When I was young, dreaming was free.
And dreaming to become a priest was the grandest dream for us children of the soil, yes, for us who seldom given the chance to genuflect in front of the holy saints, for us who found solace from the joys of kissing the holy hands of the one we called Apo Padi, from the one who gave us the blessing that God loves us so much. During my childhood days, I could count on my fingers the times I attended–without paying attention, though– the holy mass.
Nevertheless, I could not blame my parents for not hearing masses because we were so far from the center of civilization. We lived at the outback–if I could steal the word from the American wild Wild West novels. I found solace only, and satisfied myself, on top of an aroo tree perched on a top of promontory–the hill we called Signay– the highest part of our land or even, maybe, the highest part of our barrio, looking down to where the town was, imagining the bustling street and even envying the good life down there. The pealing of the church’s bells could not even reach the place I belonged. All I could hear were the sounds of VICTORY or PANTRANCO revving while negotiating the uphill at Bobonot.
Today, still, I could feel the sounds of solace of those gritting engines, third only to the songs of birds and whistles of aroo trees which lulled me oftentimes toward numerous and wonderful summer dreams. O, I forgot to mention the amazing emmak of our cows and the powerful garraigi of our horses. See, the outback, eh?
And the dream began, awakened. A comforting dream, after all. This dream, I thought, was my only way to emancipation.
I did not dream to becoming a doctor because I hated the syringe. The needle was dreadful, then. I never dreamed of becoming a lawyer because I did not know what was a lawyer until later when my oldest uncle, from my mother’s side, become lawyer. I still hate the strictness of a lawyer as owner of the law.
I never dreamed of becoming a farmer and own vast lands and numbers of cattle. What a folly, I was, eh! I hated the bite of the sun on my skin, my brownish-black skin that never dreamed of becoming white, huh. I hated wiping the sweats that wells from my face while riding my horse galloping and racing against some of our welwel cows towards some burubor, an oasis of greenish, mossy water, we seldom saw in between rangkis. Ha! That was my childhood’s farmer life. Now, I regretted why I hated those good, old lives.
I had one other dream. I wanted to become a Veterinary Doctor. At least, the needle was for the cows, I thought. My late Apong Lakay had a herd of cattle numbering to almost a hundred heads under his auspices. Apong Lakay owned some but mostly was owned by some wealthy families in town. Until one day, when they put some cows in the cuadra, and they did the artificial insemination, we called that sumpit. I was there and I saw what they did. The veterinarian put his arm inside the cow and when the arm was out, I saw the dung over it. I squirmed, ew. I will never be that doctor. Never.
I never realized that he used gloves at that time, he he he.
The one remaining dream–to become a priest–was a comfortable one. I could have cars, a comfortable house and I could collect money everytime I said mass. People will call me, Apo.
Oh, I just remember this thing now, I should have been with some beautiful women. Oh, that I eyebrows! Some priests do have beautiful women at their convents, don’t they? These women are doing services for the good of their community–Green!—accompanying their father so he will not be lonely.
I clung with this dream amidst the anxiety I read from my Auntie Simpling’s Malaya magazine to where I stared the black and white pictures of children–skinny, bony, bighead, hungry and starving children of Negros. I clung with this dream even the good old man they called Ninoy lying lifeless at the tarmac with spread arms and white attire like a fallen dove from the unforgiving wanton children’s slings, smacked unceremoniously in front of its home, just before the door of its nest, it may called home.
I know the dream was burning. But, I never budged to shout the slogan: Tama Na! Sobra Na! Palitan Na! It stayed there in me even until I started painting walls–first on our high school’s walls–of ‘Katarungan Para kay Betty!”–words of bloody and painfully red calls for justice.
Of course, like any other vain, uneasy teens, I also dreamed of having a good love life, he he. I contented myself reading the Pilipino, Wakasan, Love life, Kenkoy Comics because good, beautiful and alluring young ladies belonged to the town’s affluent families and so, that was, I thought. I learned life from Kenkoy, from Bosyo and Tekya and a good science from Planet op de Eps.
Of course, my life and my dream were never complete if I did not read the beloved Bannawag–the beloved Bannawag from which I learned my first ABC–before I learned anything else from the ABAKADA and Tiririt. I widened my limited life’s horizon by reading the Rangtay ti Bullalayaw, Mutya, Mr. MVP and Ineng, and the great Macario and Muyac of Simbaluca of Kapitan Romul in Fighting Pogi Series.
Radio dramas also helped nurtured my dream. I liked the bests of Uncle Pete, the old Edilberta and the mid-morning drama of Kimat ti Amianan. These drama and stories kept my dream burning like wild fires.
I hated dreaming the hard but comfortable rich life. I did not want to be like Flordeluna who was maltreated by powerful rich people whom she called her family. I like Annaliza but poor people die young, I thought. At the outback, we owned the second TV in our barrio–the old reliable, black and white, cabinet-type Hitachi. Today, my mother used it as cabinet. I was useful, after all.
While clinging with my dream, I become a sacristan–but only during high school days because I have no money and time to attend masses during Sundays—in between leading my fellow high schoolers cut classes and joined the rallyists. And, of course, of becoming extras to movies being shoot in location at our beloved Dasol to earn extra allowance for our discreet Tanduay session during preparation of leaflets.
And the great part was this. When the time came of securing my good moral character certificate—I hate this because how could anybody give certificate of good moral character to anybody—my high school administrator could not be swayed to give me the certificate I needed to enter the seminary.
They said: Komunista, agseminarista? So be it.
And I entered the seminary sans the old and demanded “good moral character”. See.
My next post will be “Road to Perdition, err, Redemption”.
Recommended Readings:
James H. Cone's A Dream or a Nightmare
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