Here's one of the first pictures Sheena and I took when we first arrived... I thought I should open with a funny picture since the rest of this blog won't be...
If you haven't read Part 1, I suggest you do so. Even if you got the emails, the last day of Part 1 was never emailed out to anyone except my brother since I was in a hurry to leave the internet cafe. The funeral and days afterward will be forthcoming. This entry is 6 pages single-spaced and took me all weekend to write. It was definitely the strangest day out of all my time there.
Here is Sheena meeting Alma and her sister Agnes.
Tuesday—the day before the funeral
So after a peaceful night without bands and their teenage groupies hanging out in the bahay kubo in our yard taking pictures of the guys on their cell phones, I didn’t get to sleep in—which is actually hard to do with nature’s natural alarm clock the rooster and my Uncle Carlos’ mini-dog kennel barking. And I wasn’t supposed to sleep in today for on one of the previous nights, I met a few of the Calasiao elementary school district’s principals (they are friends of my father-better know as Sir Napo, the philanthropist-a whole separate story unto itself). Well, these principals are very good-natured and I appreciated their willingness to talk to me without trying to marry me off to someone, although they all did say they had a few single teachers at their schools they would be happy to introduce me to if I wanted. Lo and behold, as we talked about educational philosophy and compared conditions (schools are horribly funded and they often need to rely on balikbayans or other well-off local Filipinos who are altruistic in nature-although I strongly suspect that some of these philanthropist donate money to see their names on buildings or painted on walls… and I know this is the custom for thanking these donors but I can’t help feel that it’s all about ego… again I say this because it seemed every painted wall or erected shade for the courtyard possessed a name and that’s not necessary… I even discovered from the principals that my father helped provide for a couple classrooms at a couple schools and nowhere did I find his name at those schools on those buildings). So now I’m feeling attuned to these other educators and I think they see me as a possible future option. They begin to tell me how private schools (they are public school teachers) are a progressive business opportunity in the Philippines, especially after you’ve established it after several years of quality training. And because I refused the idea of being a teacher there in Calasiao considering how one month of my paychecks here is equivalent to one those principal’s annual salary, they opted for something they have been dreaming about themselves but lack the capital… the opportunity to start their own school. I suddenly no longer felt like a person starring in the Filipino version of The Bachelor-but instead, a lotto ticket with the winning numbers-and if they could just hold on to me and cash in. As much as it is flattering to be considered an eligible bachelor, there’s just no love there and that would take time (maybe a future summer) to foster into something even remotely close to a relationship. However, the idea of creating my own school does appeal to me. So now I have a new 10 year plan to raise money and partners in this venture. The principals already have ideas as to which sites might work, though they are all out of the town of Calasiao. Hmmm…. It’s something that I will let fester in me for the next year and I’ll see… would I? Could I? Leave El Camino to create my own school… and if you think I’m a workaholic now, imagine me if it’s my own place… maybe that’s the way I’ll have my own children, since the traditional way of doing so is without prospect and a continuing theme in my life (at least traditional in the manner of being in love and feeling love in return by a woman agreeing to do so; I say this so some of you don’t mention the fact I could have easily been married off in the past two weeks and immediately started my own family).
OK, back to the narrative, the one that will continually produce tangents like the above, but that really happened to me so is it really a tangent… I do hear Holden Caulfield’s classmates yelling “Digression!” at me… maybe I should take some time off from teaching juniors… get back into Shakespeare…
Anyways… the second thing that the teachers asked me to do and I actually did was… I spent Tuesday morning at the District Family Day Festival in which all the elementary schools competed in a variety of areas: oration, poster making, skit, acrostice, essays, etc. They thought I would make a wonderful judge. Heck, I am an English teacher—I can grade essays. The thought appealed to me until I realized that the essays would not be in English… they may not even be in Tagalog, but in Pangasinan…. And I discovered, they would not be in English… but they persisted…wait, insisted… that I judge… I said I’d think about it.
Just to increase the awkward tension within me, one of the principals was supposed to pick me up from my house, but his car broke down (mind you, he just bought it used a few weeks ago). My dad’s van was not around because Uncle Ador left to find antibiotics for the bedridden family who were struck by some tropical malady (of course, my dad is to blame for that to because he was sick when we all arrived and he infected everyone else-everyone from immediate family to one of grandma’s nurse’s wife to the man who did all my family’s hair at the salon in the mall). So how was I to get to the festival to attempt to judge things in another language? My dad took his dad’s car and dropped me off at school. It felt so damn strange. I was harkening back through my memory backs wondering if this is what my first days of school felt like. Here, my dad was driving me to a new place that I didn’t know how to get to on my own. He drops me off to fend for myself, and I walk through the gates of the school having no idea where to go. But a kind, elderly teacher saw me lost and pointed me in the right direction and then proceeded to guide me down the middle aisle while someone was speaking and plopped me down at the head table in front (apparently, I was expected to judge). I must admit though, when they took the fan that swept across all the distinguished guests at the head table of some 14 people and pointed it directly at me and allowed it to be stationary—I felt special… and thankful… because that heat was gonna make me sweat through my shirt and I would not look like a distinguished judge or better yet… here’s how I was introduced… “let us recognize our honored guest, he is an English professor from San Francisco, California, United States, anak ni Sir Napo, Derek Padilla.” The son of Napo—the philanthropist. That’s pressure. I also didn’t realize it is the custom that each speaker who went up to the microphone acknowledged everyone seated at the head table. I was introduced a few more times… each time further exaggerating my placement there until finally I also was called a philanthropist in my own right. I didn’t know if that wanted me to be a future donor (probably) or a generous judge (to their school) in the competition.
In the pictures below, the first one is some fruit that was quite refreshing. And I can't remember what it is called, so if you know... leave its name in the comment section. The other picture on the right is of three of the principals I met. Digna is on the left and actually is one of the people who spoke later in the evening during all the eulogies.
One of the odd things I noticed that would never be done in an American public school was in a pamphlet I read that outlined some of the curriculum taught in the elementary schools. The religion class had a whole unit on Mental Adultery. Why it is evil to even think about another person? It actually mentioned in the description how Playboy is evil and why it along with certain movies is a sin against God and your spouse. I tried to imagine how this would go over with any of the groups of students I have ever taught. I know some would agree with it, but I think many of my students would tell me that I was being an idiot. So much of American cultural beliefs seems to counter the idea that mental adultery could even exist… “it’s ok to look, but not touch” concept. I was surprised that the principal who showed it to me didn’t even to take the unit all that seriously. That was definitely an interesting observation…
I ended up watching all the orations. I definitely had a good idea who I thought the best speakers were, but I didn’t feel a competent judge. But who cares? What is the statistic? 70% of communication is nonverbal. Well, I understood that much, but refused to judge, especially because I had no clear idea what the scoring sheet was asking for in its rubric grid.
Here are 5 kids performing in the dance/skit portion of the competition.
Which brings us to the acrostics… This portion of the competition was actually in English. The students had to write the word “family” vertically down the page and begin a short paragraph or a few lines of verse that began with the corresponding letter in the theme word—family. I had to remember as I read them that these were 5th & 6th graders after all, and not to judge them like they were my students. Of the 10 or so that I read, 2 of them seemed to stand out. One of them in particular used a lot of vocabulary words that I don’t even hear coming out of any my students’ mouths. More importantly, the writer used them correctly. I made my recommendations and gave the stack back in my order of preference. Unfortunately, my father and uncle arrived at this time (noon) to pick me up for a family lunch. My Uncle Eddie and Auntie Virgie wanted to take out the family to Dagupena restaurant, my grandfather’s favorite place.
Lunch was fine. Unfortunately, a few too many family members didn’t make the lunch because they were still convalescing from whatever disease that was trying hard to become our family epidemic. Sadly, my Auntie Shirley was one of those who were sick, and we couldn’t even sing her happy birthday as she regained he strength sleeping for the coming trials of what was to come tomorrow. We returned in time for the 3pm rosary.
More people already began gathering and this time when we returned to the house, there was a new huge canopy placed over a large part of the driveway area, probably about 10’ x 40’. And that was an excellent idea, the storm was gathering strength and we all wondered if it would rain during the walking funeral procession the next morning. Also, the bamboo poles were refortified by being buttressed by added poles and wires. On the previous days & nights, the rain water pooled in the center of the tarps and people often had to push a stick in the center of the swelling to push the liquid back up over the edge to runoff. This would be extremely annoying during the rosary, as the fallen water cascaded in thunder and would reverberate off the concrete into the pants and shoes of some unsuspecting mourner who sat too close to the perimeter because they weren’t a close enough blood relation or one of the elder women who led the prayers to achieve center status under the roof/tarp. Although I must admit, I preferred to stay at the back of the family side of the groups… it didn’t feel right for a grandchild to be closer in proximity to the casket than her children.
About 5pm, the priest came and held a mass for my grandmother. At first, I thought it seemed all out of place to be having a mass there outside, but as it began the prayers, timing, the grail with the host, all blended in to add to the surreality of this moment. The rest of the evening does seem to fall into some haze or waking dream, well, until the music began… but I’m getting ahead of myself. After the mass, my father came to the forefront and actually spoke through a microphone—but father will always avoid speaking before audiences in public so it seemed strange to me to see him up there. But he needed to. He needed to eulogize his mother and he would be first to do so. I had never imagined my father acting the way he did during his heartfelt extemporaneous delivery. As expected, he nearly broke down a couple of times as his tears would temporarily choke off a train of thought, but he fought through it and carried himself with more dignity than I had ever seen surround his aura. He began by comparing himself to how he was similar to his mother—sharing experiences of having a quadruple bypass and diabetes. He recalled everyone’s fears about the doctor saying she didn’t have much longer to live in 1986 (? I’m remembering ‘86, but I think it was shortly after 1987 because the 50th golden wedding anniversary was held in June of 1987. Can some family member post a correction in the comments if needed?) after her surgery and if she wanted to rest peacefully in her home country, he would sign the papers to allow her to fly home and regain the peace of her past. My father continued to speak and I couldn’t believe how composed my father was and how difficult it was to get up there to talk, especially since as a kid he was always known when he ran through town as the son of Restituta. Then my father proceeded to ask others to share their stories… I don’t exactly recall everyone who spoke. I know my Auntie Dolly did and she may have been the only other one of her children who managed enough fortitude to fight through the tears to get up there. She shared a sweet memory of how grandma walk her to school and wait outside the grounds to make sure her daughter was safe. Auntie Dolly’s husband shared words about family. But one of the best speeches to me was when Uncle Steve shared his words. Just for frame of reference, you need to know that my uncle began his speech referring to how he was the first white guy to join the family, and he happened to grow up in Mississippi. As I spoke to him, it seemed the Philippines triggered a lot of childhood memories since the climate and scenery felt so familiar to that time in his life. His story recalled the first time he called my grandma “Nay” and how she just hugged him afterwards. No one was there to see this moment and he’d been holding onto that story all these years and there was a noticeable lump in all my aunts’ and uncles’ throats. Eileen, the eldest grandchild, gathered some inner strength to standup and remark how grandma gave her the most important gift—her mom, my auntie Terry, who sadly passed away over 20 years ago. She didn’t say much, but that choked me up. My father continued to call out his siblings to say something, but no one else managed to make the trek up there. So, my father called me out. And for one of those few times in my life, I was speechless and wanted to resent my father, but I couldn’t… nor would I leave him up there looking helpless to find someone else to talk… somehow, I pushed my way up… realize nothing was blocking me… I just had to push myself… I felt like I would say something stupid and I didn’t know what would translate well to all the people there. All I can really remember is taking the microphone and placing it on the table and saying that I don’t need this thing. Words emanated forth but I’m not really sure what I said. It was something about how sad it is that it took me 7 years to come back to the Philippines when it seemed I was going biannually in the 90’s. I recalled a few words about what she’d say to me as a kid and then I spoke about how it felt to see my family all together for the first time in years.
It some weird way I was trying to talk to the family directly without being obvious, but the family struggles over recent years has torn many of us up over what in the end seems to be frivolous miscommunication. I can only hope that through that night and all the nights of the novena that we can all recompose our family and regain the family bonds that my grandmother fought to keep strong throughout her life. I don’t know if anyone will apologize to each other or if people can forgive and forget and let bygones be bygones, but if we don’t, I do feel that would be a tragic way to carry on the spirit of my grandmother. There has been enough spite and fear and misperceptions to destroy most families. I can only pray we aren’t one of those weak families, but we will make my grandmother’s passing into a positive opportunity to reclaim the love that exists for each other and continue to dream the very best for everyone. Though tensions subsided in my perception as the days melted into one another, my family is not one to confront each other and acknowledge bitterness and offer an olive branch to make amends. I hope you all read this and understand that you need to get through all this. Maybe I have been too quiet during all this… and maybe I’m just a grandchild… maybe I’m just a son wanting the best for his parents like my aunts and uncles wanted the best for my grandmother… but these are all maybes. And though love can hurt, love is what we know and need to allow the wounds of bitterness to heal… no one handled any of this well; everyone has a share of blame; everyone took things too personally instead of believing that each person was only acting out of the love we all share for our grandmother; we need to let go of the misunderstandings and all just hug each other… and I hope we do so at grandma’s 40 day memorial at the end of October.
If anyone in the family cares to know more about my specific thoughts, just ask me. I know what I’ve said is intentionally lacking specifics, but unfortunately that’s how most of this started, except in this, I’m calling on all of you to be a family again by coming to terms with each specific in which you were involved and understanding everyone’s role in this and just accepting that it is all over… the instigator is gone… we were too trusting but that’s ok because love makes us all vulnerable to pain… now we need to allow love to assuage the betrayals so best to honor the life and spirit of the woman who allowed us all to be created.
* * * * *
Around dinner time, the crowd in the yard expanded exponentially continuing through til midnight. A band ensemble set up to the left of the coffin and began playing for the next hour. I had to admit that this all just felt wrong to me. Though I know it is custom for this to happen during Philippine wakes, the fact so many people were there—many of whom may not really have known my grandmother but wanted the meals provided by our family—made the wake somewhat artificial to me. Unlike many of the other previous nights, I did spend most of this night outside talking to those people I knew from previous visits or those to whom my father introduced me earlier. In particular, I appreciated getting to talk to Alma and Beth again—everyone of my previous pilgrimages to the Philippines I spent time with them. If you’re a longtime reader of the psychoverse, you’re familiar with some of those tales or you can ask Lance what he has in his travel journal he wrote during our 2000 visit. I have a feeling some of those stories will be used to roast me at whatever event that allows him the opportunity. Is it wrong of me to not want to get married ever, for fear of what my brother and Auntie Shirley may share in their own orations? I know I won’t be able to prevent them from talking. Those two are infamous for their kind words of their loved ones. I still can’t believe the crowd was cheering “Shirley! Shirley!” at Lance’s wedding reception in Hawaii. Maybe some of you will get to see what I’m talking about in the long sought after wedding DVD viewing party. Date—to be determined still. Yeah, I know I’m basically calling Lance out now to have a house party… but I really want to watch it so I’ll know what I said… it keeps coming up when I hang around the softball teams Sunday and Wednesday nights (including earlier tonight… lanciness and intensity came up in reference to the evening).
Once the band finished their set. Another service was held by those family members who wanted to recognize their love through their own beliefs. I found this equally as important, although I did do a double-take when I read in the program that they called the services “necrological.” Not a word I’ve ever used or imagined… I wonder what I’ll write in the future armed with a new phrase for death.
After this service I went back into the house for a respite from the night heat and humidity, which honestly could have been a lot worse… I just prefer cold weather… the fog of Daly City resides in my bones. I didn’t realize another band set up. I’m sitting under the air conditioner in the house and suddenly I’m hearing Shakira’s “Wherever, Whenever” song. I poke my head outside because I can hear the audience getting riled up. Some band set up with two female lead singers, but what had everybody’s attention was the boy dressed up as a woman getting her groove on. And she was moving all over the place. But if you hangout in San Francisco, this didn’t seem strange at all, except the fact that I was in Calasiao at my grandmother’s wake. My Auntie Shirley wondering aloud if this is what her mom would have wanted. Another curious observation…
I listened for awhile, but I finally succumbed to sleep around 2am… tomorrow, I know, would take its toll on everyone…
so here's a video from I think saturday night... approximately 2:10 into the video you'll see my auntie shirley's silhouette dance as if she's in a pagan ritual...
also in the background, you should be able to hear the type of band and the screaming women who can't get enough of this up-and-coming band...
you'll also get a look of the surrounding area including the casket to help you visualize the area i'm describing...
so for all of you who wanted an encore of "Shirley!" at the wedding... here it is... sans speech and before illness laid her out for the next 3 days...
Again, due to popular demand, now thanks to her solo dance exhibition, in addition to her one night stint at Lance's wedding reception, here's a picture of my auntie Shirley and Sheena. I just love how she left me comments on the Philippine blogs as anonymous and still declares her identity... if you've heard her speak, you can recognize her words no matter from whence they come...
