Uncle Mike has been gone for months now, and still I think of him often. I've been meaning to record my thoughts and memories of him, especially the important ones, and now that I have a place to display them, here they are. I was gone from Michigan more than I was there, so my recollections are disjointed and scattered. Because of the fleeting nature of my memories, this tribute will be a kind of stream-of-consciousness.
Probably my earliest memory of Uncle Mike takes place in Birch Run. It was when he and Aunt Nan got married. I don’t know the exact date, but I must have been 9 or 10 years old, so I would place the timeframe around 1966, give or take a year or two. The wedding and all the post-wedding fun took place (at least in my memory), first at the old Sacred Heart Catholic Church, now destroyed, but still standing in my mind. The wedding seems like any other, but the post wedding shenanigans at Aunt Nan’s parent’s house was really cool to the little guy I was back then. I couldn’t believe grownups could be so lively and childish! They put saran wrap and Vaseline over the young couple’s toilet; they strung the obligatory cans off the rear bumper of the newlywed’s car along with the “Just Married!” sign; and the men grabbed Uncle Mike and rolled him down the Bell’s long sidewalk and then along the street in a red wheelbarrow. I guess that crazy tradition comes from our Irish roots. Later, from 1971 until 1975, I delivered newspapers to the Bell’s, and everyday, riding my 3-speed down their sidewalk, I was reminded of Uncle Mike’s zigzagging wheelbarrow ride. He took it good-naturedly, and I still see his big grin as he joyously enjoyed being the butt of the festivities.
When I was in high school, I began a short-lived interest in chess. I read every book in the school library on the game, and played solitary matches to try out the various methods and strategies I learned in the books. One afternoon, we visited Uncle Mike and Aunt Nan. Uncle Mike had a chessboard out, and he asked me if I wanted to play. He didn’t know how immersed I was on the subject and I didn’t tell him. We settled into our game. I proceeded to win, and about as quickly as one can in chess. He hid his emotions like he tended to, but I sensed his tenseness. Immediately, he set the pieces up for another game. In short order I beat him again, and again, and again. I was 15 years old or so, and I was an insensitive jerk (just ask my sister). I should have let him win, at least once, but I didn’t know how to lose on purpose. That sort of virtuous deceit wasn’t in me yet. I don’t know how many games I won, but it got very late, and still I beat him, and easily. Even when I tried to play sloppily I couldn’t lose. Uncle Mike had an intensity about him that would not let him quit. I think he was determined to find the key so he could win at least one game, but it was not to be. Finally, my mom insisted that it was late and we had to go. I never played him again after that, and I’m not sure he ever forgave me. I wish like crazy that I had thrown a game, but I was just as stubborn as he was. Unfortunately, Spear’s hate to lose too! I feel terrible about it to this day.
Another “Uncle Mike moment” stays with me. We had just returned from Turkey and we were staying with Grandma and Uncle Bill. It was early in 1971; the war in Vietnam was still raging. I had set up a desk and reading lamp under the stairs in the tiny sump pump room, and I could hear my dad and Uncle Mike clump down the stairs above me. They were talking about the war. They didn’t know I was in my tiny private “study” working on a school report, and I enjoyed being able to eavesdrop on the excited grownups as they argued. I don’t remember my dad’s side, except that it was more or less opposed to my uncle’s, but I vividly remember the passion and fear in Uncle Mike’s voice. My cousin, Little Mike, was just a tadpole back then, and Uncle Mike was worried about his young son’s future. He wanted his boy to grow up in a world where he didn’t have to worry about having to serve in a war that might kill or wound him. He was so impassioned and concerned for his boy, and I had never heard a grownup sound that way before. It was very touching, and affected me deeply. I remember that it made me determined to join the military so someone else’s boy wouldn’t have to. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but its true.
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Buster's Story
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This is my fondest image of Uncle Mike: We had just driven up from San Antonio, Texas to Birch Run, Michigan in our VW camper; we were visiting Grandma and family before we were to head back overseas to Karamursel AFB, Turkey. Uncle Mike had agreed to watch Buster, our little brown dachshund, until we returned. Then, tragedy struck. Buster had a horrible epileptic fit and it was shattering. The fit happened during a party while we were all outside, playing horseshoes and whiffle ball. Buster was happily running around the yard when a horseshoe accidentally glanced off his head. I cringed as he yelped in surprise, and then the glancing blow seemed to set off his epilepsy. Or maybe he was already having a fit, and then wondered into horseshoe range and got beaned, regardless, his epileptic gyrations were horrible to watch for a young boy in love with his dog. When he came out of the seizure, he was so addled that he blindly charged into a chain link fence. He rebounded in terror and took off running, only to fall, then up into a staggering run, before tripping and falling again. In this agonizing fashion he took off across the bean field that used to spread off into the distance behind Grandma’s house. All the men went after him, everyone but me. I couldn’t bear to. My dad said he’d have to be put to sleep, and my knees were jellied after that. Finally, Buster was corralled and brought back to the house wrapped in a blanket. It was too dangerous to carry him; the little fella, normally sweet-natured and friendly, growled and snapped at anyone who came near. Then Uncle Mike spoke up: “It’s no problem, I’ll take care of him.” For a brief time, I took heart. At that moment, Uncle Mike was my hero! He saw my agony and sadness and wanted to ease my pain. I’ll always love him for that . Even though Buster was put down before we left, Uncle Mike was willing to take on an unpleasant task for family. I’ll forever treasure him for it.
I have many other recollections of my uncle, but I think I’ve captured his spirit and why I loved him with the few stories I’ve already put together. But I do recall a number of other moments, days, and exploits involving him. I recall the winter when he bought the big white Polaris snowmobiles and all the family adventures and “misadventures” those smoking, roaring monsters spawned. His passion for “toys” continued on with the purchase of his big lake boat. We had a wonderful day on Lake Huron when he invited our entire family out on the water. And finally, I remember how he worked his butt off for months on end, turning the ancient old farmhouse on Burt Road into an absolutely lovely home for his family. He and Aunt Nan stripped and tossed out every piece of original wall lathing, and shoveled out all the decades-old plaster and resulting dust. What a mess, but what results! Before he started, he knew virtually nothing about building and remodeling, but boy did he learn! He poured himself into that house like he poured himself into everything he did. One of my regrets is that I didn’t talk my parents into keeping the old front door my dad salvaged from Uncle Mike’s place. It was made of solid hard wood with handcarved scrollwork topped off with a translucent window. My dad showed me how to strip off the many layers of old paint, and then I sanded and varnished it to match the green walls of my bedroom, where it became MY door. I would love to have that 100 year-old door right now. It would be a nice way to remember my Uncle Mike. He’s gone, but no one truly leaves us as long as we cherish them. With that being so, Uncle Mike will be with us for a very long time to come.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
ON ON!!!
Back in the late 1930s, some Brits stationed in Malaya started a game still in existence today and played all over the world. The witty inventers of this informal running sport were just a bunch of typical English blokes, some in the military and others diplomatic workers, all intent on working hard all week and partying hardy on weekends. But, they realized that the weekends of socializing and drinking were taking a toll on their health. Simply put, they were getting soft and flabby. The solution, they realized, was to come up with a fun physical activity that could get them back into shape, but minus the drudgery. Putting their heads together they came up with an idea for a form of exercise that they first called “Hare and Hounds,” but ultimately became “The Hash House Harriers,” or after years became just “The Hash.”
The basic premise of the game is that one of their numbers, “the hare,” is pre-selected to take off running ahead of the rest of the chasers, or “the hounds,” or “harriers.” The hare’s job is to make a trail for the other runners to follow. That sounds simple enough, but there is more to it than that.
The hare is expected to make his trail twist-and-turn and zigzag through various types of interesting terrain with several delaying areas called “checkpoints.” The purpose of the checkpoint is to allow the slower or older chase runners a chance to catch up with their faster comrades, and to rest while those in better shape range out in search of the trail’s new beginning.
Making a checkpoint is an art on to itself. A good one is situated in an open area with many possible places where the trail can start again. To make a checkpoint even more interesting and time consuming, a clever fox uses “false trails.”
A false trail is a promising path designed to lead unwary hounds off into wrong directions. These fake tracks are the reason why usually only strong runners take off and explore newfound trails at each checkpoint in case they turn out to be false.
The proper blend of terrain, checkpoints and false trails is what makes for a successful “Hash,” but without a means for the runners or “hashers” to communicate, the game is virtually impossible. So, the British creators came up with a shouted language that in time developed naturally of itself as the runners called out to each other on the run. The primary phrase is a hearty, “ON ON!” This means depending on the circumstance either, “Let’s go!” or “I’m on the trail! Follow me!” When the lead runner arrives at a checkpoint he calls over his shoulder, “CHECKING!” To find out if he has found the trail or not, “ARE YOU?!” is yelled out as a question to a lead runner. If the lead runner is still searching he yells in return, “CHECKING!” If he comes to the end of a false trail he runs back towards the checkpoint and informs the others with a robust, “FALSE TRAIL!” Conversely, if he is sure he is on the real trail he bellows out, “ON ON!” over his shoulder as he continues on up the trail.
The Hash ends when all the runners finish following the hare and his trail. Some followers of the Hash actually seek to catch the hare before he can finish his trail, but the real objective of the game is participation. Ironically, one of the most widely followed of the original Hash-House traditions is that the hare must provide libations for all the runners at the end of the trail. Its ironic because it was excessive drinking that led to the conception of the Hash in the first place.
My first acquaintance with running with The Hash was in Sub-Saharan Africa in the city of Monrovia, Liberia in 1977. By that time the game was more than 40 years old and had spread around the globe. We were a diverse group consisting mostly of non-Africans including Brits, Americans, Dutch, and Germans. Traditionally, the Hash is run on Monday afternoons to give the Hashers a way to “burn off” all the drinks they had indulged in over the weekend. As a young marine embassy guard who found running second nature, I took to Hashing like a duck to water, and soon I looked forward to Monday afternoons like I used to anticipate weekends.
I was so taken with Hashing that I started my own group in the U.S. in 1989, and so it is with the Hash that others like me took this charming game with them to even more corners of the world. In fact, a Hash is run here in Angeles City every Sunday afternoon from the Anchorage Inn. I think in future installments I will relate some of the funnier and more interesting things that happened during the many Hashes that I’ve run in over the years. And so, as they say in running the Hash, “ON ON!”
The basic premise of the game is that one of their numbers, “the hare,” is pre-selected to take off running ahead of the rest of the chasers, or “the hounds,” or “harriers.” The hare’s job is to make a trail for the other runners to follow. That sounds simple enough, but there is more to it than that.
The hare is expected to make his trail twist-and-turn and zigzag through various types of interesting terrain with several delaying areas called “checkpoints.” The purpose of the checkpoint is to allow the slower or older chase runners a chance to catch up with their faster comrades, and to rest while those in better shape range out in search of the trail’s new beginning.
Making a checkpoint is an art on to itself. A good one is situated in an open area with many possible places where the trail can start again. To make a checkpoint even more interesting and time consuming, a clever fox uses “false trails.”
A false trail is a promising path designed to lead unwary hounds off into wrong directions. These fake tracks are the reason why usually only strong runners take off and explore newfound trails at each checkpoint in case they turn out to be false.
The proper blend of terrain, checkpoints and false trails is what makes for a successful “Hash,” but without a means for the runners or “hashers” to communicate, the game is virtually impossible. So, the British creators came up with a shouted language that in time developed naturally of itself as the runners called out to each other on the run. The primary phrase is a hearty, “ON ON!” This means depending on the circumstance either, “Let’s go!” or “I’m on the trail! Follow me!” When the lead runner arrives at a checkpoint he calls over his shoulder, “CHECKING!” To find out if he has found the trail or not, “ARE YOU?!” is yelled out as a question to a lead runner. If the lead runner is still searching he yells in return, “CHECKING!” If he comes to the end of a false trail he runs back towards the checkpoint and informs the others with a robust, “FALSE TRAIL!” Conversely, if he is sure he is on the real trail he bellows out, “ON ON!” over his shoulder as he continues on up the trail.
The Hash ends when all the runners finish following the hare and his trail. Some followers of the Hash actually seek to catch the hare before he can finish his trail, but the real objective of the game is participation. Ironically, one of the most widely followed of the original Hash-House traditions is that the hare must provide libations for all the runners at the end of the trail. Its ironic because it was excessive drinking that led to the conception of the Hash in the first place.
My first acquaintance with running with The Hash was in Sub-Saharan Africa in the city of Monrovia, Liberia in 1977. By that time the game was more than 40 years old and had spread around the globe. We were a diverse group consisting mostly of non-Africans including Brits, Americans, Dutch, and Germans. Traditionally, the Hash is run on Monday afternoons to give the Hashers a way to “burn off” all the drinks they had indulged in over the weekend. As a young marine embassy guard who found running second nature, I took to Hashing like a duck to water, and soon I looked forward to Monday afternoons like I used to anticipate weekends.
I was so taken with Hashing that I started my own group in the U.S. in 1989, and so it is with the Hash that others like me took this charming game with them to even more corners of the world. In fact, a Hash is run here in Angeles City every Sunday afternoon from the Anchorage Inn. I think in future installments I will relate some of the funnier and more interesting things that happened during the many Hashes that I’ve run in over the years. And so, as they say in running the Hash, “ON ON!”
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Number One Filipino Hero--Rizal or Bonifacio?
Almost as soon as I arrived here, I began to steep myself in Philippine history. To understand a country and its people, study their history—learn their heroes and villains—that’s my philosophy. One of the first things I discovered from talking to the average citizen is that most Filipinos know little about where they come from historically, and how things got to be the way they are. Of course, most Americans are just as woeful concerning their own historical background, so no finger pointing from me.
Even before my arrival, I had heard about an almost mythical Filipino hero from days long past named Jose Rizal. I knew he was a prolific writer who wrote about Spain’s cruelty to native Filipinos, and that Spain killed him for those writings. That’s pretty much what my Filipino friends know as well, but now I know a hell of a lot more. And from what I’ve studied, if Rizal were alive today, I’m convinced he would be just as important as he was more than 100 years ago, perhaps more so. This country, rife with corruption and stagnation, needs a dozen selfless renaissance men like Jose Rizal.
Rizal was phenomenonal. He earned his first degree at 16 in the Philippines and never looked back. At 18 he ran away to Europe and earned a medical degree in Spain, and followed it up with degrees in ophthalmology and philosophy in France. While in Europe and in many in other countries during his travels around the world, he taught himself fluency in Spanish, German, English, and French and he did it all in a short 35 years of life. From childhood, he was a prolific writer and he remained so right up until minutes before his martyrdom.
Rizal’s reputation as a hero is well earned. He hated how the Spanish treated the natives of the Philippines, whom the Spanish called Indios. The novels and essays he wrote were aimed mostly at Spaniards back in Spain. His objective was to get them to stop the callous practices of Spanish friars and governors in colonial Philippines. I believe he was convinced that if the Spaniards in Europe knew of the cruelty and injustice going on in their colony of almost 350 years, that they would finally interfere and stop the merciless brutality that had gone on for centuries. IN Spain, Spaniards treated Rizal with respect and admiration, but for some reason the Spaniards in the Philippines were entirely different. They did not hesitate to use torture, terror and execution en masse to keep their “unruly” Indios under their complete control, and that included controlling Rizal as well.
Rizal made a huge error in judgment. His years outside of the Philippines in Europe and Hong Kong seemed to cloud his memory of the great mercilessness in the hearts of Spanish priests, called friars, who called the shots in his home land. In 1892, after years away, he returned to Manila and almost immediately the friars found a means to get him out of the way. He was found guilty of spreading sedition based on his anti-friar novels written while he was overseas. These novels were not intended to cause a Spanish overthrow, but to show decent, liberal-minded Spaniards how unjust things were back in his beloved islands. Jose was found guilty and exiled hundreds of miles away to the very fringes of the archipelago to the tiny town of Dapitan on Mindanao. He spent four years there, and during the end of that time, a man named Bonifacio back in Manila put together the beginnings of a major revolt against Spain.
When I first started reading about Andres Bonifacio I was immediately captivated. He reminds me of Abraham Lincoln and George Washington rolled into one. Although he didn’t have the natural genius of Rizal, he was an incredible fellow just the same. He came from nothing and taught himself everything. The fact that he was poor, self-taught, and self-made, a man who could not afford ANY formal schooling, much less college, and yet excelled as a leader and independent thinker—all that reminds me of Abraham Lincoln. As the leader and initiator of the first almost successful insurrection against Spain, he reminds me of Washington.
The more I read of Bonifacio the more I realize that this guy is the epitome of an AUTHENTIC Filipino. He has more in common with the bulk of the population here than most any other figure from this country’s past. He was born and raised in Tondo, a very poor place in the mid 19th century, and even more so now (Ever hear of Smokey Mountain? It’s on the outskirts of Tondo, Manila). He was dirt poor and suffered through the same troubles and problems that most Filipinos suffer today. Yet he overcame all those issues and became known as El Supremo, the leader of the revolutionary government against Spain. Unlike Jose Rizal, Andres Bonifacio hated the Spanish and wanted nothing to do with them. Where Rizal wanted justice UNDER THE RULE of Spain, Bonifacio wanted ONLY Filipino sovereignty.
As I got into Bonifacio, the man, I was puzzled at how little my Filipino acquaintances know of him. They all recognize his name, but virtually NONE of them know WHY he was so important to their country’s beginnings. It’s become an obsession with me—to quiz people about him. I ask: “If you had to choose between Jose Rizal and Andres Bonifacio, who was more important in the formation of the post-Spanish Philippines?” Then I decided to ask local folks a simple, more general question—I asked people like students, trike-drivers, my in-laws, and neighbors: “In your opinion, who is THE most important Filipino in your history?” Instantly they answered: “Jose Rizal.” When I asked why they thought so, most cited his intelligence or that he died bravely at the hands of the Spanish. Logical reasons, but personally I disagree with the choice of Rizal as the most crucial member in the pantheon of Philippine heroes. In my opinion, Andres Bonifacio should be number one in Philippine hearts and minds; and he should be particularly special to Filipinos who are underprivileged, which is the majority of Filipinos.
As I said, Bonifacio, like most Filipinos today, was poor and underprivileged; his family had no money for education; but he was a prodigious reader and became an important writer and leader. Conversely, Rizal came from means; through his family he had access to money and privilege. He could afford the luxury of living and studying abroad. Therefore, based on the backgrounds of the two men, I would suppose that the average Filipino would prefer Bonifacio, yet that is NOT the case. So why DOES the Philippines collectively bow at the altar of Rizal while virtually shunning that of Bonifacio? I think that the primary culprits are this country’s educators. Indoctrinated as students in Rizal’s intellectual primacy, they in turn push this opinion onto their students. But aside from profuse writings, what else did Rizal do to deserve to be considered THE most central figure in Philippine history?
There is no doubt Jose Rizal deserves our respect. As I’ve said, he wrote prolifically and more notably, his writings stirringly spoke of insufferable conditions in the Philippines due to greed and cruelty of Spanish friars and governors. Also, his words and actions did much to inspire Philippine nationalism and helped convince folks like Andres Bonifacio and Emilio Aguinaldo that independence was the only answer. Furthermore, there is no doubt that Jose Rizal was valiant. He wrote critically of the Spanish, knowing full well that doing so endangered his life. In fact his written words were used in finding him guilty of treason and to his credit when he was sentenced to death, his last words and actions were courageous and patriotic. All that makes me sound like a big fan of Jose Rizal and its true—I think he’s an extraordinary figure, but I still place Bonifacio ahead of him.
Consider this—despite no formal education, Andres managed almost single-handedly to spark THE most successful insurrection ever against Spain—and going back hundreds of years, there were scores of revolts and uprisings, all horribly crushed into bloody oblivion. His rebellion was so successful that today we call it THE Philippine Revolution. Also, Bonifacio was instrumental in writing the Katipunan, the guiding document of this country’s first home-grown government. Rizal, on the other hand, counseled AGAINST the revolution, refused to lend his name to it, and in no uncertain terms told Bonifacio from exile that he believed his fellow Filipinos could NOT win, and the truth is he preferred Spanish provincial status over independence; whereas Andres had had enough of Spain and felt Spain would NEVER grant Filipinos parity or any sort of justice.
Another reason I don’t laud Rizal as high as Bonifacio are the events leading to his death. Rizal had spent four boring exile years in a Philippine backwater and his ennui led him to volunteer to serve with the Spanish army as a doctor in Cuba, another brutally oppressed colony. Rizal would have actively aided the oppressive Spaniards as they domineered Cuba just as they ran roughshod over Filipinos. It’s no wonder that this bit of Rizal history is not widely known, as it does not put Rizal in a very sympathetic light. Ironically, his future reputation was saved, and made, when he was arrested aboard a ship bound for Spain on his way to Cuba!
And what of Bonifacio’s death? Few Filipinos know he was callously executed before he could see his long-planned revolution to fruition. Rich Filipinos, who felt that his lowly background made him unworthy to serve the revolutionary government that HE had started, falsely accused him of treason! Gutlessly, Aguinaldo—the man voted in as president over Bonifacio by these same low-lifes—bowed to the will of these Spaniard-like Filipinos, the forerunners of today’s leaders, and signed Bonifacio’s death warrant. Andres was led into the mountains of Cavite and hastily shot along with his brother, their bodies kicked into a shallow hole. The appalling and almost offhand murder of this great man has in effect been covered up and glossed over. It’s apparent that his fellow countrymen unjustly killed him and THAT is the main reason his legacy has been shamefully ignored and underplayed.
To sum up—Rizal, a man of means, opposed the revolution against Spain, supported continued Spanish rule, and was on his way to aid the Spanish army when he was falsely accused of being a part of the revolution. In reality, he had nothing to do with the revolt, and went out of his way to avoid complicity in it. In actual fact, during the trial for his life, Rizal argued bitterly that he had nothing to do with the revolt that was still raging even as he was being tried. In trying to save his life, he denied the revolt like Peter denied Jesus. Was that the act of a patriot? By contrast, Bonifacio, the self-made man of the barrio, overcame all odds to successfully start a revolution and wrote the momentous Katipunan—the constitution of the revolution. Now you tell me—who is more deserving of national reverence and college classes specifically devoted to biographical study? In my opinion, if not for the disgraceful details of his scandalous death at the hands of his own jealous and arrogant countrymen, Andres Bonifacio would be the number one Filipino hero today instead of Jose Rizal.
Even before my arrival, I had heard about an almost mythical Filipino hero from days long past named Jose Rizal. I knew he was a prolific writer who wrote about Spain’s cruelty to native Filipinos, and that Spain killed him for those writings. That’s pretty much what my Filipino friends know as well, but now I know a hell of a lot more. And from what I’ve studied, if Rizal were alive today, I’m convinced he would be just as important as he was more than 100 years ago, perhaps more so. This country, rife with corruption and stagnation, needs a dozen selfless renaissance men like Jose Rizal.
Rizal was phenomenonal. He earned his first degree at 16 in the Philippines and never looked back. At 18 he ran away to Europe and earned a medical degree in Spain, and followed it up with degrees in ophthalmology and philosophy in France. While in Europe and in many in other countries during his travels around the world, he taught himself fluency in Spanish, German, English, and French and he did it all in a short 35 years of life. From childhood, he was a prolific writer and he remained so right up until minutes before his martyrdom.
Rizal’s reputation as a hero is well earned. He hated how the Spanish treated the natives of the Philippines, whom the Spanish called Indios. The novels and essays he wrote were aimed mostly at Spaniards back in Spain. His objective was to get them to stop the callous practices of Spanish friars and governors in colonial Philippines. I believe he was convinced that if the Spaniards in Europe knew of the cruelty and injustice going on in their colony of almost 350 years, that they would finally interfere and stop the merciless brutality that had gone on for centuries. IN Spain, Spaniards treated Rizal with respect and admiration, but for some reason the Spaniards in the Philippines were entirely different. They did not hesitate to use torture, terror and execution en masse to keep their “unruly” Indios under their complete control, and that included controlling Rizal as well.
Rizal made a huge error in judgment. His years outside of the Philippines in Europe and Hong Kong seemed to cloud his memory of the great mercilessness in the hearts of Spanish priests, called friars, who called the shots in his home land. In 1892, after years away, he returned to Manila and almost immediately the friars found a means to get him out of the way. He was found guilty of spreading sedition based on his anti-friar novels written while he was overseas. These novels were not intended to cause a Spanish overthrow, but to show decent, liberal-minded Spaniards how unjust things were back in his beloved islands. Jose was found guilty and exiled hundreds of miles away to the very fringes of the archipelago to the tiny town of Dapitan on Mindanao. He spent four years there, and during the end of that time, a man named Bonifacio back in Manila put together the beginnings of a major revolt against Spain.
When I first started reading about Andres Bonifacio I was immediately captivated. He reminds me of Abraham Lincoln and George Washington rolled into one. Although he didn’t have the natural genius of Rizal, he was an incredible fellow just the same. He came from nothing and taught himself everything. The fact that he was poor, self-taught, and self-made, a man who could not afford ANY formal schooling, much less college, and yet excelled as a leader and independent thinker—all that reminds me of Abraham Lincoln. As the leader and initiator of the first almost successful insurrection against Spain, he reminds me of Washington.
The more I read of Bonifacio the more I realize that this guy is the epitome of an AUTHENTIC Filipino. He has more in common with the bulk of the population here than most any other figure from this country’s past. He was born and raised in Tondo, a very poor place in the mid 19th century, and even more so now (Ever hear of Smokey Mountain? It’s on the outskirts of Tondo, Manila). He was dirt poor and suffered through the same troubles and problems that most Filipinos suffer today. Yet he overcame all those issues and became known as El Supremo, the leader of the revolutionary government against Spain. Unlike Jose Rizal, Andres Bonifacio hated the Spanish and wanted nothing to do with them. Where Rizal wanted justice UNDER THE RULE of Spain, Bonifacio wanted ONLY Filipino sovereignty.
As I got into Bonifacio, the man, I was puzzled at how little my Filipino acquaintances know of him. They all recognize his name, but virtually NONE of them know WHY he was so important to their country’s beginnings. It’s become an obsession with me—to quiz people about him. I ask: “If you had to choose between Jose Rizal and Andres Bonifacio, who was more important in the formation of the post-Spanish Philippines?” Then I decided to ask local folks a simple, more general question—I asked people like students, trike-drivers, my in-laws, and neighbors: “In your opinion, who is THE most important Filipino in your history?” Instantly they answered: “Jose Rizal.” When I asked why they thought so, most cited his intelligence or that he died bravely at the hands of the Spanish. Logical reasons, but personally I disagree with the choice of Rizal as the most crucial member in the pantheon of Philippine heroes. In my opinion, Andres Bonifacio should be number one in Philippine hearts and minds; and he should be particularly special to Filipinos who are underprivileged, which is the majority of Filipinos.
As I said, Bonifacio, like most Filipinos today, was poor and underprivileged; his family had no money for education; but he was a prodigious reader and became an important writer and leader. Conversely, Rizal came from means; through his family he had access to money and privilege. He could afford the luxury of living and studying abroad. Therefore, based on the backgrounds of the two men, I would suppose that the average Filipino would prefer Bonifacio, yet that is NOT the case. So why DOES the Philippines collectively bow at the altar of Rizal while virtually shunning that of Bonifacio? I think that the primary culprits are this country’s educators. Indoctrinated as students in Rizal’s intellectual primacy, they in turn push this opinion onto their students. But aside from profuse writings, what else did Rizal do to deserve to be considered THE most central figure in Philippine history?
There is no doubt Jose Rizal deserves our respect. As I’ve said, he wrote prolifically and more notably, his writings stirringly spoke of insufferable conditions in the Philippines due to greed and cruelty of Spanish friars and governors. Also, his words and actions did much to inspire Philippine nationalism and helped convince folks like Andres Bonifacio and Emilio Aguinaldo that independence was the only answer. Furthermore, there is no doubt that Jose Rizal was valiant. He wrote critically of the Spanish, knowing full well that doing so endangered his life. In fact his written words were used in finding him guilty of treason and to his credit when he was sentenced to death, his last words and actions were courageous and patriotic. All that makes me sound like a big fan of Jose Rizal and its true—I think he’s an extraordinary figure, but I still place Bonifacio ahead of him.
Consider this—despite no formal education, Andres managed almost single-handedly to spark THE most successful insurrection ever against Spain—and going back hundreds of years, there were scores of revolts and uprisings, all horribly crushed into bloody oblivion. His rebellion was so successful that today we call it THE Philippine Revolution. Also, Bonifacio was instrumental in writing the Katipunan, the guiding document of this country’s first home-grown government. Rizal, on the other hand, counseled AGAINST the revolution, refused to lend his name to it, and in no uncertain terms told Bonifacio from exile that he believed his fellow Filipinos could NOT win, and the truth is he preferred Spanish provincial status over independence; whereas Andres had had enough of Spain and felt Spain would NEVER grant Filipinos parity or any sort of justice.
Another reason I don’t laud Rizal as high as Bonifacio are the events leading to his death. Rizal had spent four boring exile years in a Philippine backwater and his ennui led him to volunteer to serve with the Spanish army as a doctor in Cuba, another brutally oppressed colony. Rizal would have actively aided the oppressive Spaniards as they domineered Cuba just as they ran roughshod over Filipinos. It’s no wonder that this bit of Rizal history is not widely known, as it does not put Rizal in a very sympathetic light. Ironically, his future reputation was saved, and made, when he was arrested aboard a ship bound for Spain on his way to Cuba!
And what of Bonifacio’s death? Few Filipinos know he was callously executed before he could see his long-planned revolution to fruition. Rich Filipinos, who felt that his lowly background made him unworthy to serve the revolutionary government that HE had started, falsely accused him of treason! Gutlessly, Aguinaldo—the man voted in as president over Bonifacio by these same low-lifes—bowed to the will of these Spaniard-like Filipinos, the forerunners of today’s leaders, and signed Bonifacio’s death warrant. Andres was led into the mountains of Cavite and hastily shot along with his brother, their bodies kicked into a shallow hole. The appalling and almost offhand murder of this great man has in effect been covered up and glossed over. It’s apparent that his fellow countrymen unjustly killed him and THAT is the main reason his legacy has been shamefully ignored and underplayed.
To sum up—Rizal, a man of means, opposed the revolution against Spain, supported continued Spanish rule, and was on his way to aid the Spanish army when he was falsely accused of being a part of the revolution. In reality, he had nothing to do with the revolt, and went out of his way to avoid complicity in it. In actual fact, during the trial for his life, Rizal argued bitterly that he had nothing to do with the revolt that was still raging even as he was being tried. In trying to save his life, he denied the revolt like Peter denied Jesus. Was that the act of a patriot? By contrast, Bonifacio, the self-made man of the barrio, overcame all odds to successfully start a revolution and wrote the momentous Katipunan—the constitution of the revolution. Now you tell me—who is more deserving of national reverence and college classes specifically devoted to biographical study? In my opinion, if not for the disgraceful details of his scandalous death at the hands of his own jealous and arrogant countrymen, Andres Bonifacio would be the number one Filipino hero today instead of Jose Rizal.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
The Greatest American
This text, like much of what I write, was aimed at my Filipino college audience, both fellow students and teachers; so some of the narrative is devoted to explanations of historical elements that might seem basic to an American. Months after I wrote this I learned that top U.S. history academics were surveyed in 2000, and by a significant margin they selected the same three people that I did. I suppose that means that either I think inside the box, or that academically, I’m in good company.
As a student of my country’s history, I often consider who I think qualifies as the greatest American. There have been many Americans considered great, but here I narrow the list down to the top three, and finally to the very greatest of the three.
To begin with, it’s important to define the qualifications. First I ask this question about the candidate: “Historically, was the existence of this person crucial to the existence of the United States?” If the question is answered “Yes” then the credentials are met.
I believe that the top three greatest Americans are all past U.S. presidents—George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Franklin D. Roosevelt. Anyone familiar with United States history agrees that these three are generally considered crucial to the country’s existence, with all three being at the helm during dark and pivotal times. In fact, their actions ensured either the origination or continued existence of the USA.
Franklin D. Roosevelt was president from January 1933 until he died of a brain aneurism in office in April 1945. The fact that he was elected four straight terms is remarkable in itself and resulted in the Constitution being amended to limit a president to no more than two consecutive terms. He won his first election in 1932, barely three years into the most devastating financial depression in world history. The U.S. unemployment rate was at an all time high of 25%, and even people lucky enough to have a job were suffering, mostly from a lack of confidence in the future and in them selves. Roosevelt had the ability to make people believe that there was hope, although some economy experts aver that his anti-business policies actually delayed our economic recovery—but that is debatable. What is undeniable is that Roosevelt was instrumental in guiding the United States through the travails of World War II. His words to the American public during his weekly fireside chats on the radio were reassuring and inspirational during the darkest times of his administration. Although he died just before final victory against Germany and Japan, much of the credit goes to him as Commander-in-Chief.
Abraham Lincoln was elected in 1860, running primarily on a platform of anti-slavery. It is ironic that this great man was THE most UNpopular president in U.S. history, and was seen by the pro-slavery southern states as one to deprive them of an institution that they saw as necessary to their way of life. They felt so strongly about their “rights” to own slaves that they seceded from the union just two months after his inauguration. Without hesitation Lincoln mobilized the loyal northern states and the American Civil War was begun. For two years Lincoln’s Army of the Republic was defeated in battle after battle, yet he never wavered. At times when the war seemed hopeless he always rejected advice to seek reconciliation with the rebel south and remained steadfast. He continually changed commanding generals until finally finding his champion in Ulysses S. Grant. He won his 2nd term to office in 1864 as his Federal army wore down the under-funded and out-manned southern army. In April 1865, only days after southern capitulation, southern sympathizer and actor, John Wilkes Booth, at Ford’s Theater, assassinated President Lincoln. If not for "Abe" Lincoln’s determination, there is a good chance that two sets of United States might now exist—a federal north and a confederate south.
George Washington was commander of the American Revolutionary Army from 1776 all the way through the five desperate years of the war of liberation against England. At the time, England was regarded as the world’s finest military power and virtually unbeatable. The American army consisted mostly of inexperienced and nearly unpaid colonials. The Brits beat this ragtag group of militia and regulars in almost every battle, yet Washington kept them in the fight by successfully retreating to fight another day. This went on for five years until 1781, when the over-confident British army allowed themselves to be trapped on the Virginian peninsula of Yorktown, where they were left with no choice except to surrender to a victorious General Washington. After this, the Brits sued for peace, and largely to the efforts of Washington, 13 disparate British colonies became the sovereign nation now called The United States of America. Not long afterwards he became the first president in a runaway election, but what seals him in my mind as the greatest American is what he did shortly after the end of the war. His triumphant army had not been paid or adequately supplied for months, and there was talk of a coup against the inept interim Continental Congress. Washington delivered a simple oration to his troubled officers and men, and shamefully with tears in their eyes, they realized they were about to throw away everything they had fought for. This single action prevented a successful revolution from imploding into chaos. Thanks goes completely to George Washington that the United States had survived its first test as a nation and it has pretty much prospered as the first modern democracy ever since.
Consider this—without George Washington, there would be no America. No one else could have kept together the faltering American Revolutionary Army--HIS army--during those many years of revolution, when materials were scarce and victories even scarcer. After liberation was won, he accepted the presidency PRIMARILY because the American people would have no one else for the job. So revered was Washington, that many wanted to make him king. He was appalled at the prospect and would not hear of it. In fact, he started the unwritten precedent of no more than two consecutive terms in office when he refused to run for a third term, even though he could have easily continued in office. In my mind he is without a doubt our greatest American!
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Explaining the U.S. Family to Filipinos
Soon after I started school here, I began to realize how distorted the Filipino point of view is of the American family. My sociology teacher, within the first week of school, began to make one silly assertion about us after another. At first, I thought she was just pulling my leg because she would make a statement about Americans, look at me challengingly, and then ask, “Isn’t that true Mr. Spear?” When I realized she wasn’t actually interested in my answers, I began to say, “Well, not exactly…” When her eyes glazed over, I simply wrapped up my weak explanation as my voice trailed off.
One of her favorite stories is that we are kicked out of the house when we turn 18 years old. Another is that we dump our parents into nursing homes when they become too old to care for themselves. These and other oversimplifications are fiction, but most certainly based on kernels of fact. Many American students like myself find ourselves trying to explain in class to our teachers and classmates the basis of the culture behind the typical U.S. family unit, and at times it seems like the more we attempt to enlighten them the more confused they get.
Perhaps the Filipino perplexity concerning our half-baked familial elucidations is that the American lifestyle is SO alien to the average Filipino, that the more we endeavor to describe how U.S. families operate, the more mystified our local listeners become. Excluding rich Filipinos, of which I know none, most of the differences between our two cultural constructs come down to economics. A fellow classmate, Danny, who has been here a few years longer than me, first pointed this out to me behind his hand as we listened to yet another myth about us being spouted by another teacher. Enough is enough! It’s time we had our say.
In the States unemployment is about 5% of the working population, while here it is probably upwards of 50%. This difference in our financial circumstances drives the disparity in our cultures. The average American home is absolutely bereft of people in the day, because everyone is either working or in school; whereas a Filipino home is NEVER empty of individuals. It’s this sort of societal difference that makes it almost impossible to make clear the “how and the why” to people who haven’t been a part of the American experience. It’s like trying to explain to people who have never driven a car how to drive one without ever showing them an actual car.
So, let’s talk about the myth that we are forced to leave home when we reach 18. Admittedly, most of us do leave when we reach this age—including myself. I turned 18 on June 23 and I left home permanently on June 28. It took me less than a week to go, but leave I did. The truth is that we aren’t kicked out; no, the reality is that we can’t WAIT to get out! Americans are inculcated to strive for independence. We want to get out on our own and start our lives, and that means dropping out of the nest and trying out young wings. We wouldn’t have this option in a mostly jobless society, but if one wants to work in the United States then there is employment to be had. In the U.S. even an 18 year old can find work, buy a car, share an apartment, and be mostly independent. I believe many Filipino 18 year olds would do the same if they could, but most don’t have the opportunity. This American striving for self-reliance continues through out our entire life and applies to other Filipino myths about us.
Speaking of self-reliance, quite the reverse, many Filipinos won’t hesitate to go to a more prosperous relative for help. Indeed, most consider it quite appropriate. After all, they think—‘what good is it to have a rich uncle, if you can’t reap the rewards now and again?’ On the other hand, an American would rather gnaw off a foot before putting himself through the shame of asking family members for financial aid. When I first married a Filipina and experienced her family’s limitless capacity to ask for money, I was floored. I couldn’t believe they didn’t shrivel up in disgrace. Again, this attitudinal difference is based more on the differences in our economic realities than on our societal differences. It follows that our more vibrant economy makes possible and drives the American insistence on self-sufficiency.
It is this same self-sufficiency that underlies the myth that we consign our parents to nursing homes because we are too selfish or lazy to care for them ourselves. This invention is completely ridiculous. The American system of caring for our elderly is different first of all, because we HAVE a system. There is NO system in the Philippines. In America we have Medicare, Social Security and health insurance, whereas the Philippines has virtually nothing, no institutional systems of elderly care whatsoever. It’s ironic that the very reason the aged and infirm are able to be cared for at home is because so many family members are there due to rampant unemployment.
Filipinos clump together in extended families mainly because they have no choice, they cannot afford NOT to; thus there is always someone around to take care of grandpa or grandma. I don’t have to take care of my parents, because due to their long range planning and investments they are set for the rest of their lives. And if one or both need continuous care for any reason, they can afford to live in a full-care facility with access to all the therapy, medication, or medical procedures that they will ever need.
The point is my parents would hate to burden their children, and they’d consider it a personal failure if they had to. We don’t look at our kids as parental retirement insurance, and our ability to provide for ourselves is a blessing of the U.S. economy (more than being attributable to our society). I don’t negatively judge Filipinos because their institutions don’t allow them the same luxury, and I hope they will give us “quirky” Americans the same kind of open-minded understanding. The fact is that both our systems work within their own context.
One of her favorite stories is that we are kicked out of the house when we turn 18 years old. Another is that we dump our parents into nursing homes when they become too old to care for themselves. These and other oversimplifications are fiction, but most certainly based on kernels of fact. Many American students like myself find ourselves trying to explain in class to our teachers and classmates the basis of the culture behind the typical U.S. family unit, and at times it seems like the more we attempt to enlighten them the more confused they get.
Perhaps the Filipino perplexity concerning our half-baked familial elucidations is that the American lifestyle is SO alien to the average Filipino, that the more we endeavor to describe how U.S. families operate, the more mystified our local listeners become. Excluding rich Filipinos, of which I know none, most of the differences between our two cultural constructs come down to economics. A fellow classmate, Danny, who has been here a few years longer than me, first pointed this out to me behind his hand as we listened to yet another myth about us being spouted by another teacher. Enough is enough! It’s time we had our say.
In the States unemployment is about 5% of the working population, while here it is probably upwards of 50%. This difference in our financial circumstances drives the disparity in our cultures. The average American home is absolutely bereft of people in the day, because everyone is either working or in school; whereas a Filipino home is NEVER empty of individuals. It’s this sort of societal difference that makes it almost impossible to make clear the “how and the why” to people who haven’t been a part of the American experience. It’s like trying to explain to people who have never driven a car how to drive one without ever showing them an actual car.
So, let’s talk about the myth that we are forced to leave home when we reach 18. Admittedly, most of us do leave when we reach this age—including myself. I turned 18 on June 23 and I left home permanently on June 28. It took me less than a week to go, but leave I did. The truth is that we aren’t kicked out; no, the reality is that we can’t WAIT to get out! Americans are inculcated to strive for independence. We want to get out on our own and start our lives, and that means dropping out of the nest and trying out young wings. We wouldn’t have this option in a mostly jobless society, but if one wants to work in the United States then there is employment to be had. In the U.S. even an 18 year old can find work, buy a car, share an apartment, and be mostly independent. I believe many Filipino 18 year olds would do the same if they could, but most don’t have the opportunity. This American striving for self-reliance continues through out our entire life and applies to other Filipino myths about us.
Speaking of self-reliance, quite the reverse, many Filipinos won’t hesitate to go to a more prosperous relative for help. Indeed, most consider it quite appropriate. After all, they think—‘what good is it to have a rich uncle, if you can’t reap the rewards now and again?’ On the other hand, an American would rather gnaw off a foot before putting himself through the shame of asking family members for financial aid. When I first married a Filipina and experienced her family’s limitless capacity to ask for money, I was floored. I couldn’t believe they didn’t shrivel up in disgrace. Again, this attitudinal difference is based more on the differences in our economic realities than on our societal differences. It follows that our more vibrant economy makes possible and drives the American insistence on self-sufficiency.
It is this same self-sufficiency that underlies the myth that we consign our parents to nursing homes because we are too selfish or lazy to care for them ourselves. This invention is completely ridiculous. The American system of caring for our elderly is different first of all, because we HAVE a system. There is NO system in the Philippines. In America we have Medicare, Social Security and health insurance, whereas the Philippines has virtually nothing, no institutional systems of elderly care whatsoever. It’s ironic that the very reason the aged and infirm are able to be cared for at home is because so many family members are there due to rampant unemployment.
Filipinos clump together in extended families mainly because they have no choice, they cannot afford NOT to; thus there is always someone around to take care of grandpa or grandma. I don’t have to take care of my parents, because due to their long range planning and investments they are set for the rest of their lives. And if one or both need continuous care for any reason, they can afford to live in a full-care facility with access to all the therapy, medication, or medical procedures that they will ever need.
The point is my parents would hate to burden their children, and they’d consider it a personal failure if they had to. We don’t look at our kids as parental retirement insurance, and our ability to provide for ourselves is a blessing of the U.S. economy (more than being attributable to our society). I don’t negatively judge Filipinos because their institutions don’t allow them the same luxury, and I hope they will give us “quirky” Americans the same kind of open-minded understanding. The fact is that both our systems work within their own context.
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