Hi, Friends,
I'd like to cross post here something I've posted on my other blog,
Ginikanan.com. (Please check it out when you can.)
Dear Charlie and Jack,
Today, I set up an altar in front of the biggest tree in the park grove
behind our house. I sat in silence as I thought of the more than 2 year journey
that led up to the eventual publication of the book,
Mama, Mama. I
gave thanks to the spirit that lives in the trees, birds, animals, and
everything else around me. It is the same spirit that lives in me,
allowing for the creation of this book; the same spirit that lives in my
family, friends, and community allowing them to support me in this project. I
also asked for blessings as I face the task of spreading the words that I’ve
made tangible.
I would have stayed longer but a few kids arrived in the sandbox near the
grove and their happy giggles made it hard for me to think. I was also a bit
worried of my use of candles in the middle of the pretty dry grove. So I left
and came back to make myself lunch and write this.
I think now about the altar I just created. I have never done anything like
it before. My child self, the one who was unconscious and deeply colonized by
western mentality, would have laughed at what I was doing, would have dismissed
the act as “backward”, a meaningless “tinuohan sa buktot” (ways of the
hunchback).
Years ago, my mother, your Lola, spearheaded the construction of our home
along Sayre Highway in
Malaybalay, Bukidnon. I don’t know how long the construction took but when the
house was finally finished, your Lola asked a Datu we knew, the one we kids
called Datu Pobre (Chief (which can also mean Rich) Poor), to perform a ritual
to give thanks to the spirits and to ask their permission and blessings to live
in the house.
This is how I remember that event: Datu Pobre, in his faded Binukid garb and
headdress, mumbled and blew and spat a lot while he prayed in front of an altar
that he had created. Then he gutted a chicken and spread droplets of blood
along the entry way and on the altar offerings, including on the mannga,
santol, grains of rice, and the smiling Buddha statue that your Lola inherited
from her Chinese father. Datu Pobre also buried a few peso coins below the
door. After Datu Pobre performed his offerings, the chicken was cooked and we
all had chicken soup. Later that day, your Lola took all of us to church to
pray for Jesus’ blessings and be blessed with holy water straight from the
priest’s hand.
As I unpack this memory, I realize these:
I didn’t know what that ritual was called. I never bothered to know because
I thought that kind of ritual was kinaraan and had no place in my life. But now
I’m making the effort to know. Pamuhat is the general term for Bukidnon rituals
propitiating the many guardian spirits and the deities. There are various
rituals for various reasons: to give thanks, to ask for permission to
enter a space, to heal the sick, to seek blessings in an endeavor… Yes, I had
to read and google-research to name acts that were once mundane and familiar to
me. It is sad that it’s taken me this long to (re)familiarize myself with them
and understand their significance! No time for regrets and head bashing over
how things were, however. I mourn my years of unconsciousness… and now I inch
forward, ready to learn more about my roots, my ginikanan.
It is very likely that the Datu’s name wasn’t really Datu Pobre, that kids
like me called him that behind his back to make fun of what we perceived as his
laughable poverty. He was always trading his kamote and gabi root crops for my
Lolo’s Tanduay rum. It never occurred to me that his trading, even though it
didn’t involve the almighty paper money, was another legitimate way of
acquiring necessary goods. And a good one, at that! If I could meet with that
Datu again, I would apologize, ask his name and call him that. And I pledge to
accord others with the dignity they deserve by acknowledging and
accepting who and as they are.
It is also very likely that what we kids thought were the Datu’s mumblings
were actual Binukid chant that we just didn’t understand. Because we were
taught from a very early age that speaking English equated with intelligence
and superiority, we looked down on the indigenous languages and their speakers
and, instead, boasted of our mastery of English. Ironically, now I feel robbed
of my precious right to (learn to) speak in my ancestor’s language. Again, I
mourn my loss… and move forward with the pledge to encourage others to preserve
their own mother tongue, whatever it may be, by speaking it with pride in their
daily lives and, if possible, passing it on to their children.
I’m also remembering now that because our new house was along the town’s
only highway, passersby looked in and those who had nowhere else to be at the
very moment stayed to witness. The ritual, therefore, gathered not only our
family and friends, but also members of the community, some of whom were
strangers to us. It didn’t matter. At the end of the ritual, we all shared the
chicken soup together. I assume everybody left sated, happy, and ready to
tackle the rest of the day. Out of everything, this realization that rituals
involve not just the individual but also a whole bunch of others, is what draws
me. We all strive for connection and rituals allow us that. I hope to connect
more with the community.
Lastly, the Datu was cool with having the smiling Buddha attend the party.
It seems the spirits and deities (even Magbabaya, the supreme deity) can kick
it with Jesus and Buddha! There is enough chicken soup for every one willing to
share space, regardless of our leanings.
So, my dear Charlie and Jack, this is your Mama reclaiming the ritual
for herself (and you!) I hope to channel our Lolas’ ritual making in the days
ahead
