He arrived a couple of hours early before the appointed hour. Earlier, he took the first plane to his province at five in the morning and was at the island airport an hour later. He rented a van to take him to his hometown an hour away and was at the guest house two hours before the appointed time.
He knew he was home when he saw the dark green outlines of mountain range and seashores of pure white sand defining the horizon.
From the air before touchdown, he saw the seaport and the clear blue sea. He knew he would be deep in nostalgia as he saw the church belfry and what used to be the tallest building on the island.
The island enjoys the beauty of isolation with a dialect that has its own dipthong, the sound of which is not found in the alphabet.
There is nothing like the view from the top of the mountain range where the radar is.
He liked the view of the shorelines on low tide even as assorted islets proliferate, dotting the open ocean.
When you see the faint outlines of a dike and another islet, it surely is his hometown.
Many years back, he loved going to the cemetery overlooking the sea to visit the grave of the grandfather he never saw. It always ended up a strange visit seeing his name engraved on the tomb beside the cross.
He recalled something like a biting cold and a breeze from nowhere settle on his being, seeing a familiar name of a grandfather whose named he carried.
He grew up crossing the river from the quaint coastal village of his childhood.
To be sure, the island has its share of good public servants before the age of lackeys and dogs of war.
He liked the islander in him, wary of high fashion and urban cuisine, suspicious of sudden wealth and always enjoying the basic things. He liked the memory of a now extinct deer looking inside the tents of workers building the first roads on the island.
ON THE DAY HE arrived, the town wore a fiesta atmosphere. He saw young people in white headed for the school grounds. They wore garlands with their proud parents just behind them. He was once one of them on the very same campus he would now visit after seventy years.
He was never one of the honor students.
But the school principal thought he was a good speaker and he was assigned a graduation chore: to recite Jose Rizal’s farewell poem in Spanish. As he recalled the pre-graduation routine, he was memorizing “Mi Ultimo Adios” days and nights. He was asked to wear a white chaleco and black pants. He had forgotten all about it until he visited again some years back.
The former town mayor whom he visited with a classical guitarist remembered him as the gradeschool graduate who recited Rizal’s ‘Mi Ultimo Adios.”
How bad was it? he asked the former town official.
On the contrary you were good, came the reply.
This was what he remembered of the man who said he did well reciting Rizal’s farewell poem on my grade school graduation in the late ’50s.
I have something for you, he told the former town official who happened to be his father’s friend.
He asked the visiting classical guitarist to play Tarrega’s “Recuerdos de la Alhambra” for his father’s special friend.
With the opening strain of Tarrega, the old man’s eyes lighted up and soon he saw tears in his eyes.
As he recalled that impromptu music on his last visit before this speaking engagement, the past simply unfolded easily like an indie film as the guitar piece rose to its haunting tremolo highlights.
Indeed, hometown memories rushed as that Tarrega music was being played.
He saw his aunt emerging from the church door with her groom. There was much drinking and dancing on the day of the wedding. Later at night, he heard passionate sounds from the room where the newlyweds stayed for the night.
He remembered the policeman’s wife from the nearby barrio confront a church singer early in the morning with her lover quickly dashing outside still in his police uniform.
He was witness to his aunt’s first taste of betrayal when a letter came back to her for lack of anti-TB stamp. She didn’t recall writing to her husband. It came from the other woman who wrote passionate love poems which would put Romeo and Juliet to shame. The other woman was his aunt’s co-teacher and his adviser in the Sunday Legion of Mary meetings in the ’50s.
His aunt had since then forgiven his uncle who loves to sing The Platters’ rendition of ‘The Great Pretenders.”
HE HAD a prepared speech but it occurred to him that delivering it the extemporaneous way would be better. There is a gap of 70 years between his grade school years and this moment he was invited to address a rural high school graduation.
He wondered if his audience knew him at all. Rural people have very little access to national publications but he figured the age of the internet would make his modest writing output accessible to these young graduates.
Early in his childhood, he sold newspapers to have access to the magazines he wanted to read. The newspaper dealer would give him a few copies to sell in exchange for a few centavos which during his time was big money. And he got to read the Philippines Free Press and the Liwayway for free, including some comics magazines.
At his age now, he has written for all the publications people read but he knew writers are the least followed among media celebrities. He wrote about movie people, opera singers, ballet stars, and realized showbiz figures had more following than the so-called serious stuff he used to write about. The reason he didn’t presume he would be known at all by his young audience.
Of course, the formal introduction would reveal how he started writing from the island paper to the national publications.
But what is there to impart or worth sharing with these young people?
He was 75 and his audience was young graduates below 17 about to enter college.
The guest room he was assigned for the day had a vintage view of the school and the river beside it. Beyond it were the hills and mountains and what he thought were the low-flying clouds.
At the back of the school was an ample space for gardening. He had memories of the vegetables he used to grow as a grade-school pupil.
Sadly, he also knew he was not a class favorite.
He was the silent type who would not raise his hands just to impress. He was the most silent, especially in the Arithmetic class which he abhorred. But the
school principal saw something special in him.
Just a few steps away from the guest house was the church where once he was an altar boy in his grade-school days.
Serving at the Sunday Mass reciting Latin responses had made him extra familiar to town folks.
SUDDENLY IT RAINED and the cold wind blew into the room. He felt he could use a cat nap or maybe just a short rest.
Suddenly he saw the boy he once was treading on the rice paddies on the way to the river just behind the school building.
He saw classmates taking baths naked and he thought it was the most natural thing in the world. He joined the swimming race till noon and later, they would rest behind a guava tree, exchanging stories.
The stories.
Said one: I saw our classmate kissing an older woman picking up shell by the sea.
My teacher fondled me in jest and I thought I reacted badly, said another.
I played husband and wife with a classmate and kissed her for the first time on her lips. She fled horrified, narrated another.
In his mind, he saw a boy on his way to the church at four in the morning. The boy proceeded to the altar area and proceeded to prepare the priest’s vestments and the wine used for the holy Mass.
Then he felt grumpy hands on his shoulder and he shuddered.
Are you done?
Not yet, Sir.
What’s Padre’s vestments for today’s Mass, Sir?
Vaguely, he knew green was for ordinary days and that red was for Pentecost Sunday and for church anniversaries and memorial services.
He has learned to associate the priest’s vestments for the sentiment they were supposed to represent.
Red represents love and may also refer to blood and fire.
When he saw the priest in white or gold, he saw purity, light, glory, and joy.
Then he heard the reply, “This is ordinary day and no celebrations. Today’s vestment is green for the Padre.”
He proceeded to where the priest’s attires were hung and took out the green vestment.
Indeed, it was an ordinary day, and on that day, he saw an extraordinary sight.
After the day’s Mass, he set out to go home and prepare for the day’s schooling.
Then he heard the senior sacristan say, “Join us at the back of the altar.”
It was the dark side of the altar and he saw the senior Sacristan and his favorite altar boy making conversation.
The other sacristan was fair-haired and looked like one of those good-looking boys he saw in local films in the capital town.
He thought he heard someone giggle.
Restless shadow, he saw figures doing strange movements.
He thought he heard heavy breathing.
The figures grappled with each other.
“I have to go home,” he heard himself say as he ran to the convent exit for home.
He ran as fast as he could, took a quick breakfast of black coffee and pan de sal and was soon in the grade-school class in the morning.
WHEN HE WOKE up from the short nap, he heard the host say, “Sir, would you like to have coffee before we proceed to school?”
“Yes, please.”
Then heard the usual graduation music straight from the opera Aida.
He went over his prepared speech and thought of what else he could add to it.
Or revise.
Did he have to revise the past to suit the present?
He heard another reminder.
Sir, time to join the recessional and go on stage.
The introduction went very fast.
He heard the welcome applause and proceeded to clear his throat.
He heard himself say —
I was once a high-school graduate like what you are now. I didn’t have big dreams. I prefer small dreams and that is to write and see my name in national publications.
What can I impart to you?
It’s quite simple.
Follow your dreams, however big or small.
But most of all, be yourself.
Big dreams need not mean erasing your original self to be the person people expect you to be.
From my experience, it is the small dreams that last. I didn’t want to compete. I didn’t dream to harvest awards or be the famous person your friends dreamt of becoming.
On the year I was born and up to this time, I remained an islander.
Let me just end my message with a poem:
I like going back to the island
And visit this spot
With a view
Of the endless sky
And the placid sea.
I like contemplating
75 years of a life
On this hill
Where once cows roamed
And rare birds chirped
Night and day.
I like to reminisce
Where once you walked
From the town proper
To nearby villages
Passing short mountain trails
Leading to quaint villages
Of your past.
You see scenes from childhood
That will never come again.
You recall early struggles,
Juvenile passion,
A memory of young naked bodies
Jumping on what used to be
A clear stream ending
At the mouth of the sea
near the cemetery.
You used to take a slow boat
To a sitio
Where you cross palm groves
To fetch drinking water
From a spring
On the hill.
You recall early life
unfolding
Like pure indie film
Unraveling
From the first signs of love
And unrequited passion.
I keep coming back
To this forgotten sanctuary
In my hometown
Not just for the memories.
This is where
You come to terms with life’s ironies
and unexpected surprises.
This is my sanctuary
On the island
Away from the curse
Of the city
And the endless
Rapacity of men
who can’t have enough
of power and wealth.
When you set out
To find your dream,
Look for this
Special place
On the island
While looking at the waves
Gently breaking on the shores
Of your past.
