling estate that we call with fondness for this is where my mother’s clan had shared many of life’s joys and struggles. Since my high school days, Gandhi has bred generations of good dogs—some of them even helped her breed more all for the service of their owners, Lolo Meling and Lola Eta.

All her offspring have gone through life’s harsh realities—they survived extreme hunger during typhoons or due to the neglect or apathy of their owners and their servants, or are given to the visitors of the old couple—to name of few, Gandhi’s puppies were usually given to rectors, benefactors, and supporters of Cursillos de Cristiandad, who frequented the libod—perhaps owing to my Lolo Meling’s unquestionable commitment to the Catholic movement.

Some of them were also handed to Lola’s relatives everywhere around the globe, and others were disposed to Gandhi knows where else. Others were also given to the friends of their children, or acquaintances of the Grand Dame who usually treated all visitors—aside from select relatives—in full regalia, or cousins who came back to see their relatives after a long while in the city or somewhere else.

Despite having had offspring with her own puppies, Gandhi has remained in my grandparents’ household. She must have seen countless batches of her offspring come and go, live and die. But she has remained as Gandhi, the same dog I knew from the time I entered Ateneo de Naga, the Jesuit high school until the time I needed to get out of it to get some fresh air, er, some real life.

One afternoon in October coming home from a week of facilitating pathetic college classes, I visited the libod to help a cousin clean the poultry houses for the new batch of 45-days chickens in my Lola Eta’s dwindling business. My grandmother was so annoyed when she found out that Gandhi and her new set of offspring had been staying in a poultry house. The brooders smelled horrible. Gandhi must have delivered and bred her new offspring inside the only remaining poultry house. In the middle of hard rain, my grandmother cursed the dogs to no end, and told us to shoo the animals away from the fowls’ cages.

Before we could clean the cages, my cousin Cris had to hurl boiling water at them and we almost scalded her new offspring who howled and scampered in the rain to look for shelter.

Gandhi’s instinctual need for reproduction (has she needed to perpetuate something with her seemingly endless generation of canines?] had not at all merited her Master’s compassion, despite her long years of service. Had Gandhi belonged to government service she would have been awarded a loyalty plaque for years of service and of course—provision of dog power—er, dog personnel that in more ways than one—through the years—certainly accommodated her Master’s sensibility.

But that one afternoon in October disproved this much. And it must have told her many things. How about the security Gandhi and Co. provided their Masters? Despite the countless times that Gandhi and her offspring were driven away from our grandmother’s rickety household, the canine together with her offspring, came back to household. Scalded, bruised, and scathed, they came back. This matriarch had displayed much more sensitivity, as it were.

III.

There were also Kagata (“Bite it!”) and Dasmagi (“Run to it!”), puppies of Gandhi’s with an unknown partner, belonged to my youngest uncle’s household. Their names just showed my uncle’s fondness for grim humor. I feared these two creatures when I’d visit Cabanbanan to help my Auntie Delia harvest some corn at the back of their modest house.

These two dogs heavily guarded Auntie Delia’s house at the time when my young cousin Aldrin was just a toddler, who crawled up the kayo tree while his mother was not looking after him.

I never knew what happened to these dogs but I am sure the fierce creatures were not able to do anything when Auntie Delia filed for annulment or called it quits many times with her husband after he went back from overseas work with a new “wife,” and a few children, too. Like dogs, I think reality simply bites and when it does, it does so very badly.

Hot Summer

Perhaps summer is the best time to curl up on a good book, eat a mouth-watering halo-halo, frolic with friends in the mall, or just be a couch potato the whole day. These activities people would do to get away from the scorching heat, to cool themselves away from the discomforts of the roasting climate. Perhaps going to the beach is one thing that most families anticipate, to get together and do one thing at the same time, bond and get away from the cares of the day.

Yet, some thirty summers ago, one promising poet perhaps fresh from the Tiempos’ Dumaguete workshop, rendered a picture of how one picnic can be one opportunity for something more than frolic and picnic.

In “The Picnic” by Luis Cabalquinto, a Bikolano writer now based in New York, the persona does more than observe the sights and sounds in a beach, say Siquijor.

The first touch of bare feet to sand
Makes of us reborn children
We drop invisible weights
and smile like a seashell.
Our limbs are light as the wind.
Our heads clean as clouds.
Loneliness is the vague land
on the far horizon.

Published in the Manila Review in August 1976, “The Picnic” features a persona who observes more than what he sees on the beach.

For the persona, the beach getaway is an opportunity to not only refresh the body, but to rejuvenate the soul. The cool respite from the heat takes him and his companions away from the hustle and bustle, from all the car[e]s of the day, so to speak:

We are all good people on the beach:
We are quick with our movements
to help
one another—
With the baskets, with the towels,
and our lunch.

We retrieve a smooth pebble
For a stranger’s two-year-old daughter
Against an advancing wave.

The persona sees the people’s good dispositions, of those who have gone to the beach to relax. He sees that people who go to the beach must really be there “for the keeps.” They are certainly there to make fun and have fun just because they are [fun]! They are good people; they are kind ones; or, they become what they don’t seem to be:

We give freely: our gestures generous,
large
as the mothering sea.
We eye each other’s bodies in the spirit
of a free-love commune:
We are ready to sleep with other men
Or secretly lend our wives.

In the poem, the beach becomes an open space, like an open mind that can be polluted anytime. In the preceding stanza, the persona slowly delivers the poem’s tension. In the recesses of the persona’s mind, he ponders duplicity, he contemplates infidelity.

As in any other beach, which must be brimming of picnickers, the beachgoer is indeed thrown open [literally] to hundreds of possibilities, being given more choices than what he can contain. For one, his mind can go freely as to accommodate delicious cravings [for freethinkers] or go overboard as to contemplate acts as sleeping with his own kind [for moralists]. Here, the beach affords the beachgoer chances to sin. The persona can entertain such thoughts as flirting with anyone, or trading off one’s filiations, if any.

Perhaps the 1970s—the period in which this piece was written—was some substantial years after the liberation of ideas, philosophies and lifestyles in the West from within college campuses and beyond. In this poem, Cabalquinto echoes a freethinking sensibility; through his craft he becomes the herald about treacheries [and also truths].

Very well, Camarines Sur-born Cabalquinto sees issues beyond sights; he rather sees metaphors in trivial objects or situations. In a rather fun-seeking rendezvous, the poem’s persona gets to speak out more nasty intentions; the poet [literally] flings open the realities of the “fling.” Flirtations among men and [even] between them have never been as antiquated as in this poem written some three decades ago.

The persona, of course, may just shrink in comparison when—he comes to know some three decades later—what he chooses to do is not something to be wary of—it is not anymore something frowned upon. Times have changed, radically. Had the poem’s persona been alive now, he may not have to hide his affection for anyone whom he desires in one island beach. There will be no more need for corals or shells to speak for what is rather forbidden:

But—
We are not wholly people on the beach:
Back in our houses, back in our cities—
We live on other rules,
follow
different
tides.

Even as we leave on the last jeep
to town—
Our grip grows strongly
over a gold cowrie
We picked off a coral.
We slip it into a pocket quickly,
Away from our neighbor’s
greed
and eye.

Leaving Normal

Just before you bring the last box
of your things to the taxi waiting
outside, make sure the glass-table
they lent you is wiped clean, spotless
like your head free of yesterday’s
they-ask-you-answer conversations
with the committee. No words will be
said, not a word will have to seek
their approval. Dust off the last shelf
and don’t you go and forget the books,
scissors and things you lent them.
Empty your basket, too, of all trash
so the other bins filled to the brim
next to their tables utter nothing,
with their unfeeling mouths,
as you now head toward the door.
The driver’s sounding his horn by the gate
so just run past the guard you warmly
greeted, coming in this morning;
refuse his hand to carry your stuff
but remember friendship, for good.
Seated in the car now, take comfort
in the cushioned couch, wiping off
the dust collected on your palms.

Ateneo English Majors, 1990s

Classical Name
Guild of English Majors (GEMS)

Renaissance Name
Dagubdub (see Xavier Olin)

Literary Kingdom
Ateneo de Naga
Naga City

Literary Period
1992 onwards

Precursors
Rodolfo F. Alano
Paz Verdades Santos

Prime Movers
Xavier L. Olin
Maria Epifania B. Borja
Jennifer L. Jacinto

Members
AB English
AB Literature
BSE English
The Pillars
Non-English Majors

Keywords
Laughter
Literature
Love
Life

Link

Scandal

Back in the eighties, whenever my aunt’s movie (ware)house—they used their copra bodega for Betamax showing—showed bold movies, the owners would announce it would be exclusive screening and then send all the children out. Not once did I ever peek into any of these shows.

One time, before we were sent out, their neighbors and friends were excited after they were told they would watch Kiri. But before they ushered my cousins and me out, and finally shut and bolted the door, I saw something.

I hardly made out anything from it, though. I thought I hardly saw anything at all.

Hot summer

Musings on Luis Cabalquinto's "The Picnic"
April 2006

Summer is the best time to curl up on a good book, eat a mouth-watering halo-halo, frolic with friends in the mall, or just be a couch potato the whole day. These activities people would do to get away from the scorching heat, to cool themselves away from the discomforts of the roasting climate.
 
Going to the beach is one thing that most families anticipate, to get together and do one thing at the same time, bond and get away from the cares of the day.
 

(Postcard was a gift from Janet Lyn "Selena" Go-Alano back in 1997 in Ateneo de Naga)

Yet, some thirty summers ago, one promising poet perhaps fresh from the Tiempos’ Dumaguete workshop, rendered a picture of how one picnic can be one opportunity for something more than frolic and picnic.
 
In “The Picnic” by Luis Cabalquinto, a Bikolano writer based in New York, the persona does more than observe the sights and sounds in a beach, perhaps like Boracay.
 
The first touch of bare feet to sand
Makes of us reborn children
We drop invisible weights
                        and smile like a seashell.
Our limbs are light as the wind.
Our heads clean as clouds.
Loneliness is the vague land
on the far horizon.
 
Published in the Manila Review in August 1976, “The Picnic” features a persona who observes more than what he sees on the beach.
 
For the persona, the beach getaway is an opportunity to not only refresh the body, but to rejuvenate the soul. The cool respite from the heat takes him and his companions away from the hustle and bustle, from all the car[e]s of the day, so to speak:
 
We are all good people on the beach:
We are quick with our movements
                        to help
                        one another—
With the baskets, with the towels,
                        and our lunch.
We retrieve a smooth pebble
For a stranger’s two-year-old daughter
Against an advancing wave.
 
The persona sees the people’s good dispositions, of those who have gone to the beach to relax. He sees that people who go to the beach must really be there “for the keeps.” They are certainly there to make fun and have fun just because they are [fun]! They are good people; they are kind ones; or, they become what they don’t seem to be:
 
We give freely: our gestures generous,
                        large
                        as the mothering sea.
We eye each other’s bodies in the spirit
                        of a free-love commune:
We are ready to sleep with other men
Or secretly lend our wives.
 
The beach is an open space, like an open mind that can be polluted anytime. In the preceding stanza, the persona slowly delivers the poem’s tension. In the recesses of the persona’s mind, he ponders duplicity, he contemplates infidelity.
 
As in any other beach, which must be brimming of picnickers, the beachgoer is indeed thrown open [literally] to hundreds of possibilities, being given more choices than what he can contain. For one, his mind can go freely as to accommodate delicious cravings or [for freethinkers] or go overboard as to contemplate unspeakable acts as sleeping with his own kind [for moralists].
 
The beach affords the beachgoer chances to sin. The persona can entertain such thoughts as flirting with anyone, or trading off one’s filiations, if any.

Perhaps the 1970s—the period in which this piece was written—was some substantial years after the liberation of ideas, philosophies and lifestyles in the West from within college campuses and beyond. In this poem, Cabalquinto echoes a freethinking sensibility; through his craft he becomes the herald about treacheries [and also truths].
 
Very well, Cabalquinto who hails from Magarao, Camarines Sur, sees issues beyond sights; he rather sees metaphors in trivial objects or situations.
 
In a rather fun-seeking rendezvous, the poem’s persona gets to speak out more nasty intentions; the poet [literally] flings open the realities of the “fling.” Flirtations among men and [even] between them have never been antiquated as in this poem written some three decades ago.
 
“The Picnic” persona, of course, may just shrink in comparison when—he comes to know some three decades later—what he chooses to do is not something to be wary of—it is not anymore something frowned upon.
 
Times have changed, radically.
 
Had the poem’s persona been alive now, he may not have to hide his affection for anyone whom he desires in one island beach. There will be no more need for corals or shells to speak for what is rather forbidden:
 
 
But—
We are not wholly people on the beach:
Back in our houses, back in our cities—
We live on other rules,
                        follow
                        different
                        tides.
Even as we leave on the last jeep
                        to town—
Our grip grows strongly
                        over a gold cowrie
We picked off a coral.
We slip it into a pocket quickly,
Away from our neighbor’s
                        greed
                        and eye.

Recently, a local daily here ran a story on gay prostitutes being barred from Boracay due to their violations on some regulations in the island. The burgeoning business of gay prostitution says only one thing. The business is boiling [high] because the demand for it heats it all up. These facts are clear, however. Most if not all foreigners or even local tourists who go there are not [only] after the beach. They are after the experience from being clients of a healthy and thriving flesh trade—oh well—legitimized by the rest of the world. 

In the hot summer, spirits have already been scalded and scorched by the fires of hell so as to be intense about anyone’s sexual preference. Now, duplicity is not anymore duplicity. For if in the past, duplicity lurked in the realm of the uncertain, today, duplicity is the certainty.

N.M.

http://ninomanaog.blogspot.com/

Sa Pinsan Kong Taga-Dayangdang Pagkabagyo

Nabasa mi ni Manay mo—sa Bicol

inaratong daa ni Milenyo

an kabuhayan kan ribo katawo.

Sana dai man kamo

nalantop diyan sa Dayangdang.

Maski para-pa’no

sana nakakaantos man

kamo ni Nonoy saka ni Jun.

Samo na Manay mo,

pag-uuran na ‘yan

nagtutururo an kisame

ano pa minarugi

an minsan ming pag-ibahan,

pasalamat ako ta

pagkakatapos kan uran

may nasasalod kaming

tubig sa banyera

sa gilid kan sagurong,

nagagamit ming

pambagunas sa dalnak

na natipon sa salang

linalantop nin baha.

Masa’kit ta minsan an tubig-baha

minaabot sa may hagyanan

pirang pulgada na sana

an langkaw kan samong turugan.

Katatapos pa sana kan

sarong makusog na bagyo,

sabi sa radyo, igwa na naman

nagdadangadang.

Mag-andam kamo, Ne,

dai nanggad pagpaapgihi si Nonoy;

maglikay na dai magpukan

an saindong iniidung-idungan—

ta dai man kamo puwedeng maatong

na sana pag an uran sige-sige na.

Ki Bembem.

Biernes Santo

Natapos na an gabos na pabasa

Sa barangay ngonyan na Huwebes Santo.

Maimbong an huyop kan duros,

Nag-aagda sako para maglamaw sa turogan.

Sa harong na malinig, mahalnas, makintab,

Naeenganyar akong maghurop-horop nanggad

Kan gabos kong nagkagirinibuhan—magpoon

Kan nag-aging Biernes Santo kan sarong taon

Asta ngonyan—penitensya ko an maihatag sa iba

An gabos na maitatao—boot, bu-ot,

Kapakumbabaan, pag-intindi, pasencia,

Kasimplehan, pagtiwala o kumpiyansa

Libertad, leyaltad, kusog, kalag.

Mahigos an isip kong maghurop hurop

Kan sadiring sala. Kaya dawa dai pa ngani

Nakabayad nin income tax—mayong tawong

Mamimirit na singilon ako kan sakong moroso

O ano pa man na kautangan ta an mga ini

Binayadan na—ako binalukat na

Kan sarong tawong nagsakit, pinasakitan

Ginadan—haloy nang panahon

Sa Kalbaryong sakong dinudulag-dulagan.

Biernes Santo

Bitoon, Jaro, Iloilo

An Mga Taga Bagacay Kun Semana Santa

Sa mga huring aldaw kan Marso, maimbong na an paros hali sa bukid kan Buyo—minahugpa ‘ni sa mahiwason na natad kan eskuwelahan abot sa may parada, asta magsabat ini kan maaringasang duros hali sa baybayon kan San Miguel Bay sa may parte nang kamposanto.

Sa panahon na ini, duros an makapagsasabi kun ano an mga disposisyon kan mga tawo sa Bagacay—kadaklan sainda mahayahay, an nagkapira trangkilo sagkod maboboot, pero an iba man maiinit an pamayo ta kulang—o minsan sobra—sa karigos.

Kun ika tubong Bagacay, pirming malinaw saimo an mga pangyayari sa palibot kan sadit na barangay na ini—an kasiribotan, an kariribukan, o maski ano pa man—aram-aram mo na an mga likaw kan bituka kan mga ordinaryong ka-barangay.

Mabibisto mo an kakaibang parong kan duros, mamamati mo an aringasa sa tinampo ta bantaak an saldang. Mabibisto mo man an korte kan niisay man maski na ngani nagdadangadang pa sana siya sa tinampo. An amyo kan tunay na buhay mahihiling sagkod maiintidihan mo sa lambang istoryang ini.

An aking daraga sa kataid na harong na nagpasuweldo sa Manila maduang taon na man bago nakauli giraray—mapution na an kublit pag-abot ta an tubig sa Nawasa halangkaw an chlorine content—nom! Dai na lugod nabisto kan kaklaseng nagdalaw sa harong ninda. Sa Martes ang balik ko sa Kuba-o. Mabait naman ang mga amo ko—pinapasine nga ako pag Sabado, kasama ko ang kanilang matuang babae. Sa Let the Love Begin nakita ko si Richard Gutierrez saka baga si Angel Locsin, pangit man pala siya sa personal. Nom! Nagtatagalog na! Pag sinisuwerte [o minamalas] ka man nanggad talaga!

An mag-inang parasimba nakaatindir pa kan pagbasbas kan mga palmas. An mag-irinang hali pa sa Cut 12 [basa: kat dose] mapasiring sa kapilya sa boundary pa kan Iraya para duman mapo’nan an entirong pagpangadie sa mga santo. Linakad kan mag-irina an mainiton na tinampo hali sa harong ninda antos duman sa malipot na baybay harani sa kapilya. Nag-uurunganga pa si mga ibang aking kairiba ta pigguguruyod man na yan kan relihiyosang ina. Bara’go pa man an mga bado ta iyo man an ginaramit kan mga eskwela durante kan closing sa eskwelahan—alagad muru’singon na an mga aki

An mga aki kan mga mayaman na pamilya sa may pantalan nag-uruli man. Tulong awto an dara pero dai pa nanggad kumpleto ta si tugang na abroader dai nakahabol sa biahe haling airport. An dakulang pagtiripon kan pamilya madadagos ta madadagos nanggad maski na ngani hururi an ibang miembros kan pamilya. Hain na daw si mga makuapo na nag-ayon sa mga ralaban sa UNC; o si sarong pinsan niya man nanggana sa arog kaining contest sa Colegio. Haraen yan! Padirigdiha lamang daw ta mag-iristorya kan saindang mga maoogmang nagkagirinibo. Ay, iyo, hay, magayonon an trophy sa UNC. May kwarta man ni, ano? Hahahahaha! Iyo man po. Thanks very much and I love you all and gabos ini po saindo, Lola!

Igwang bayaw na nag-uli hali sa siyudad—an agom na iyo an tugang kan pinsan may darang ba’gong omboy na primerong pakadalaw sa mga apuon. Napoon pa sana man an duwa sa pagpapamilya kaya padalaw dalaw pa sa mga magurang kan esposa. Cute-on baga si baby, hay? Sain mo ni Manay pinangidam? Cute-on. Bebe, bebe… O Rosalyn, nuarin na an bunyag ki Nonoy? Imbitari man daw nindo kami, puwede man pating magtubong si Dorcas! Saen na ngani si apartment nindo, Glen? Sa Calauag baga, bakong iyo? Itukdo mo ki Lino tanganing aram niya pagduman. Iyo po, Ma.

Igwang mag-ilusyon na dai makatios na dai magkahirilingan ta si urulayan sa Katangyanan dai nagkadaragos ta pinugulan si daraga kan inang may hilang.

Maski an sarong tiyo-on na igwa pang kulog boot sa mga sadiri niyang tawo ta dai sinda dai nagkairintidihan sa kontratang pinag-urulayan, magkakaigwa pa siya nin panahon para tapuson an ika 14ng altar na portrait kan Mesias—na nagpapahiling kan pagdara kan bangkay ni Mesias sa lubungan ni Joseph kan Arimatea. An mga materyales na ginamit para sa abaanang magagayon niyang obra maestra dinonaran pa man hali sa simbahan kun sain siya lektor. An taon-taon niyang panata napapadagos nin huli sa huyo kan saiyang boot, sa pagpangadie niyang daing ontok, nagngangayong dai man lugod pabayaan nin Kagurangnan an saiyang pamilya na ngonyan nagdadakula na ta an saindang maboot na manugang-agom kan mahigos niyang matua—maaki na kan saindang panduwa. Siisay pa man daw an mas masuwerte sa mga tawong ini?

Nagsisiribot an sarong pamilya sa Banat ta iyo an toka ninda sa prusisyon sa Via Crucis, maharanda ta mapa-basa—mapatarakod nin kuryente sa mga harong na igwang mga linya nin Casureco, para dayuhon an pabas[og]. Aaaaaaa, si Eba natentaran kan demonyong halas kaya kinakan niya si prutas kan poon na ipinagbawal ni Bathala. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, kaya an gabos na tawo nagkasa-la-la-la. Daraha na daw digdi mga salabat sa nagbabarasa-kansubago pa iyan! Aaaaaaa….

Sarong gurangan na kantorang taga Iraya, na agom kan sarong mahigos na Cursillista—sinubol si mga aki niyang daraga para magkanta sa Via Crucis magpoon sa kapilya antos sa Calle Maribok dangan pabuwelta—alagad atakado an pamayo ta dai magkakurua kun haraen na an mga daraga. Haraen na sa Imelda? Si Belinda? Pasugui na daw ta si mga aki duman, iwaralat mu’na digdi. Ta diputang agom yan ni Belinda! Nagpaparainum na naman sa may ka–Tampawak? Ta kun ako pa an mapauli diyan sa bayaw mo, titibtiban ko talaga man nanggad yan! Mayo na sana man maginibo pakakatong-its, mainom! Susmaryosep! Noy, paulia na ngani si Manoy mo!

Sarong parasira pagkatapos niyang magpangke—mala ta nakadakul sinda kan bayaw niya kansubanggi—sa may tanga’ sagkod sa rarom sa may parteng Caaluan sagkod Tinambac—nagdesider na mag-pasan kan krus sa Via Crucis. An solterong ini haloy na man nagsisigay-sigay sa aki ni Balisu’su’. Pero korontra baga an sadiri niyang tawo ta diyata gusto man nindang makahanap nin trabaho ini sa Cavite. Dai man ngani nag-anom na bulan baga—nagbuwelta ngani ta garo nagkairiyo na man sagkod an maputi-putting aking daraga ni Balisu’su’. Ano man baya an nahiling mo diyan Polin sa aki ni Tsang Sining? Bados na gayod si Joralyn?

Ciudad Iloilo

Abril 2009

Pagpuli sa Bagacay

Pag-Deciembre dai ka na puwedeng mag-uli

Sa dakulang harong. Sa mga enot mong aldaw duman,

Matarakig ka sa katre mo pagkakaaga; saka kun magparauran

Na nin makusog, matata’kan ka kan manlaen-laen na bagay—

Mga bintana parasa’, an lanob garaba’, an atop nagtotororo.

Kun magparauran nin makosogon, mahaha’dit ka pa

Sa pagkadakul-dakul na basura—mga dahon saka sanga

Mga bagay, daga sagkod laboy aatongon kan baha kaiba

Kan mga gapo sagkod garadan na manok—na maralataw-lataw,

Tapos mapalibot sa saimong natad.

Maghanap ka na sana nin ibang lugar,

Duman sa mayong duros na mapatakig saimo pagkakaaga;

Duman sa dai ka na maparahadit pa sa kadakul-dakul

Na bagay pag nagparauran na nin makusog.

Ki Agom

Nagtutururo an su’lot mong palda;

Basa-basa an buhok mo; nagbuburulos

An basa sa angog mo,

Saka sa pisngi mo;

Nagtatarakig an ngabil mo;

Mari digdi—nagparasain ka, Ne?

Nagparapauran ka na naman pauli?

‘Tukaw ka digdi;

Hubaa an blusa mong tumtom

Na nin lipot kan uran.

‘Punasan ko an payo mo; ‘paimbungon

Ko an mga kamot mo; ‘painiton

Ko an hawak mo. Nag-aalusuos na

An sinapna ta. ‘Gatungan ko

Ining kalayo ta. Kaipuhan saimo

Igwang bagang dai masisigbo

Dawa’ magparapauran ka pa;

Dawa’ na magparapauran ka pa.

Sa Tigman Kun Maduman Ka

Marambong an mga kahoy patukad sa bulod pababa sa kadlagan pasiring sa salog. Duman pwede kang magkarigos ning huba. Duman pwede kang magturog nin halawig.

Pasiring duman dai ka malingaw na maghuba nin bado ta ‘baad mawara’ ka lang sa dalan—an halas na masasabatan mo mabalagbag sa may tungod kan poon kan santol. Hale ni sa sapa man sana, papuli’ na sa hararom na labot; basug-basog na kan pirang siyo’ na pinangudtuhan niya; dai ka magngalas kun madangog mo an putak-putak kan sarong guna’ sa harayo; tolo na sana kaini an kaibahan na ogbon.

Sige sana. Magdiretso kang lakaw. Siempre mahalnas an dalan ta nahuraw pa sana baga. Maray man ‘yan ta dakul an tubig kaiyan sa salog; makakabuntog ka man nanggad.

Madya! magmadali’ ka ta ‘baad maabutan mo pa si dakulang uwak na minsan nagtutugdon sa sanga kan madre de cacao sa gilid kan salog. Siguro ma-timingan mo an gamgam na ining minsan nagdadakop nin mirapina o puyo sa hababaw na tubig kan salog. Haloy ka na sigurong dai nakahiling nin uwak; o magsala’ an manuparan mo lapay, tikling, o tagkaro: mga gamgam an mga bura’ nag-aapod nin gadan.

Sige, lakaw lang. Harani ka na; hilinga baya’ an agihan mo ta ‘baad mahawi mo an sapot kan lawa—obra maestra nin saday-saday na nilalang; mismong ika ‘sakitan marirop kun pa’no nagibo, bako ta sadit an hayop na ini, kundi ta an utak mo mas dakula sa saiya. Dai baya’ pagrauta an harong niya, ‘baad ika an maenot na masapot para kakanon niya.

Pag nakaabot ka na sa may dakulang gapo’, magtabi-apo ka nin tolong beses, garo baga palaog mo ini, permisong makalangoy sa salog na dakul na mga bagay o tumata’wo an may kagsadiri—digdi pwede kang magkarigos ning huba, ta an mga yaon duman mayo man nin mga gubing.

Maray man ta’ mayo ka nang bado’; arog ka na ninda, saro sa mga hayop kan magayon na kadlagan—ano pa an hinihiling-hiling mo diyan?

A, nahahambugan ka kan tagkarit na aba’ anang garo hade sa asul niyang balukag; nakatugdon sa sanga kan kamagong, tinutungkahal an saiyang kahadean poon sa may salog asta sa ampas. Dai ka magngalas ta ika saro sana niyang bisita. Magtaong-galang ka.

Siguro nadadangog mo na an duli-duling garong dagang nakadukot sa poon kan pili; maging alerto ka ta pag ‘yan nagbura’ na siguradong pupukawon an natuturog mong kalag [maski ngani mayo ka].

Hilinga an salog. Sa may libtong magayon maglangoy ta’ an tubig hararom. Malipot an tubig sa tiripon na raratang dahon. Ano na? Naghahalat na saimo an hararom na imbong kan tubig kataid mo an ribo-ribong noknok saka layug-layug; malataw-lataw ka, dangan iduduyan sa mahiwas na salog; para magpahingalo o maghingalo, para makaturog na nin halawig.

Sige na, Noy, dai ka na maghanap nin shower room; nauranan ka na baga; puwede ka nang magbuntog tulos.

Tagbang na!

Ateneo Serrado

Serrado an Ateneo pag-abot mo. Mayong tawo. An guardia sa tarangkahan dai mo bisto. Mabisita ka sa sarong pading dai nag-uli pag bakasyon. Pero mayo daa siya. Pero pinadagos ka.

Hali sa guardhouse nahiling mo an Four Pillars may bago nang pintura. Nagduwaduwa kang maglaog ta garo dai mo aram kun Ateneo man nanggad an linaogan mo. Pininturahan ni nin kolor na garo man lang bagong shopping mall sa Centro. Nagimatan mo na kayang kupas an pintura kan Four Pillars kaya nataka ka kan nahiling mo.

Saboot mo tapos na man nanggad an mga aldaw kun kansuarin sa façade kan eskwelahan na ini, nagparasad-pasad an magagayon na coed na pencil-cut an mga palda—yaon ka duman sa hagyanan kairiba si Emil, Bong sagkod Gerry, iniiriskoran pa nindo an magagayon na nag-aaragi.

Nagsalingoy ka sa wala. Mayo na an soccer field kun saen kamo nagkaramang sa carabao grass ta may nagpasaway na parehong kadete sa Delta Platoon. An Xavier Hall na dati wooden building pa kaidto na dati man na SIO (Social Integration Office) saro nang konkretong edipisyo. Dai mo na mahiling an Pillars Office kun saen mo pigmakinilya sa bukbukon nang Olympia an enot mong love letter ki Jenny. Huli ta bago, dai mo na ni nabisto.

Nagsalingoy ka sa tuo. Mayo na an mahiwas na grounds kun saen kamo naggiribo nin Belen para ilaban sa Pintakasi. Sa may batibot na ito nabisto mo si Lani, kaklase mo sa Sociology ki Nong Fernandez. Tapos na an Pintakasi kaidto pero dai mo pa nalingawan si mahamison na huyom kan Miss Irigang ini. Totoo man nanggad an cultural myth na pinag-adalan nindo sa subject na ito. Dai pa natapos an semester kadto naprobaran mo na tulos kun ta’no ta an Iriga pamoso sa mga aswang—pirang banggi kang dinuno kan sarong kagayunan na Lani an pangaran. Haen na man daw siya ngonyan?

Naglakaw-lakaw ka. Nagsara-salingoy.

Haen na an gym? A, natahuban na palan kan Xavier Hall Building na bago. Dai mo na tulos nahiling an Blue Knight sa letrang A na enot mong nahiling kan nagpila ka para mag-exam sa First Year High School beinte anyos na an nakakaagi. Pagbalik mo pag-ralaogan, ogmahon kang maray kan mabasa mo na an ngaran mo sa lista kan LG 12.

Mayo ka pang kabisto kaidto kaya pagtingag mo sa façade kan building, nahiling mo an Blue Knight na nakasakay sa kabayo. Hiya! Maski sa kabayo saboot mo masakay ka makauli lang tulos sa Bagacay—iiistorya mo ki Mama mo an marahay-rahay na bareta ito.

Tinahuban na palan kan Xavier Hall Building na bago. Dai mo na mahiling si Blue Knight na tiningag mo kaidto.

Mayo na an dating Ateneo de Naga. Sarong aldaw pagbisita mo, dai mo na ‘ni naabutan. Marayo na sinda. Mayo ka nang mabisto digdi. Dai ka na madagos sa laog. Tibaad ka kaya maanayo. Malakaw ka na lang pabalik sa Avenue.

“Tapos na ang maliligayang araw,” saboot mo sana. Tibaad an Golden Age kan Ateneo de Naga nakaagi man nanggad na. An Four Pillars Lucky Fortune Hotel an pintura.

Maraot man nanggad daw na magsangli nin itsura an Ateneo—na an Ateneo magbago?

Bako daw an Ateneo bako man sanang sarong edipisyo? Bako daw an sinasabing Ateneo ika mismo—an tawong naglaog sa antigong edipisyong ini? Tibaad ika man nanggad an makaluma— habong magsangli, habong magbago.

Dai man daw na an bagong pangaran mo—Ateneo Serrado?

Paggisa nin Tiniktik With Some Garnish

Gisahon mo an bawang, sibulyas, kamatis;
later, ilaag mo na an perang patos na tiniktik
fresh from the talipapa. Just a pinch of salt lang
ta may asin-dagat pa baga an talaba—iyan an
mapahamot kan saimong obra-kusina pag
nag-alusuos na. La’ganan mo nin two cups of water,
tapos alalay lang an kalayo, low fire lang ba? Takupan
ta nganing dai mag-evaporate an sustansya. Pakala-kagaon
mo ta nganing maluto an tiniktik. Simmer for a while,
mga three minutes or less, depende sa dakul kan seashells.
After that, puwede mo nang ilaag an berdura.
Or kangkong can do. Pero garo awkward siya
kun la’ganan mong pechay o patatas—
bako man kaya ning menudo o pochero.
Dai mo bitsinan tanganing wholesome siya—
maski siisay na bisita, health-conscious o boy scout,
puwedeng maka-free taste. Pag pigluwag mo na
an saimong ginisa and serve it with some
steaming hot rice, in fairness, tibaad
sa dapog puroton an sinasabi nindang fine dining.

Pagbúhay kan Lengwáhe

Kadaklán na beses, kun saén an saróng lengwahe nagngángarongátong mawará o magadán, dakúl an puwédeng gibóhon tangáning buháyon iní. Kun maaráman nanggád kan saróng komunidád na tibáad magadán an lengwahe nindá, magíbo sindá nin mga paági pára buháyon o padagúson pa iní.

Kaipúhan na mísmong an komunidád an mámuyang magsalbár kan saindáng sadíring lengwáhe. Mas oróg na makabuluhán kun paháhalagahán sa mísmong mga gawégawé o kultura kan mga táwong iní an lengwáheng ginagámit kan dikit sa saindá, o an ináapod na minoríya. Kaipúhan man na gástusan an mga gigibóhon na iní— puwédeng magmukná nin mga kurso o maggámit nin disiplínang ma-ádal dapít sa lengwáhe, mag-andám nin mga materyáles dángan mag-engganyár nin mga paratukdó na iyó an mabalangíbog kan lengwáhe.

Oróg na kaipúhan an mga lingwísta—sinda iyó an mga magámit kan lengwáhe—an katuyuhán iyó na maitalá, mahimáyhimáy, saká maisúrat iní. Kaipúhan kan mga táwong magbása dángan magsúrat sa sadiri nindáng lengwáhe, kun ma’wot nindáng magpadágos iní; kun má’wot nindáng sindá mísmo magdánay.


Villa, Ciudad Iloilo
Hunio 2008

Sa Puro Kan Kadlagan

Probaran mong imahinaron kun ano an ginibo ninda ki Armando.
Pagkadakop saiya sa engkwentro, dinara siya sa puro kan kadlagan.
Duman hinubaan siya ninda, saka nginirisihan ta’ mayo nin bulbol.
Tinagpas an saiyang dungo sagkod talinga,
Hinuldo saka dinuldog an saiyang mga mata,
Tinaga an saro niyang kamot, saka siya kinadog-kadog.
Isinulmok siya sa daga, rinugtas an saiyang buto sagkod bayag,
Dangan isinu’so sa saiya man sanang nguso. Dai sinda nakuntento;
Sinapsap ninda an duwang lapnad nang suso,
Pinalaob siya kan saro sainda saka kinado-kado.
Nag-aagrutong pa siya kan badilon sa payo kan saro sa sainda.
Pagkatapos siyang iwalat para ipaon sa mga hantik
Ruminulukso sinda sa naghaharak-hatak na salog, nagkararigos
Nganing magkawaraswas an langsa sa mga hawak ninda.


Susog sa "Edge of the Woods"
ni Luis Cabalquinto
2001

Seeing My Salvation with Fear and Trembling

I cringe at the sight of the Scourging at the Pillar in Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ. Whenever I watch it on DVD, I skip that part where Jim Caviezel’s bloodied body is flogged heavily like an animal, his skin ripped apart by the Roman soldiers. I fast-forward to the part where Abenader, Pilate's chief guard, scolds the soldiers for having almost killed Jesus. The first time I saw it on a wide-screen sometime in 2004, I tossed and turned and could not look, almost wanting to leave my seat, but could not.

I, Rooney

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. That year, 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.

To Michael Rooney, S. J.

Pagbúhay kan Lengwáhe

Kadaklán na beses, kun saén an saróng lengwahe nagngángarongátong mawará o magadán, dakúl an puwédeng gibóhon tangáning buháyon iní.


Kun maaráman nanggád kan saróng komunidád na tibáad magadán an lengwahe nindá, magíbo sindá nin mga paági pára buháyon o padagúson pa iní.


Kaipúhan na mísmong an komunidád an mámuyang magsalbár kan saindáng sadíring lengwáhe. Mas oróg na makabuluhán kun paháhalagahán sa mísmong mga gawégawé o kultura kan mga táwong iní an lengwáheng ginagámit kan dikit sa saindá, o an ináapod na minoríya.
 

Kaipúhan man na gástusan an mga gigibóhon na iní— puwédeng magmukná nin mga kurso o maggámit nin disiplínang ma-ádal dapít sa lengwáhe, mag-andám nin mga materyáles dángan mag-engganyár nin mga paratukdó na iyó an mabalangíbog kan lengwáhe.
 

Oróg na kaipúhan an mga lingwísta—sinda iyó an mga magámit kan lengwáhe—an katuyuhán iyó na maitalá, mahimáyhimáy, saká maisúrat iní.

 
Kaipúhan kan mga táwong magbása dángan magsúrat sa sadiri nindáng lengwáhe, kun ma’wot nindáng magpadágos iní; kun má’wot nindáng sindá mísmo magdánay.

 

Villa, Ciudad Iloilo
June 2008

                                              

Gold

Pale gold of the walls, gold
of the centers of daisies, yellow roses
pressing from a clear bowl. All day
we lay on the bed, my hand
stroking the deep
gold of your thighs and your back.
We slept and woke
entering the golden room together,
lay down in it breathing 
quickly, then
slowly again,
caressing and dozing, your hand sleepily
touching my hair now.

We made in those days
tiny identical rooms inside our bodies
which the men who uncover our graves 
will find in a thousand years,
shining and whole.


Donald Hall, 
American poet laureate
1970

Summer

Quiet, calm afternoons bring me back to my afternoons in our old house in Bagacay. To avoid the baking heat of the rooms, I often lay down on the canopy of our rooftop, safe under the eaves. There, I fell asleep until a cooler breeze from the backyard of the Absins, our neighbors who owned the house at the foot of the hill, woke me up. The late afternoon was the best time to linger, then someone from the house—Mother, brother, or sister—called me for an afternoon treat of linabunan na batag or gina’tan.

Summer.

Acknowledgment
Paz Verdades "Doods" Santos, Bikol critic
The Literature teacher.