'Teacher Factor'

Susog sa “The Teacher Factor” ni Randy David.
Yaon sa Philippine Daily Inquirer, July 18, 2021

Sa sakong column kan sarong semana, pigtawan ko nin duon kun pàno nakakatabang an lenguaheng ginagamit sa pagtokdò sa pagkanood kan mga estudyante—lalo na kan mga aking nagpoporoón pa saná.

Susog sa nagkapirang pag-adal, orog daang nadidipisilan an mga estudyante kun an lenguaheng ginagamit sa pagtokdò sainda—halimbawa sa Mathematics o Science—iba man sa lenguaheng ginagamit ninda sa harong.

Kun an mga estudyante nakakanood palan pag naiintindihan ninda an lenggwahe kun sain ini tinotokdò, tama lang na gamiton an mother tongue, poon halimbawa ngaya sa mga enot na taon.

Dai nagkakauruyon an gabos sa isyung ini. 

An mga aki kan inaapod na middle-class—o sabihon tang idtong nakakaangat sa mga kasaraditan—mayong problema kun English an gagamiton sa classroom. Kadaklan sainda nagdarakula sa harong na pirmi nang duwang lenggwahe an ginagamit. Para sainda, jologs kun gagamiton an Bikol—o Tagalog o Hiligaynon—man ngaya sa classroom. Garo man saná sindang pigpipiririt na makanood sa lenggwaheng dai man husto.

Para sainda kaya, an English bakong arog kan Bikol—o Tagalog o Hiligaynon. Iyo ini an lenggwahe kan gabos—an embodiment of everything modern.

Dangan sa gabos na nasyon na nag-ako nin kahilwayan pagkatapos kan Gierra Mundial Numero Dos, kita idtong enot na nakausad sa pag-uswag kawasà kan English, na pinabisto sato kan mga Kano sa mga public school. Sarong henerasyon [nin mga Pilipino] an duminakulang edukado asin nagtataram English. Pigpara-padara baga sato kan mga kataraid na nasyon an mga aki ninda ta nganing makanood English. Tàno ta hahaleon ta pa an bentaheng ini?

Para kaya sainda, kun matibay ka sa English, máuswag an buhay mo—an English iyo an pamaági para sa “magandang buhay”. Para sainda, bako man talagang issue na English an gamiton sa pagtokdò. 

Segun sainda, bakong English an problema sa edukasyon sa Pilipinas. An problema yaon sa surusuan sagkod kurulang na classroom; sa mga rugado sagkod na dai-tarataong mga paratokdò; sa kurulang na marahay na mga materyales sa pagtokdò.

Para sainda, an problema sa edukasyon digdi sato yaon sa gutom sagkod malnutrisyon na sinasapo kan mga kaakian—lalong-lalo na idtong mga aki kan kasaraditan.

An gabos na ini iyo an kawsa kun tàno an mga kaakian ta “pinupurot sa kangkongan” pag-abot sa mga international assessments na ‘yan. Ta nganing mataparan ini, kaipuhan man nanggad dugangan ta an budget sa edukasyon.

Hale sa budget na ini, tagamahan ta kuta an pagpaadal sa satong mga paratokdò. Pagkatapos baga kan nakaaging Gierra Mundial kaidto, kadakuldakul na Pilipino an pinaaradal nganing mahasà sa pagtokdò nin English. Kadaklan sainda nagin mga principal o supervisor kan mga public school. Dangan tinorokdoan ninda si saindang kairiba sa paggamit kaini bilang pangenot na lengwahe sa pagtokdò.

Nagtápos ako sa public elementary school sa Pampanga. Biristado ko pa an gabos kong maestro asin maestra poon Grade 1 asta Grade 6. Tandà ko pa an mga lalawgon ninda. Mauurag sinda gabos. Bilib ako sainda ta matibay sindang magtaram nin English o Kapampangan man kun kinakaipuhan.

Magayonon sindang magtokdò. Para sako, sinda an panalmingan kan mga tawong edukado. Iyo man ini an pagmátì ko sa gabos na maestro asin maestrang tuminaták sa sakong pagkatawo pag-abot sa college sagkod graduate school.

An mga árog kaining paratokdò—susog ki Humberto Maturana, sarong biologist na taga-Chile—“dai lang minahirás nin pagkaáram; tinotokdò pa ninda sa mga aki kun pàno mabuhay. Sa pamaáging ini, an mga rule sa arithmetic, law sa physics o grammar, naaaráman; [alagad] para sa mga aki, mismong an maestra asin maestro ninda an saindang talagang nanonòdan.”

“Andam an mga aking makanoód nin dawà ano, basta mayò saná saindang magsabing—“O, masakiton daw an Math!”, o kaya “Boring bagá an Grammar”; o “Mas ‘boríng’on daw an Biology!” 

Susog pa ki Maturana, kaipuhan dangogon na marhay kan mga paratokdò an mga estudyante ninda—dangan dangogon nindang marhay an saindang pagdangog. Hapoton man nanggad ninda kun ano an nadadangog sainda kan mga estudyante. Kaipuhan magpursigi an maestro o an maestrang gibohon ini—orog na para duman sa mga dai nakakadungan sa kadaklan sa klase. 

Pinakamahalaga an huring puntong ini—kawasà kayà digdi, mahihiling ta an pagkakaiba kan sistemang naglalangkabà asin nagpapadanay kan dai pagkapantaypantay sa komunidad ta sagkod kan sistemang nagmamàwot na tamaon ini.

Igwa ngonyan debate sa harong mi (an duwa kong aki parehong nagtotokdò sa University of the Philippines) manongod sa kun ano man nanggad an papel kan paratokdò. Saro sainda—an sabi—an paratokdò daa dapat sarong pastor. Kaipuhan sigurohon niyang an mga maluyang makanuod daing gayo nawawalat kan mga matitibay na o madaling makanuod. 

Iniinsister man kan saro na bakong siring ka’yan. Para saiya, an paratokdò sarong gatekeeper—na kumbaga nagbabantay sa kun siisay an málaog o maluwas. Kaipuhan igwa siyang paninindugan na pamantayan asin ipasunod ini. Kaipuhan natataparán niya an mga pangangaipo asin dai nasasayang an ano man na naaabot kan mga matitibay na.

Para man sakò—na nagin paratokdò sa laog nin apat na dekada—pareho kaipuhan an mga ini. Pareho sinda mahalaga—dai kaipuhan na magkontrahan.

Nagkakaproblema saná kun kawasà naherak kayà daa, dángan pinarasár na saná dawà dai man tatao magbasa. Hunà kan mga paratokdòng ini nakakatabang sinda. An dai ninda aram—tinugutan saná nindang an dai man tatao dai man talaga makadungán asin mahirakan na saná kan balinsngag na sistema kan edukasyon. 

Problema man giraray kun an hábol ta na saná idtong mga pamantayan sa urag o katibayan man ngayá, na mayò nin lábot o pakimàno sa dai-man-talaga-pararehong oportunidad kan mga kaakian ta. 

Bolaobalite, 1976

Ma, pasensya dai na ko nakapaaram kanimo amay-amay pa si first trip; marhay ngani ta nakasakay ako. Dai ta ka na pigmata paggios ko ta turog-turog ka pa, pagal-pagal kakaaling ki Nonoy pirang ngitngit na man nagpaparapastidyo; pero kun kinakarga ko, pwerte man baga, nag-aalu.

Baydon ko na sana tibaad yaon na man ko diyan sa Sabado. Pero sabi mo man ngonyan na semana tibaad mag-abot na si Onding ni Manoy Jeremias. Marhay kun siring ta igwa na kitang mawalatan kan mga igín.

Digdi sa eskwelahan, siribot naman kami ngonyan ta gusto kan mga maestrang mag-Christmas party kaiba kan mga magurang sa plaza—apwera pa kan sa mga kaakian. Nahugos na kanamo an PTA kaya dakulon gibohon ko digdi. Mga lesson plan ngani dai ko pa ubos macheck-an. Pero marhay man ta igwa ako digding masarigan.

Kansubanggi—iparayo nin Dios—nagralaen naman si pagmati ko. Nagimata ‘ko sa init; ginagaranot ako; basa-basa si sakong ulunan, tumtom pati higdaan. Pero tinutumar ko si bulong na pigreseta kadto sa Naga. Dai ka na maghadit ta maboot man si May Peling;  pinapatundugan niya ko ka’yan sa mga aki nin pangudtuhan o minsan mirindalan.

Sunod na semana, makompleanyo ka na baga kaya mighulat ka sana, Ma; ako kanimo may surpresa.

Blasts from the Past

The Internet generously caters to our whims—for one, allowing us to re-inhabit the past and stay there as much as we want.

Take the case of AIMP, a freeware audio player for Windows and Android, which features player skins—from Akai to JVC to Kenwood to Sony—even Telefunken Magnetophon 77, which you just probably saw in an old movie—brands of hi-fi systems paraded around in the 1980s up to the 1990s as prized possessions.

In those days, these sound systems or what they simply called ‘component’, along with the still-tube TV sets, were the centerpiece of the houses of the working and middle class.

Alagad kun kaidto, pagtitipunan mo an arog kaining klase nin patugtog—ngonyan, may laptop ka lang, yaon na an gabos na brands: makakapili ka pa depende kun anong kapritso mo!

Today’s technology has trivialized the fact how my own folks—uncles, cousins, brothers—and even I valued these sound systems as prized possessions or even status symbols. Now it has aggregated these household names—and features them as options to time travel to any user, as it were. 

            For one, I get to own all these in my laptop and indulge in reliving the past:

Say, when I choose Kenwood KX-800 and play Air Supply’s “Love and Other Bruises” or “Don’t Turn Me Away” I am easily effortlessly transported to Manoy’s mixed tape in the 80s right away.

How about clicking Akai GX-F90 and play Kenny Rogers’ “Islands in the Stream” and “You and I”—then I easily bring myself to my Uncle Harben’s living room where he loved to play the Kenny Rogers 1983 Bee Gees-authored vinyl the whole day?

Late last night, I picked Cassette Player 3D and played Fra Lippo Lippi’s “Stitches and Burns” and “Thief in Paradise” among their greatest hits, and so high school memories came flooding in, later engulfing the room.

One afternoon, I will click the JVC skin and play Toad the Wet Sprocket's “Walk on the Ocean” or R.E.M.'s “Losing My Religion”, then, there he would be, my cousin Jokoy whispering in my ear, praising Michael Stipe to high heavens. Nice...

This evening I will click the Sony Media Tower skin and load in my playlist Enigma’s “Sadeness, Part 1,” among many other chill-out cuts—and soon, I will return to some familiar place where I once went to, a state of mind which gives me serenity.

With all these possibilities now only at the tip of my fingers, who could have ever known that the past is never gone, that the past is rather ever-present?

 

Mutiny and the Bounty

Coming to Iloilo City in 2005, something immediately caught my attention.

Passing General Luna Street, I saw streamers and makeshift tents in front of the University of San Agustin. From friends and new acquaintances I would learn that the union employees of the university were protesting unlawful acts committed by the administration against them and their members.

For the succeeding months, I would see [and read] these streamers denouncing the administration for having been unjust to the employees who had served the university for a period of time; the streamers and protests also raised a number of other issues against the administration.

It was the first time I saw a dramatic interplay between two forces going on. I would see the same setup, up to the time the streamers became soiled and muddied that I could not read the words in them anymore, or that I found them annoying—because they would block my view of the university.

But the sight only drew my attention and scrutiny.

Once, I saw a public meeting by a number of people in front of the university gates, rallying aloud for their concerns. From other people I would learn that the strike by the employees was without basis; and that some of them were reinstated in their service to the university; and that others were relieved from service.

It was only later—in the official statement of the university published in the local papers that the facts became clearer.  The court finally denied the legality of the employees’ mobilization against the university.

Even before the court handed down its decision, a friend confided to me once how he pitied the union employees because despite legal assistance, their acts and even the subsequent measures they took were baseless, lacking ground and orientation. 

It does not require anyone to be a lawyer to understand an issue like this. It is easy to articulate how and why these things are made of, only if we were more than observant. 

For one, unrest in the labor sector might stem from people’s discontent. Administration, any status quo, for that matter, naturally defends itself because it normally conducts matters with much discretion and decorum, and utter deference to the people it serves—thus, its confidence in the manner of doing things is simply effortless.

Meanwhile, social realities like labor unrest do not fail to interest artists because they involve the dynamic interplay between elements in the society. 

Scenarios like this must have given inspiration to age-old masterpieces as French naturalist Emile Zola’s Germinal, a turn-of-the-century novel about the miners’ unrest against their employers in a French coalmine. The same reminds me of Mike de Leon’s Sister Stella L., a film which looms large in the social realist genre.

Artists, writers, film directors, and people of similar occupations can consider the subject for a more incisive study, so they can later put forth something from which people can learn and be inspired further.

Such experiences merit a more incisive introspection, a careful study that renders more truth. 

If rendered more truthfully, their act of writing—the work itself created after having been moved, inspired or bothered by these realities—can make persons out of individuals, or turn souls out of institutions.

Magbása Kitang Bikol

Naga City, Camarines Sur—Pagrokyaw ka Julio Aborde  Jr. kan Camarines Sur sagkod Maria Cecilia Tatel kan Catanduanes, duwang maestrong kagsurat kan mga istoryang-pan-aki na pinili kan Let’s Read kan Asia Foundation kan nakaaging taon.

Rokyaw man na gayo sa mga nagkurit kan mga istoryang ining sinda Marly Espiritu kan Masbate dangan Al Vic Misalucha kan Camarines Sur. Antes pa mag-abot an pandemya, haloy nang kamawotan kan Asia Foundation (AF) an maiheras sa gabos an saindang mga istoryang pan-aki sa paagi kan internet. 

 

Sa pakikipag-anduyog kan AF sa mga parasurat sagkod parakurit sa Bicol sagkod sa manlainlain na rona kan Pilipinas magin sa entirong Asia, an mga obra ninda Jun sagkod Cecil ngonyan mababasa na sa saindang mga pahina. Poon sa mga enot na workshop kan Enero sagkod Marso hasta Hulyo kan 2020, sakóng nagin dakulang pribiliheyong makabulig sa mga kasibutan (asin kasabutan) na ini.

 

Kamo gabos, madya! Dumanan ta an saindang mga obra. Bisitahon an letsreadasia.org. Basahon ta an sadiri ta:

 

Si Labsay kan Dakulang Bukid

Ni Julio Aborde Jr. 

Kan Magturaok si Inok 

Ni Maria Cecilia Tatel 

 

Mábalos, Asia Foundation.

 

#AsiaFoundation

#LetsReadAsia

#BikolBeautiful 

#CentralBikol

 

Suddenly, Last Summer

In “Suddenly, Last Summer”, I lament the curtailed freedom we as children experienced because of our parents’ protectiveness and fear of weaning us off into the world.

In fact, it was our siblings—our own brothers and sisters, our guardians—the IATF personnel who quarantined us in those days, as it were. It was our own folks who first locked us down, who told us to “stay home” so we would be protected from we-didn’t-really-know-who.

A year after the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP) called for literary works centered on the theme of travel or “Lakbay”, they published this piece on how a child is constantly being told to just stay home and not join his (or her) siblings’ “adventure” in their village.

Lamenting the sadness (but really celebrating the joy) of childhood, this rawitdawit (Bikol poem) makes clear that probably no ‘lockdown’ can stifle a child’s imagination from “traveling” or soaring high; that nothing can stop children from exploring any space made available to them—from giving it sense and meaning.

Thank you, CCP.

‘Hope for the Flowers’, Mr. Abonal and the Creative Influence

Sa Hope for the Flowers (1972) ni Trina Paulus na binasa mi kaito sa klase ni Mr. Abonal, dai ko nalilingawan itong “part” na si Stripe sagkod si Yellow nakaabot na sa ibabaw kan pigparasákat nindang “caterpillar pillar”—tapos sabi ninda ni Yellow, “mayò man baga digding nangyayari”.

“Ano man daa ‘ni?”

Hunà ko ngaya magayon digdi. Napayà si duwang ulod.

Si Yellow kayà sagkod si Stripe duwang ulod na nagkanagbuan sa kumpol-kumpol na mga ulod—sa pagkadrowing ni Trina Paulus garo nganì mga lipay, o alalásò—na nagpaparatiripon nagkakaramang nagsasarakat sa caterpillar pillar.

Hunà kaya ninda kun ano an pigpaparaurusyúso pigpaparákaramángan pigdúdurumanán kan mga kauulúdan pasákat sa halangkáwon na ito.

Kada sarò nakisùsùan sa kadakuldakul na arog ninda antes na magkanupáran an duwa sa hìbog kan kauulúdan na ito. Kan mahiling ninda mismong nagpapatirihulog sana man palan an mga ulod na nakaabot na sa ibabaw, nadisganár si duwa.

An nahiling ninda, pagkatapos kan pagparapakisùsùan ninda sa gatos-gatos na ulod na nag-iiridós nagkakaramáng nagkakaranáp pasiring sa tuktok, mayò man palan nin saysáy. Kayà piglukot na sana ninda an mga sadiri sa kada sarò. Dangan luminitong sinda ta nganing magpatihúlog marakdág makahalì sa tuktok na ito. Nakabalik giraráy sinda sa dagà.

Mayo palan daa duman an hinahanap ninda—kun anong dapat nindang gibohon mayo man duman.

Sa pag-agi kan mga aldaw, nakahiling sinda nin sarong arog man nindang nakabítay sa sangá, saka sana ninda naaraman na malúkot palan sinda kan sadiri. Mabitáy sa sanga. Máluom sa saindang sápot nin haloy. Duman mahilumlòm. Ta nganing magsanglì an saindang itsura. Magdakula, magtalúbo.

Dangan magin sarong magayon na alibangbang. Apod ninda sa Ingles butterfly.

‘Hope for the Flowers’ came alive to us because Mr. Abonal didn't just assign us but took effort to read the story with us—meeting after meeting after meeting.

Our English class then was a bedtime of sorts, with Mr. Abonal reading classic stories to us throughout the year.

He was feeding into our minds that we were Stripes who had to be taught when and how and why we will be meeting the Yellows of our lives even as we were dazed and confused about why we had to go join the other caterpillars who were going somewhere—yes, I remember—to the top of the caterpillar pillar where, well, there’s nothing.

Dai palan daa kaipuhan na magin ulod na sana. Kaipuhan magrisgo—kaipuhan magnegar kan sadiri tanganing magdakulà. Magtalubò. Magbàgo. Ta nganing makua an sinasabing “more of life”. 

Kayà palan. Swak sa “magis” philosophy kan mga Heswita. Now I know why it has been a required reading. 

So an siram kan buhay palan—segun sa buhay kan alibangbang—yaon sa burak. The caterpillar ought to become a butterfly to be able to feed on the flower’s nectar to pollinate it. And make it bear fruit. Tà nganing may saysay. Tà nganing may bunga. May kahulugan. An buhay. Bow.

Ano daw tà—siring kan Little Prince ni Antoine de-St. Exupery o The Prophet ni Kahlil Gibran—mga arog kaining libro an minatatak sa nagbabasa?

Haros gabos ming binaràsa sa klaseng ito ni Mr. Abonal daradara ko sagkod ngonyan. Yaon an dramang “Lilies of the Field” ni William Barrett na pinelikula kan Hollywood tapos binidahan ni Sidney Poitier, African-American, na saro sa mga enot na nagrumpag kan all-white Hollywood kan manggana siya nin mga honra sa pag-arte.

Sa “Lilies of the Field”, yaon an makangirit na pag-urulay-ulay kan tolong lengwahe—Espanyol, Aleman sagkod an colloquial American English. Sa mga madreng Aleman na binuligan niyang magtugdok nin chapel, nanùdan ni Homer Smith an balór kan teamwork, kan collective effort. Na “no one can really do it alone” na garó man sana “no man is an island” kan metaphysical poet na si John Donne na garo man lang ngani “together each achieves more,” o T.E.A.M. Balik-GMRC?

Binasa mi man an short storyng “Flowers for Algernon” ni Daniel Keyes, manongod sa deterioration kan sarong 32-anyos na lalaking may helang sa payó.

Kawasà epistolaryo an style kan obrang ini, nasúsog mi an istorya kan pasyenteng si Charlie Gordon sa mga daily log, o diary entry niya—puon kan siya momóng pa, o an IQ 68 sana, dai aram an isfelling kan mga pangaran ninda—astang maglumpat an saiyang IQ sa 185, nagin matalion siyang magsurat—kawasa sa gene surgery na piggibo saiya—tapos kan buminalik na siya sa dating IQ niya, sagkod na siya magadan bilang garo consequencia. Pesteng bakuna—tibaad man Dengvaxia!

Nahiling ko giraray an ining istorya ni Charlie kan madalan ko an pelikulang “Phenomenon” (1996) ni John Turtletaub na binidahan ni John Travolta. Talk of “selected readings” in the truest sense of the phrase. 

Ano daw ‘to? Nátaon sana daw na puro may flowers an gabos na idto? O bakò man daw itong Year of the Flower? Selectang-Selecta an flavor kan literaturang pinabarasa niya samo kan mga 15 o dies y seis años pa sana kami.

Antes nagin serbidor kan siyudad nin Naga, haloy na nagin maestro sa English si Mr. Abonal asin principal kan Ateneo de Naga High School.

Masuwerte kaming mga estudyante niya kaidto: kadakuldakul kaming giniribo sa English 4 ni Abonal. Pagkabasa mi kan “Julius Caesar” ni William Shakespeare, nagpublikar kami nin mga diyaryong petsadong 44 B.C. para i-Balalong, i-Aniningal i-Weekly Informer i-Vox Bikol mi (man daá) an pagkaasasinar ki Julius Caesar, an emperador kan Roma.

Then, in one quarter, we were required to dig deep into the life of one prominent person in history from A to Z. Assigned to the letter “F”, I short-listed Michael Faraday, Robert Frost and Sigmund Freud. Eventually I chose Freud. Whose episode, if you may, merits a separate essay. These were no days of Wikipedia ever—we had to source out the lives of these famous people from books and other hardbound materials  in Amelita’s Verroza’s Circulation and Periodicals Sections of the high school library then in the ground floor of the Burns Hall.

Some of us even had to ‘invade’ Ms. Esper Poloyapoy’s and Mrs. Aida Levasty’s cubicles across the hall inside the College Library where I, for instance, found the juicier Freud—in the definitive biography by his confidante, er, bosom buddy Ernest Jones. Encyclopedia Britannica, World Book, American, all encyclopedias and primary sources—these were the heyday of index cards filed in that brown box—title, author and yes, subject cards. I did not know why oh why but of all these cards, it’s the subject card that looked the most beautiful to me.

In that single class, some fifty personalities were featured enough to collect in a compendium of sorts. We were also asked to present these famous men and probably women in class (ambiguity intended). That project alone was legendary.

Sa parehong klase, pigparapatararam niya pa man kami—as in speeches, as in oratories—poon sa mga classic poems na yaraon sa libro mi kaidto sagkod sa mga popular song na nadadangog sa radyo, pati na an sadiri ming obrang sinurusog sa mga bersikulong binarása hale sa Biblia.

Ano man daw ‘to ta kada quarter, igwa kaming obra-maestra kumbaga—kun bako sa pagsurat o pagtaram, sa pagbasa?

We also produced an album of our recorded readings of the some verses we wrote or poetry we chose from anthologies. That was how busy we were in this class. Our English skills were really being put to use, exhausted and maximized in this class—listening, speaking, reading and writing. 

In this class, too, he made appealing to us a topic as uninviting as diagramming—or subject-verb agreement—like I never saw in any other teacher.

Cool and composed, he tackled tenses and conjugation as a doctor does with a scalpel. He made grammar literally clinical. We, his apprentices, looked to him with notes and keen eyes—and probably asked ourselves: “Really? Is this how it works—so it can be done!”

He discussed grammar and usage with such passion so that I, for one, would eventually see coordination (and, or,  and ; ) and subordination (but, while, despite, etc.)—and later transitional devices (meanwhile, however, furthermore, therefore, etc.)—not only as necessities but also styles in writing.

Coming in the classroom, he would cut a small figure—but carrying books which we knew contained enormous ideas he knew like the back of his hand.

Our principal—rather, this particular English teacher—discussed pieces of literature with finesse. Articulate and fluent, he read the text aloud in class, raising points for discussion and urging us to participate and speak back. In turn, we were rather always made speechless by his opinions on passages—and enjoined to make our own—whether aloud or later in our papers.

An English major from the same school himself, he was steeped in the text he was sharing to us. He graduated in the 1960s, deemed the Golden Days of English—well, beginning in the 1950s—of this Jesuit school, along with others in the city including University Nueva Caceres and Colegio de Santa Isabel.

It was a great time to be a student of English and literature. Saen ka pa ka’yan?

Pigtaram ko bilang oration piece an “People Are People” kan Depeche Mode; nagdrama man daa ako para ihiras sa iba an lyrics kan “Lift Up Your Hands” ni Nonoy Zuñiga na sarong gospel song.

Mantang an iba paborito kan mga klase ko si mga sikaton kadtong kanta ni Bette Midler na “From a Distance” kan mga early 1990s sagkod an “My Way” ni Sinatra. After reading and discussing Langston Hughes’ “Dreams” series in class, we were also made to recite poems that we ourselves chose.

I remember a classmate of mine picked Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade”. He delivered it in class much to our pleasure and admiration—how he internalized it so much that until now his voice, his enunciation and inflections still resonate. Some thirty years later.

While I chose Howard Nemerov’s “Trees”. What? What poem is that? Ini sarong dai-bantog na lyric poem—siempre manongod sa mga kahoy. But I remember I chose it because I thought it best to shy away from the staples or usual favorites Langston Hughes, Shakespeare, siisay pa? Ano pa ngani ‘to, “Desiderata?”

While Nemerov is not popular but also not obscure (he’s a poet in the Americas along with Wallace Stevens, Robert Penn Warren and W.S. Merwin), that seventeen-line verse didn’t even rhyme. I chose it because I felt I was going against the grain. 

Pinasururat niya pa kami nin sadiri ming short story dangan pig-urulayan mi si tolong pinakamagagayon sa klase.

Dahil man sana to ta sa kada meeting mi araaldaw—kaiba na kan Practical Arts—duwang sessions palan an igwa kami. Suba suba ka ka’yan. English Lit Combo overload man nanggad.

Sa gabos na giniribo ming ini sa klase ni Sir Greg, siisay man dai maoogma ta an marka sa kada quarter kun bakong 99 o 97, 100? Si iba nganì daa 103. An sábi.

As if these were not enough, the English teacher made us keep a journal every quarter where we could write random reflections—insights, now blogs, or v-logs, or what this social media site now calls “status updates”. Yes, he termed them journals, or albums, probably to do away with the dreaded, hackneyed “diary”— which might have otherwise scared us off.

Each week, we needed to turn in entries so that he would return them to us the next, with his responses, insights and pieces of advice, not as a principal—but like a parent ‘quite removed’, like a friend to his tropa, his barkada. Throughout the year, each of us must have produced four albums.

Through these journals, the avid language teacher must have patiently pored over our impressions on anything but also probably laughed at our impressionable, infantile incantations on crushes and first loves—and surely teenage angst.

One day, he gave each one of us a copy of “Roots”, an illustrated monograph of Latin root words, prefixes and suffixes and asked us to study it—so that we could score high in NCEE’s verbal aptitude section which tested vocabulary.

It details how most English words are derived from dozens of roots but are also created through affixations or adding prefixes and/or suffixes. More than anything, he advised us to learn the meanings of the entries there so that we could guess or recognize them, or make them out in any words that we encounter. I still have my copy. 

These were not all, indeed. Parts of our afternoon sessions were also devoted to reading lyric poems including those by Sara Teasdale, Edgar Allan Poe and some Frost. And of course, his favorite—or rather everyone’s favorite: Langston Hughes. 

You guessed it right. We, too, read Rudyard Kipling’s rather more famous lyric “If” and worked with our seatmates to read an assigned couplet asking ourselves if it related to our lives at all or plans whatsoever. And he didn't stop there. He also asked us to assert all these thoughts—or however we believed in the words we wrote—in speech. 

He designed our class as if they probably designed “Pistaym”, at the time Ateneo's academic and sports field day, or even the school’s intramurals itself—seamless, organized, efficient. Such attention to detail, such incisiveness, such efficiency.

All those days in English at the Ateneo—steeped in the wonders of the language and the beauty of literature—generously invited me to a life of words—and worlds—which I have relished and would always look forward to.

One which I have now, one which I wouldn’t trade for anything else.

Sa ining maestrong pirming busy kadakuldakul pinapa-activity, mayong lúgi an agít-agitán na estudyanti.

‘Sa Lahat Pong Nag-Great ng Happiest Birthday Ko Last Year sagkod sa Aga, Salamáton Po Talaga, Promise!’

Salamaton daa. 

Salamáton? Anong ‘salamaton’? Anong gustong sabihon?  

So, at least in Bikol (and Bicol), the plain word salamat has now become an adjective? Is that it?

Since when? May Executive Order na pinaluwàs? Kan suarin pa? Since the day you first used it? Since your last post?

“What is the meaning of this!?”

Garo palan magayon? Kaya magayonon. A, OK: beautifulon, bakong pangiton? 

Halangkaw po siya? Dai po.  Halangkawonon. Six -footéron po.

So if the plain word salamat is now an adjective,

then:

Salamat. Payak? Salamaton. Pahambing? Salamatonon. Pasukdol? Bakò nin Pa-Polangui? 

Iyo na palan ini ngonyan an lengwahe ta?

So garo “HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY TO YOU, BFF!” 

Why is it superlative?

Let me see. Happier than last year and next year? Every year but not this one? Why happiest? Since when and until when? Ever Since the World Began? Since time immemorial? Bowed by the waist of Century Tuna he's leaner than his horse who grazes on the ground?

Why is it in the superlative, really? Where is the point of comparison in that plain statement?  Is this not what you mean: May you have the happiest birthday of all your birthdays. Ever.

Amen. Alleluiah! 

Raise the rope! (Answer the question in complete sentence! Otherwise, give me two weeks! Drop!)

Or “HAPPY BIRTHDAY IN HEAVEN.”

Ano po? Come again?

“Happiest birthday in heaven” daa ngani!

Ah. So, people are now born in heaven? Since when? Since the day they died? O, dai man daw D-Day? Bako ni itong D-day the music died? So bye bye miss American KaPie-kapay (Mayo na baga sa White House si Ronald Trumf)?

Or CONDOLENCE PO SA NAMATAY.

Sinong namatay ate? Anong nangyari sa kanya? Kawawasaki naman. Condolence po to the dead. 

Makuliton talaga, ay. Kundol patola upo't kalabasa at saka mayroon pa:

And rest in peace “To the Beraved familiarity. You all, rest in pieces. Ay, piece palan.

Such travesties in the language being committed today.

It's just so Oak Ward, not the Molave Ward, near the Nurses Station where WiFi is great kaya salamaton po talaga. Sorryhon po talaga ta dai kaya me maka move-onon.

Salamaton--

Pa‘no daw kun ini na lang:

Salamat na marhay.

Salamat talaga. 

O magsublì sa iba:

Daghang salamat.

Maraming salamat.

Sawà na gayod sa “Thank you very much.” Cliche na gayod—ta autotext man na yan sa yahoo sagkod gmail?   

Thanks so much.

Many many thanks.

Cliche man giraray baga.

Úni:  

Arigato Go sa MayMalasakit Sa'yo kaya iboto mo sa 2022

23, 24, 25, 30, 35 50 65 70 75 100! Buhay ka pa daw ka'yan?

Bakad.

Baad! Hali sa tibaad!

Iyo pa man gayod.

Ay, SALAMATON kun buhay  pa ko ka'yan!

Salamaton talaga, promise! 

O, ayan. Magbabalik daw po si Ate Lugs, ang original na Eye to Eye de las Alas!

Kalurkeyest ka.

Ganito Kami Noon, Paano Kayo Ngayon?’

Ngonyan na agang Domingo, kaipuhan mong makapabulog ki Tiyo Ben, sa kataid nindong barbero—kun sa Lunes habo mong mairikán ka ni Chancoco. 

“Arogon mo po an drowing na ini ho.” 

Yaon sa Student Handbook kan Ateneo. 

“Salamat po, Pay. Uni po bayad ko. Kwatro.” Iyo. Ta ini pa kan taon otsenta y otso. 

Kaidto, mayo nin dulagan an burulugan ta nganing makalaog sa eskwelahan. Kun dai ka mabulugan, ma-jug and post ka sa opisina ni Sir Generoso.  O kun dai man pagabihon kamo sa likod kan Module 2. 

Maabot ka sa classroom nindo tapos na an first period ki Delos Trino. Bugok ka na naman sa quiz na itinaó.

Ngonyan na panahon, pag-start kan saimong Google Zoom—pag-alas otso, an mga second-year sa klase mo, garo nagirios pa sana sa higdaan kan mga iniho. 

Long hair na, nakatururban pa, tibaad dai pa ngani nakakalsonsilyo. Dai daa kaya nakakaluwas, pa’no?

Good morning, class. Let’s call the roll.

When I call your name, say present.  Abella… Present, Sir.  Abella, what’s your connection—WiFi? Mobile data? WiFi po, Sir. Kumusta man an signal mo? Ok man po, Sir. 

Abragan… Abragan? Adoracion… Adoracion…? Balanlayos… Balanlayos…Haraen daw an mga estudyanteng ini? 

Si Adoracion po Sir mayo po daang mobile data. Sabi sa Messenger.

Colarina… Here, Sir. Coralde… Present, Sir. Diaz… Yes, Sir. Yaon si Diaz.

Duza… Duza... Duza? O, ta dai ka Noy nagsisimbag , yaon ka baga. Haen na, Noy, an uniporme mo? 

Sorry, Sir. Mayo po. Yaon po kaya ko sa balyong harong. nakikigamit lang po Wifi. Nawalat ko po Sir. Anong plano mo, Noy? Next time, Sir. Sorry po talaga.

Makusogon an boot nindo ta dai mararabraban ni Sir Rolando Saboco. Online, pa’no!

Dai mo mairikan, ta sa screen mo lang magkakahirilingan.

Makukusog na an buot nindang dai magsunod kan palakaw kan eskwelahan—an rason dai makaluwas sa sentro. Dai nanggad makahiro ta haros gabos limitado.

Ano an magiginibo mo, sarong agit-agitan na maestro? 

Bakong sabi kan dekano nindo, intindihon daang gayo an mga ‘aki’ ta mayo kitang grabeng magiginibo:

Dear teachers, the dean said, “the new normal calls for more responsiveness on our part. We do not really know how much our leniency could help them these days.” 

“Nowadays let’s be more patient to our students. Please be considerate.”

OK, Sir.

Our Generation Was Not Taught And Did Not Learn Spanish

CITY OF NAGA, FORMERLY NUEVA CACERES—Whoever had moved to abolish Spanish in our college curriculum had no foresight of its importance to really educating the Filipino.

When I stepped into college in 1992, our course syllabus at the Ateneo de Naga did not include Spanish anymore. I enrolled in a humanities course but didn’t have to take Spanish. Later I would learn that the subject was not being offered anymore.

I wonder what our lawmakers in those years had in mind when they abolished it. If at all, they certainly didn’t know that most of our past—our recorded history—had been written in Spanish. If at all, they were not thinking that the abundance of information about our past can be mined in the Spanish archives—for more than three centuries, they had been our colonizers, masters and oppressors.

As early as the primary grades, we had been taught about the widespread, far-reaching hundreds of years of Spanish colonization of the Philippines. Foremost, the country’s name itself—Filipinas—is nothing but a tribute to Felipe, then the king of Spain.

I find it odd that Spanish was not encouraged to be taught at the Ateneo, rather an institution begun some 400 years earlier by a Spaniard par excellence, St. Ignatius of Loyola. Surely there must have been protests, but what could the Jesuits have done?

I remember in 1993 how our history teacher—now the master historian Danilo Madrid Gerona—would share with our class about his trips to Sevilla and Madrid—to do historical research or archival work about Bicol, or anything that had to do with our history.

Five years before Gerona became my teacher, he published From Epic to History (Naga: AMS Press, 1988), a seminal book on Bicol history which became a required reading for every Atenean studying history.

Some thirty years later, on the 500th year of the arrival of Spaniards in our soil, I see that he has been making waves across the campuses, on social media and online—sharing and broadcasting his latest discoveries in Philippine and Bicol history.

Of late, I came to know how—through his incisive archival work of firsthand Spanish sources—he has redefined and officially reconstructed the old concept of the robust, military-age man Lapulapu to one of an ageing warrior—a sage, as it were. I wonder why they had to scrap the subject—which was about studying a rather beautiful language. Spanish may be an old language, yes— but it's not dead.

 Today, all we can do is romanticize it. Every now and then, we would fondly refer to a Spanish teacher who spoke the language beautifully—and ultimately remember her person because of such flair.

Also, there were days when we were awed by Miss Venezuela, Miss Chile or Miss Argentina candidates flawlessly answering questions in beauty pageants in their own language. For years we also religiously patronized Thalia in Marimar and other countless Mexicanovelas. We likewise sing our hearts out to the songs of Trio Los Panchos, Jose Feliciano and Julio Iglesias—to us, they feel soulful and affecting. We have always been Spanish at heart—but our generation has been deprived to learn the language. Today, if we want to learn Spanish, we would need to rather enroll in Instituto Cervantes or other language schools or be tutored in it.

 Whatever they did, our lawmakers probably thought it best to scrap Spanish because it is the language of the oppressor. They must have thought that we would be better to do away with it—to forget the bitter past. They didn’t realize that if we do so, we would also be forgetting ourselves.

 These days, we gasp in awe at the latest discovery about ourselves mined through the Spanish resources. We are awed all the time because not so many of us know Spanish.

 I wonder how different it would have been if Spanish were not really foreign to us. What if it were like just another dialect, rather a variant—like Partido Bikol or another language from another region, say, Hiligaynon? Would we be a lot different?

 If we knew Spanish by heart, probably we would have more poets, musicians and artists who would use this beautiful language to romantic but also social and political ends.

 More often, we would probably be referring to our ancestors more familiarly because we knew them and their Spanish lineage or affinities. We can just recall our sense of Spanish in utter nostalgia. Most of us are named or carry Spanish names but never even know the history behind these names.

 We treat anything Spanish in different ways—true, some of us treat it as piece of the past, belonging to our ancestors long gone.

 When I go to the burial sites in the coming days, I will again marvel at the names of the dead—carrying Chinese but most especially Spanish names.

 In the 2000s, inside the Molo and Jaro churches in Iloilo, I was awed seeing and reading the names of the dead—couples, infants, etc. and their epitaphs in Spanish. I mouthed them quietly and found them beautiful but could hardly understand what they really meant.

 I wonder if most of us knew Spanish like the back of our hand. We wouldn’t really be drooling over our own past. Because we would be able to read about them in Spanish. We would have more translators. We would have more authors. Not only of our own history. We would probably have dozens of Agoncillos or Constantinos; or batches of Geronas and Ocampos; and maybe, a string of Zaides, too. These and other Filipino historians—some would say except the last one—worked their Spanish hard to read about our past and offer it back to us.

 The Spaniards know us more than we do ourselves. They had been in and out of our country for a long, long time—trading with us, exploiting our natural wealth, but also stealing our souls, as it were, like they did a number of Latin American countries.

One day, we may just be awed again when some author from around us writes his own Three Hundred Years of Solitude, inspired not only by Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s magic realist novel but probably by some real magic he may have seen from the pages of our own history.

All these years I have been inspired by how Gerona and the rest of the Filipino historians have been traveling to and from the land of our master colonizers to retrieve the raw and rather more authentic parts of ourselves.

 

Igwang Mapapasáon Tà May Okasyón

Daí nindo pagpara-alíti an mga sadíring gamit. Na dáwà kamo mismo dai nakakagámit kan mga iního. Tàno pigruruluwás saná nindo an mapapasàon kun igwa man daáng selebrasyon? 

Ah. Habô nindong magagabát an huhugásan na plato?   Tàno an inuusár nindo itong may litík nang báso? An pudpód nang tása iyo an linalàgan kan adóbo?

Mamondò, mamondò. Mamondò kun an mároromdomán kan mga aki nindo, agom mo, sadiring-tawo, kan mga aldaw na magkairíba kamo—kun bakò si may punggít na plato, itong kiríming bandehado na (ara-aldaw) paraúso.  

Itóng kutsárang pag iyò an sa lamésa pigpwésto, pinagámit asin ihinúngit kan kabuhán mo, tánggal an saiyang pustíso ta nakasàbit palán sa puró!

Sinurublían sa Dáan na Bikol
alití, alitán, likayan, ingatan
inuusár, ginagamit
mapapasáon, china 

Close Family 'Ties'

Sa Bikol word na TUGANG, máyô an kahulugan kan KAPATID sa Tagalog, na yaon man sa UTOD sa Hiligaynon. Kun an PATID sa Tagalog sagkod UTOD sa Hiligaynon gustong sabihon PATÓD o PUTÓL sa Bikol, ano ta bakong KAPATÓD o KAPUTÓL an apod sato digdi? Ano ta TUGANG? 

Saen hali an word na TUGANG? Saen nag-“túga” (from where did it spring forth) an tataramon na ini? Pwede tang dumanan si prayleng Marcos de Lisboa (1865) sa diskyunaryo kaini kan mga pinaghalian kan mga tataramon na Bikol. Pero saka na.

Ano man daw ta TUGANG an apod sa tawong KASUMPAY kan PUSOD mo? Kaya na sana man gayod an ina mo garong MAUTSAN (hali sa MAUTASAN o MAPUTULAN nin hinángos) kun nagdidiringkilan kamo ni Manay mo, ni Manoy mo, ni Nene mo, ni Nonoy mo.

Minsan ngani nadidismayo siya kun dai kamo nagkakauruyon sa sarong bagay. Aram mo kun ta’no? Pagmati niya kaya garong BINIBIRIRIBID an tulak niya ta dai nagkakauruyon an sinabi pang MAGKARUSUMPAY sa PUSOD na hali sana man saiya.

Sa saiyang persona, NABIBIRIRIBID si garong LUBID na pinaghalian nindo. Siisay an dai pangruruluyahan kaiyan? 

Ngonyan naiintindihan mo na.

Alagad ano man nanggad? Ta’no ta bakong KAPUTOL an Bikol para sa tawong SINUNUDAN mo o sa tawong NAGSUNOD saimong ináki ni ina nindo? 

Kun sa Tagalog inaapod nindang KAPATID an SIBLING sa English, dangan sa Hiligaynon inaapod man nindang “UTOD” (PUTOL sa Bikol, kaya UTOL sa Tagalog), dai daw mas magayon na an gamiton man na tataramon KATAKOD o KASUMPAY? Sa pag-aki saindo kan ina nindo, kamo MAGKASURUMPAY sana man, bakong iyo? Kaya dai man daw orog na husto an kaapodan na ini? 

Narumduman ko igwang programa an sarong local radio station digdi sa Naga City na an apod—“Sumpay Buhay.” Sarong public affairs program ini. Na daing kinaiba sa “Kapwa Ko, Mahal Ko” ni Orly Mercado sagkod Rosa Rosal kaidto sa TV o sa “Kapuso”, “Kapamilya” o “Kapatid” foundations ngonyan sa mga local TV networks. SUMPAY BUHAY carries a deeper connection—one’s concern for the other is to make him continue living—sustaining life. Just like how members of the same family ought to work together to sustain themselves.

The radio anchor addressed the listeners MGA TUGANG, then allowed indigent people or those in need to air their concerns for the listeners to make their pledges or assistance, so that the words TUGANG, SUMPAY and BUHAY became more meaningful to the ordinary listener.

Refer to Ateneo de Naga’s Alay Malasakit Scholarship for students whose parents are deceased during their studies, which when translated to Bikol becomes “Atang nin Pagmakulog.” Bago pa nagkaigwa nin Pantawid Pamilyang Pilipino Program (4Ps) an Department of Social Welfare and Development (DSWD), yaon na an Alay Malasakit kan Ateneo de Naga.

The word KULOG here connotes something like—“we know your pain, so we will help you,” which can also mean that “you ain’t heavy because you’re my brother” (as in the song)—“so I will help you carry your burden.” How profound. 

It can also mean that the KULOG here comes from being tied and bonded—belonging to the same PUSOD, because we come from the same source…etc.

Backtrack to John Donne’s “Meditation XVI” some 600 years ago when he said, “No man is an island, entire of itselfe... any man’s death diminishes me…”—An sakit kan iba iyo man an sako.

Kan napaduman ako sa daga kan Hiligaynon, garo mas naka-relate ako kan maintindihan ko an kahulugan kan utod. Orog na rinimpos ko an PAGKAKASURUSURUMPAY kan mga tawong saro sana an GINIKANAN.

Dawa an word na magurang sa hiligaynon GINIKANAN, na klarong-klaro sa Bikol na HINALIAN. Ginagamit ngani sa Bikol an GIKAN, synonynym kan HALI, o PINAGHALIAN. An saimong ama sagkod ina an saimong GINIKANAN. Gayon! 

Ngonyan naman ano ta MAGÚRANG an nakatûdan na gamiton sa Bikol? 

Nawawara an CLOSE FAMILY TIES na kahulugan sa mga word na TUGANG  sagkod MAGURANG. 

Sa mga lugar na harani sa Panay Island (Hiligayonn country) arog kan Masbate, dai ko mangalas kun an mga tataramon na pinanghihinayangan kong dapat nagagamit iyo an ginagamit bako an yaon sa Bicol mainland. 

Sa Social Studies kadto nanudan ta na an mga Filipino daa bistado sa saindang “close family ties”. (Garo sa bako man arog kaini an ibang rasa.) Ini mahihiling mismo sa pag-apod kan mga kapamilya ngani.

KAPATID connotes that siblings belong or are TIED to the same umbilical cord. The Hiligaynon UTOD traces to KAUTOD. But these words however connote a separation rather than continuity or even union. 

So if a Bikol word has to be reinvented to replace TUGANG,  it ought to be the opposite.  “Kasumpay” also means “katakod”, ka-connect”. Kapusod. Kalubid. If we’re using these words, the image is clear. 

Why can’t Bikol be more metaphorical in this sense? TUGANG has stolen the sense it is supposed to mean—why not kasumpay nin buhay? Or kasumpay kan buhay?

‘Tell Me Your Name, You’re Lovely, Please Tell Me Your Name’

Neil Romano. Donna Bella. John Paulo. Raphael Francis. Maita Cristina.

I wonder how my cousins and my own brother think—or feel—about their names. 

Each of them was given two beautiful names, but they would just be called   one name—either their first or their second name.

In fact, they have also been called other names. Neil Romano (born 1969) later became Neil. But affectionately, to us he has always been “Áno”, a diminutive of Románo.

 From Donna Bella (born 1973), they chose Donna. But then again, it has always been “Nang-nang”—with her younger siblings, too, being called Ding-ding, Kling-kling and Don-don, who have since called her “Manangnang”— most likely from “Manay Nang-nang”.

 Also, John Paulo (born 1978), named after the pope, became only Paulo—but fondly now, “Pau”.

 Raphael Francis (born 1980) became Francis. But fondly, too, he has always been “Pangkoy” to us.

 And Maita Cristina, born 1985, yes, on a Christmas Day, became simply Maita, cleverly drawn from that of our lola, Margarita.

Why is it that despite the two names given to people, there is always one active name that replaces them—most likely the one that their parents or their folks chose or still gave them?

 Of course, there’s a story behind each name—about how they were named but I’m sure there’s a juicier story of how they were also nicknamed—or how that single, active name came to be and has been used ever since.

 Did you notice that only in Mexican soap operas—and later Filipino telenovelas—can we hear two names being seamlessly, rather dutifully, used when they are addressed, as in: “Maria Mercedes”, or “Carlos Miguel” or “Julio Jose”?

“Mara Clara”. What did you say—“Maria Clara”?

 Of course, there are exceptions. Take the case of Von Carlo. Or Sarah Jane. Or Lyn Joy (Wow… I cannot think of a sweeter name than this.)

 But each of these two-name names is already too short to be cut further or even dropped. In fact—easily they can be turned into one: Jennylyn, Genalyn, Ednalyn. Julieanne. Maryanne. Carolyn. Carol Lyn?

 Or Larryboy. Or Dannyboy. Dinosaur (from Dino Sauro?).

 So is it for brevity, then? After all, I think that first names are tags (as in katawagan and therefore pagkakakilanlan) of persons, so does it really help that they are short, as in monosyllabic? The shorter or the faster the register, the better—is that it?

 Others are also given three first names or more, as in: Jose Francis Joshua.

 Allen Van Marie. Francis Allan Angelo.

 Maria Alessandra Margaret.

 Why? They are so named because their parents want to honor their folks—aunts, uncles, grandparents and great-grandparents by giving them a string of their names.

 In the case of some Jose Felicisimo Porfirio Diaz, a.k.a. Bobong, who was named from his uncle and great-grandfather, we could easily guess what happened here. The kilometric name just didn’t really sit well—probably pissed his other folks off, who then argued with his parents but luckily agreed and settled for a simpler one: Bobong!

 How about Jose Antonio Emilio Herminigildo? Sounds like two persons already. Takes a lot of effort.

 So why do parents name their children the way they do? How do they (come to) do it? Are they inspired by their personal heroes? Idols? The stars of their own lives?

 Personal heroes? I already said that. So, there.

 Parents name their children based on inspiration—to immortalize not only their origins, their parents but also their aspirations and ideals.

 Then again, some of them name their offspring to immortalize only themselves: Romeo Agor I, Romeo Agor II, Romeo Agor III, etc. Just like royalty.

 But seriously, I admire how people in the past were so beautifully named—by being given only one name:

 Emiliano. Why is this name so beautiful? It doesn’t evoke sadness. Neither does it invoke anything unattractive. It doesn’t mean a lot of things but itself.

 Margarita. Of course it means something based on its origin. But I choose to look past its etymology and just see it as it is.

 Why do these four-syllable names sound so beautiful? They’re not magical; they’re just beautiful to hear. They do not mean a lot of things but themselves.

 They’re just perfect.

Each of them has four syllables so that when you say them, they sound like two names already in modern parlance, each with two syllables.

 

So while some parents worry about giving their children two or three names or even more, I think that they overlook the beauty of giving their child one, single name. As in:

 

Ofelia.

Salvador. Edmundo.

Antonio.

Camilo. Alberto.

Rosita. Or Zenaida.

 Really here, simplicity is beauty.

 Hearing these names or reading them on the page, I seem to hear or feel the wish of the parents when they so name their child with just one name, as if to speak of their only wish for them in life.

 It’s like: one name, one wish—only goodness and nothing else:

 Flordeliza.

Dorotea.

Isabel.

Lydia.

Romana.

Teresita. Liduvina.

Imelda. Angelita.

Agaton.

Aurelia. Alma.

Gina. Amelita.

Belen. Delia.

Inocencio.

Mercedita. Zarina. Maida.

Carmelita. Belinda. Elisa.

 Emma.

 For me, giving them more than one name means something else altogether. “Maria Teresita” sounds overdone. “Luz Imelda” might work—sounds good—but not as plainly as just, “Imelda”. Then, honestly, “Roberto” or “Francisco” sounds better than “Francisco Roberto”. I don’t know why.

 I also wonder why a four- or five-syllable name sounds strong. Intact or solid. Strong-willed.

 Bersalina. Bienvenido. Aideliza. Plocerfina.

 And why do these names with three syllables sound so wonderful? Macário. Terésa.

 Wait, Tibúrcio. Dionísia. Glória.

 Ramón. Rosalía.

 Why does it sound like poetry? Soledád. Like beauty? Rafaél.

 How often, too, through names, have we looked to the heavens for inspiration—invoking not only blessing but guidance in our lives!

 Anunciacion, Visitacion, Encarnacion, Purificacion, Asuncion, Coronacion—all derived from the mysteries in the Holy Rosary of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

 A Catholic boy may be named Resurreccion, obviously to invoke the Saviour’s triumph over death. Among many others, parents would choose it. For one, it sounds very much like Victor. Or Victorino. But Victorioso?

 And while others were named Dolores or Circumcision, why are there no women or men named Crucificcion? Obviously, because we do not want to dwell in the bad side of things.

 We do not want any association with the undesirable things like suffering or misery. Or death.

 On the contrary, naming your child Maria or Jose or Jesus—a very common practice—is more than reassuring; for you literally consecrate them back to the Creator, fully acknowledging Him as the only Source of all life.

 Manuel. Emmanuel.

 Manuelito. Manolito. Manolo. Variants of the same wish. Same aspiration. 

 Jose. Josue. Joselito. Joselino. Jocelyn. Joseline. Josephine. Josefa. Josette. It’s quite a different name, but the aim is the same.

 Mario. Marianne. Mary Ann. Mariano. Mariana. Marianita. Marion. Same invocation. Same prayer.

 Maria Emmanuelle.

Jose Maria Emmanuelle. Like Jejomar (Jesus, Jose, Maria or if you want, Jesus Joseph Mary.)

 Naming your child in this fashion is giving more than paying tribute to the Highest One. It is the noblest gesture you can make, the highest kind of praise you can give to God, as it were.

 And then—Rosario. Probably the holiest of all.

 Were Spanish names once highly favored because they are highly allegorical, connoting the good things life? As in—Paz (peace), Constancia (constancy), Esperanza (hope), Remedios (remedy) and Consuelo (consolation)?

 While boys were named Serafin or girls Serafina—after the archangels Miguel, Rafael and Gabriel became too common—I think no parent would name their child Querubin, probably fearing that he or she would be as childish as impressionable if not as vulnerable or as unfortunate. Probably there is—but that’s too uncommon.

 And if you name your children in your clan Dorcas, Jona, Joshua, Abner, Abel or Nathaniel—obviously you know your Bible well. It means you don’t just let it sit on the altar for ages. Clearly, you must have been inspired not just by the Good News, but the Old Testament. It’s just hard not to associate these names with people who lived in the past. Picking all these names simply reflects a religious sensibility.

 Well, naming your child Primitivo or Primitiva lacks knowledge on your part. The Spanish name must have been assigned by the colonizers to the natives out of disgust—without the latter knowing what it meant. How the given name had survived through the generations is simply puzzling.

 Well, the same fate will befall you if you choose Moderna, but why does Nova—also meaning “new”—sound more acceptable? Hmm. Is it because it’s now Italian?

 Why can’t we name our girls Jane Karen, or Joan Jennifer—five syllables. Obviously because each of these names is already solid or full by itself. But why does it work with Sheryl Lyn or Sarah Jane? Frank Daniel or Billy Joe? Or Kyla Marie? Lyn Joy (really, it’s just beautiful). I explained this already.

 While a co-worker back in Iloilo has well thought of naming their children Payapa, Sigasig and Biyaya, some literary sensibilities name their children really as a poet would title their poem, or as a novelist would call their magnum opus: Marilag. Makisig. Maningning.

 Lakambini. Awit. Diwa.

 Angela. Kerima. Priscilla. Mirava. Anya.

 Dulce Maria.

 But no writer in his “write” mind would name their beloved child Luksa or Dusa. Or Daluyong or Kutya or Dagsa.

 “Sofia” is a favorite—nobody would turn away or turn away from wisdom.

 Shakespeare. Ophelia. Cordelia. Miranda. Tibaldo. Mercusio. Very rare.

 Misteriosa? Well, some women are named Gloriosa. I know a Glorioso. But why not Misteriosa? Misterioso. Is it not stating the obvious?

 And unless she has gone crazy, no mother would pick Thanatos, Persephone or Hades from her memory of Greco-Roman history.

 Persephone has come to be Proserfina, or Plocerfina with a variant Plocerfida, still uncommon. Orfeo is a beautiful name for a boy—as it is sad. And Eurydice? You must be very morbid. Try Eunice—although later on, she will be called “Yunise” by the folks in your barangay.

 Naming her Venus or Aphrodite is fair enough. Just do not pair them for one person—or else.

 I know of a well-known family from the highlands whose children’s names are Athena, Socrates, and Archimedes. They hail from the upland Buyo, a sitio adjacent to our barangay Bagacay, where they must have not only witnessed but also created their own Mount Olympus. Amazing!

 I wonder why Nestor has even become very popular here locally, sounding even more Filipino when it is originally Greek. Homer is not, or Homar. But Omar? Omar is very common. Omar Shariff? Or Omar Khayyam?

 And why does Hermes sound so high-brow? Hermes Diaz. Hermes Rodriguez. Hermes Sto. Domingo. But why not Mercurio? The latter is an actual family name, not a given name.

 And why, too, are there more Socrates I know than Aristotle or Aristoteles? Certainly, I know nothing of Plato or Platon, except for an apellido.

 I know of some Teofilo. Or Diogenes. Theophanes (poetic one, here!).  But everybody must have not seen Aristophanes as a name in a list. Or Euripides or Anaxagoras. Or Pythagoras.

 One must be so careful with naming their child Hippocrates, the so-called father of medicine or Heraclitus, traced to be the father of history. These were two great names in worlds of the past, but here and now, a mistake in one syllable might create some quandary if not furor.

 I had a pen friend Minerva Cercado back in the 1990s. Hers is a beautiful name but I am afraid it does not sound good with all Filipino surnames. How about Minerva Diaz? Minerva Deserva? Minerva Seva? Minerva Raquitico? Minerva Ragrario. Hmm? Twists the tongue.

 There’s a guy named Delfin Delfin. And I am sure there must be Delfin Delfino. Based on the oracle of Delphi. (But why is Delfina pretentious?)

 If one were so steeped in Greek mythology, I wonder if she names her triplets or multiple births after The Furies, The Muses or the Fates.

 There’s one name I remember: Indira Daphne? Nicely paired. Wonderful. How snugly it puts together the Eastern and the Western sensibility. At least, it’s not Indira Gandhi—if she was so named by her parents (plus their surname), I wonder how she would measure up to that big name.

 Would you admire a father who’d name his child Psyche? Or would you say he’s out of his mind? Is he still sane if he adds Delia to it? As in Psyche Delia Magbanua?

 Maura. Chona. Lota. Why couldn’t I easily associate these names with anything pleasant—only something pleasurable? Ah, biases! Stereotypes.

 After all, names are just labels.

 That’s why some names are being picked so carefully—so as to reflect their parents’ sensibility. If it’s John Joshua, they are highly religious. Joshua Aaron, equally so.

 But nobody names their little girl Ruth Sara; it sounds redundant—both women were biblical and blessed. But put together, why does it not sound good?

 Peter Gerard? Acceptable. John Kevin? Pretentious.

 Kanye James Ywade? Are you out of your mind?

 Should we cry foul—how do we express concern about the names of children born through this pandemic? First name, Covid Bryant; surname, Santiago. Quarantina Fae Marie, surname de la Cruz. Shara Mae Plantita Diaz De Dios. Dios mio!

 The list goes on.

 Well, I know of a biology teacher who named his kids Xylem or Phloem, or something—and added to them a more common name. I think they’re still sane because at least, they didn’t go all the way naming them Stamen or Pistil or Chlorophyll. Or Stalk. Or Leaves or Photosynthesis. But obviously their Science teacher way, way back must have really made an impact on them.

 While Paraluman, Ligaya and Lualhati are popular native names for Filipinas, why don’t we have Filipino males named Lapulapu or Lakandula or Humabon? Clearly these are strong names! Is it the same as naming your boys Ares or Mars? What’s wrong with that?

 If it’s okay to be named Magtanggol, or Tagumpay or if you may, Galak—all positive names—why can’t we have Hamis, Sarap, or Siram or Lami when they sound just as appetizing as Candy, Sugar Mae or Dulcesima?

 Other parents are so enamored by popular girl names from television like Kendra, Kylie, Khloe—and all the Kardashians, but why aren’t they easily drawn to Georgia, Atalanta or Europa?

 Europa sounds so good for a girl’s name. Don’t you think? Asia? Wow! But why not Alemania or Venezuela? Or Antarctica? Or Australia?

 Africa.

 How about Filipinas? Why not Filipinas?

 Interestingly, a beautiful tall woman I met was named Luvizminda—and she is from Iloilo, yes, Western Visayas. Her parents clearly wanted to articulate the middle syllable “Visayas”, probably being Visayan themselves. It’s just original.

 I knew someone named Filipinas. Her parents were probably not content with Luzviminda as in Luzon, Visayas, Mindanao—counting each of the islands of our country.

 When they named her, were they rallying against regionalism, or lamenting the pointlessness of ethnicity? Were they protesting the divisiveness of their own people so they settled for the single, collective name of the archipelago?

 Did they really consecrate her to the country, the only Catholic nation in Asia—because it really means something to them? When she was born, did they wish for her to make it big, really succeed in life and lead the country more than Corazon Aquino—topple the patriarchy oligarchy tyranny (yes, in that order) and cure the ills of society?

 Maria Filipinas, is that you?

 Inang Bayan, let’s go!