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| After two years here, I'll be slowly moving myself off of Xanga and onto Yahoo 360. See me at http://360.yahoo.com/bmarana. My pictures will be there too. Or, if you want to just see the pictures, check them out at http://new.photos.yahoo.com/bmarana.
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I woke up in his arms, perspiring on a muggy, August, afternoon.
"Look, there he is! You see him?"
It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust, to remember where I was. The Maryland State Fair. The horse track. Papa holding me.
"Go number 4! Go! You can do it number 4!" I exclaimed. As is often the case with young children, my age was my favorite number.
"There he goes! There he goes! You won! How about that, skipper maroo?"
Papa always called us names we never heard anywhere else. "Cap'n Joe" was Kuya Joey. Mik and I were usually "cap'n" or "skipper" or "skip." It makes sense to me only now that those would be the names he would call us. He worked on the docks for most of his life.
That was when Baltimore was still a major American port, when freighters came in daily, supplying an important lifeline to the eastern seaboard. For forty plus years, Papa faithfully worked those ships, inspecting incoming ships and noting their cargo. Forty faithful years, probably starting sometime in the 1930s.
William Fitzpatrick was born in 1908. He never fought in one of the great American wars, despite witnessing the entirety of both of them. After all, he would have been too young for World War I, and by the time World War II ended, he would have been pushing 40. But he witnessed both of those wars, along with Korea. And Vietnam. And Iraq 1 and Iraq 2. He was in his roaring 20s during the roaring 20s. He suffered through the Great Depression. He witnessed civil rights, the moon landing, and the birth and the death of the USSR.
He saw the terms of 18 US Presidents (nearly half of Presidents in American history) and was alive the same time Mark Twain was. He was older than Joe DiMaggio, Marilyn Munroe, and JFK. He would've remembered when Babe Ruth played for the Baltimore Orioles.
It is not Papa's mere longevity, however, that was remarkable. It was his strength. 20 years ago on that horsetrack, Papa was already 78. He had already been retired for around 13 years. Yet there he was, quietly holding a 4-year old boy for God knows how long.
For years to follow--the years of my childhood--he would pick us up every Friday afternoon and take us out. He'd treat us to Chicken McNuggets or Sbarro's pizza and slip us an extra 5 bucks, much to our mom's chagrin. On occasion, he and Nana would take us on the scenic drive up I-83 to Friendly Farms, for the best hush puppies in Maryland.
He and Nana always welcomed us to their apartment in Towson. We'd have ice cream with ginger ale (as we continue to do to this day), and we'd end up spending the night. We'd play with the blocks or our toys on the floor, and Papa would listen to his records in his rocking chair.
He was there for our piano recitals, some of our swim meets, our birthdays, our graduations, and just about every other major event of our lives. He never demanded attention or made a fuss or a scene about anything. He simply was there, quick to give a smile and an enthusiasic "Hey Cap'n!" and maybe slip some more money in our pockets.
Reflecting back on the fragmented collage of memories I have of him, it does not take much to piece together a common thread of generous, giving, genuine love. He adored my mom and admired my dad. He treated us as his own grandsons, even if we did not always treat him as our grandfather. Indeed, if we did not see him on a given Friday, it was not because he was too busy. It was because we were.
We grew up. Our weekend meetings slowly became less frequent, and eventually we got too old and too cool to be taken to the mall with Nana and Papa. Maybe I was too self-conscious to show exactly how I felt for Papa, since Lolo (our blood grandfather) was living with us. Perhaps it was too complicated for me, a brown-skinned, black-haired Filipino, to reveal to others how this Irish-blooded white man could be like a relative to me. But it was never too complicated for him.
Not too long ago, Papa stopped driving. First, he was involved in an accident that bruised him and Nana pretty badly--physically and emotionally. Then, not long after that, he and Nana were forced to move from their apartment, which they had intended to be their home for the rest of their lives. During the moving process, Papa dislocated his shoulder, and because of his age (90+), the doctors didn't want to operate.
Just a few years ago, Alzheimers began to take hold. He slowly forgot Mik's name and mine, then our parents'. He began to lose track of what day it was, then of what was going on in the world. There came moments when he seemed totally lost. However, he never forgot Kuy's name. How could he? He loved Kuy as much as he would his own child, as he would often say himself. He witnessed Kuy's first steps, heard his first words. Furthermore, though he forgot our names, he always knew who we were. His mood would always lighten when we were around, and there were times even in the last year when he seemed as clear-minded as ever. He would joke and laugh and comment on how handsome we were. When we would get up to leave, he would shake our hands firmly and kiss us on the cheek. He'd walk us to the door, and in an image I will forever hold in our mind, stand in the doorway, waving until we were out of sight.
He never forgot us. We will never forget him.
I love you Papa. You mean more to me than I was ever able to let you know.
Your grandson,
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| I’ve been saying for quite some time that I’d finally get around to writing all that I’m experiencing while in the Philippines, so here I go, trying once again to get into a blog writing groove.
Part of the delay is that it’s daunting to me just how much I want to say. I feel like this blog entry is an overflow of all that has been brewing in my mind for the past several months. I feel obliged to explain and express so much, to you all and to myself.
On the other hand, this is a blog, and not a book. Perhaps it would be most appropriate to resist trying to say everything at once in one huge blog entry (as I am now tempted to do). Another temptation to overcome is the desire to start at the beginning--to start from my first few weeks in the Philippines and explain everything I’ve experienced until you’re all “caught up.” I think this line of thinking has also contributed to my lack of writing, as I refrain from writing on the basis that I have not written a lengthy treatment of what happened to me 6 months ago (or for that matter 3 years ago, starting with TBC).
You can expect that this blog will be scattered, that it will wander, jump back and forth between times and places, between the everydayness of my present high school teacher life and the strange collection of adventures I’ve had in the past few years, from naive social commentary to personal reflections on faith and identity.
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I’m in Starbucks right now, as I often am. I started coming here primarily out of convenience. My old room was a crappy place to do work. I had a lumpy leather covered stool instead of a chair, a wobbly table, and weak fluorescent lighting. Starbucks was a comfortable alternative, with free internet to boot.
Over the months, it has become the place that I go to when don’t feel like going to school for internet. It’s where I go to call people back home, to check e-mail, to read blogs and catch up on news. It has become associated in my mind as the place that I go to connect with home.
After the first two months, I started coming here less. First, I spent longer hours at school, partially because of work and partially because I started using the internet there a lot more. Second, I started going out a lot more with other teachers here, and spending more time with family and relatives.
I still come here during the end of the quarter, when my bag is full of papers and quizzes and tests and all my grades need to be submitted the following day. And I still stop by on days like today, when I’m not hanging out with friends, and when I feel like getting on the internet late night.
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Starbucks is an interesting phenomenon worldwide, much lamented by anti-globalization soothsayers warning of the death of local traditions and landscapes. Who after all, wants to go all the way to the other side of the world to drink the same damn overpriced caramel macchiato that you can get in American suburbia? And yet here, I understand that there was a certain amount of hype with the advent of Starbucks. That is perhaps seen in the context of what some regard as a misguided Filipino love of all things American. But from what I see, it’s not quite the Americanness per se that is attractive, but what going to Starbucks represents.
Going to Starbucks here is an iconic activity. For 115 pesos ($2.25), the price of a frappuccino, one could easily buy lunch for two. So going out for a coffee at Starbucks is not what it is in the States, where $2.25 can be earned in half an hour of work at McDonald’s. Going out at Starbucks is a symbol of social class.
That’s not to say of course that the Americanness isn’t part of the whole appeal. The place is unapologetically American, with seemingly no (if any) efforts to adopt local tastes either in the aesthetics of the decor or in the flavor of the coffee. The few exceptions are the empanadas that are sold instead of french danishes, or the occasional banana mocha frappuccino (for a limited time only, of course). Right now I’m listening to “Let it Snow.” Behind me on the glass are decals of snowflakes. It’s 60 degrees, and the closest thing to snow that people here have seen is the falling of ash from volcanic eruptions.
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Upon my arrival at Xavier, there had been some rumors of a new religion teacher coming, from the States no less. Perhaps when I showed up with my brand new Macbook pro, wearing my button-down shirts and ties, and sporting my American accent, I came in just as Starbucks did--unapologetically American.
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I’m beginning to post pictures finally as well. See them at
http://loyolamd.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2015923&l=fa9a7&id=20107040
and
http://loyolamd.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2015922&l=3b244&id=20107040
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| I moved into a new place last week. The school subsidizes living quarters for the Chinese teachers here, and they had an extra room. The place is bigger, air-conditioned, and a bit closer to school. Although I share a bathroom, I now have hot water, and there’s water pressure in the mornings. I have an actual desk now (instead of a wobbly circular table), and instead of a lumpy backache causing bed, I now have a king-size mattress. Best of all, I’m now paying about 40% of what I was paying before. I’m very happy here.
The timing is good. I feel more settled here in this new place, just as I feel more settled here in the Philippines. | | |
| About time..It's been almost a month since my last post, and so much has changed. I feel like I'm finally setttled. That's not to say that I feel quite at "home" or that I "belong," but that I have my own place. I'm glad I'm staying here a year... it's taken me almost 4 months to feel this way. I'm moving in a few weeks, and a few good friends are moving closer to school. I think after that I'll feel REALLY settled... more settled than I've felt in a long time. Already, I've spent more time in one place (4 months) than I have at any other point in the past two and a half years. That's helped a lot. There's still a lot I feel like I haven't even really begun accomplishing--practicing arnis and learning more Tagalog for example. Which are, ironically, two of the main reasons (consciously) that I decided to come here. Maybe in a way I wasn't as ready as I thought to plunge into those things... I was too busy reflecting on identity and concentrating on teaching. Not to say those aren't important, of course, but I suppose I hadn't considered just how much time and energy those things would take.. how drained I would be. I feel much more energetic.. much more ready to finally do what I came here to do. Here's to making it happen. | | |
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