O as in Ozamis

As if starting out next week as the University of the Philippines’ new spokesman wasn’t enough, I’ve just been handed an extra assignment as Philippine coordinator for the English Speaking Union (ESU), a London-based private organization that seeks to promote the use of English around the world through public speaking and debate. My illustrious predecessor in this ESU job is none other than my buddy Krip Yuson, who got us into the ESU last year, but who has had to pass on ministering to this year’s responsibilities because of other pressing concerns.

I had to read up very quickly on the ESU, which I must admit I’d never heard about until Krip mentioned it to me before he left for London last year. Apparently, it’s been around since 1918, when the British journalist Evelyn Wrench got together with some friends to set up an organization aimed at promoting closer ties between English-speaking peoples. A succession of British Prime Ministers endorsed the idea, and in 1927 the ESU was lodged at Dartmouth House in London, which remains its global headquarters to this day.

We have to remember, however, that "English-speaking" in those days of Empire really meant only native speakers of the language – white ladies and gentlemen, in other words. It took some time for the ESU to declare itself open to people of all races – a central tenet of the ESU’s self-image and of its work today, at a time when more than one billion people worldwide speak English, less than a third of whom come from the traditional Anglophone countries. (We Filipinos often forget that the United Kingdom and Australia, with populations of about 55 million and 17 million, respectively, have theoretically fewer English speakers than us, and certainly far fewer than India.) The ESU now counts members throughout the UK and in over 40 countries, and provides scholarships and cultural exchanges for its members.

One of the highlights of the ESU’s annual program is the International Public Speaking Competition, a gathering of young (no older than 20) speakers from all over the world. This year it will take place from the May 13 to 17 in London, and will have "Local value, global worth" as the subject of the speechfest.

I’m glad to report that after a rather frantic search occasioned by the lateness of the hour, and upon the recommendation of last year’s participant – Mahar Mangahas Jr., who gave an excellent performance – Mr. Yuson, Ed Maranan (our cultural attaché in London), and I settled on an ideal Philippine representative to the May event: Ms. Camille Ng of the Ateneo Debate Society. Camille, a management senior, already has a string of achievements as long as your arm. She was a semifinalist and was adjudged Second Best Speaker in the Philippines at the Second Inquirer Intercollegiate Debating Championships held at the UP last February. Last December, at the University of Stellenbosch in South Africa, she was a finalist in the English as a Second Language Competition. Just months before, she had emerged Grand Champion and Best Speaker in the Philippines at the 2002 National Debate Championship in San Beda College.

I have the highest hopes for Camille in London. Half the problem of getting her there has already been solved by the generous donation of a round-trip ticket by PNB London, through the efforts of Ambassador Cesar Bautista; now the only question is whether we can get her a visa in time, hopefully with the help of the British Council here in Manila and its able director, Ms. Gill Westaway.

* * *

Camille’s impending adventure reminds me of my own travails in public speaking, starting from my days as a grade schooler in La Salle Green Hills, where they used to teach a course called "Declamation" (remember that, old boys and girls?). Declamation – "a speech or presentation spoken in a formal and theatrical style," according to my dictionary – was one of the classical subjects, something every young Roman (and later English) schoolboy was supposed to learn, presumably in preparation for the rigors of civic leadership. "It may amaze the modern reader," the scholar Elaine Fantham observes, "that Augustus, Agrippa, and Maecenas, as well as the historian Livy, found time to attend declamatory performances on hackneyed and fictitious themes ... but in Rome the art of language and its manipulation was second only to the arts of government and warfare."

Those lofty ideals were the last thing on my mind when I joined the annual declamation contests in elementary school, mouthing such staples as Marc Antony’s speech ("Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears…." – at which point the wise guys in the audience began tugging at their ear lobes), Patrick Henry’s "Give me liberty, or give me death!", Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, John Keats’ "Ode to a Nightingale," and, yes, Carlos P. Romulo’s "I Walked with Heroes." The contest winners were given gold, silver, and bronze medals, and nothing shimmered and glowed more brightly in my ten-year-old eyes than those disks – which I would have killed to have, and not one of which I got to bring home. The same teacher who kept sending me to the competition would later unhelpfully tell me that I had some mortal speech defect I would never recover from; I was crushed by that belated revelation, which is probably why, to this day, I can’t think of "La Salle" and "happiness" in the same breath.

But at least I came out of grade school with these speeches embedded in my memory; at my proud parents’ beckoning, I would recite them before provincial uncles who had no idea what "fourscore" meant but who tossed me a coin afterwards, good for an ice drop. Best of all I lost my fear of audiences, whom I realized sat in awe of anything that sounded sufficiently foreign and imperial, but who then relaxed and even laughed when you came down from your perch and spoke to them in their own language, at their own level. I had discovered one of life’s great secrets, which would serve me in good stead in the classroom. Just like all the Latin hymns we memorized, those speeches may have little practical value now, but the Romans were right: They did help build character, albeit in unexpected ways.

Speech was also on my mind last week when I found myself at – of all places, considering my recent pieces here – the US Embassy, there to attend a cultural function at the invitation of a friend whom I could not possibly refuse. ("Just smile and shut up," I kept reminding myself on the drive to Roxas Boulevard, "and leave the placard in the car!") Over beer at the chancery balcony and overlooking a predictably spectacular Manila Bay sunset, I did get into some interesting conversations that just managed to skirt the edges of the war in Iraq – but we’ll leave that for another time. "You barely have an accent," a very nice American lady – whose daughter just happened to be a serving soldier in Iraq – told me. I smiled – easily – and explained that we Pinoys are natural mimics; I learned my English, I said, from TV shows like McHale’s Navy and Gilligan’s Island, and that I would be speaking very differently if I was hanging out with my Filipino friends, when I’d just as soon slip into Filipino or Taglish, which are easier on the jaw. Besides, we can lose the accent, but not the pagka-Pinoy. I forgot or didn’t have time to tell her a story I heard from a high school pal – during one of those early-morning, post-funeral-wake coffee binges at Whistle Stop – about a locally-based but internationally-connected call center clerk who almost got away with pretending that he was somewhere in Nebraska until he had to spell out a name: "That’s D as in Delta, and O as in, uh, uhm, Ozamis…."

* * *

We don’t get good news all that often in this corner of Creation, so I’m glad to reprint this letter from my former student Mjolnir Ong, the protagonist in an epic narrative that recently made the rounds of the Internet, having to do with Jol’s struggle to secure a tax identification number (TIN) from the Bureau of Internal Revenue:

Sir Butch!

I just read your April 14 column! Thanks for including me in your work, I’m very much honored! Anyway, the good news is that the BIR gave me my TIN. It’s a very long story, but would you believe that because of my TIN article, I actually got to shake hands with VP Guingona, BIR Commissioner Parayno, and Finance Secretary Camacho? (These were the times that I wanted to slam my head against the wall for not bringing a digital camera.) I also got a job in Viva (the film company, not the mineral water company) by virtue of my article’s humor. Bart Guingona, the playwright, is also planning on making a theatrical rendition of the article….

Anyway, I’m planning on having my TIN card (which was delivered by hand to our house by the BIR) wood-laminated and hung beside my UP diploma. This is surely one episode (dare I say epic?) that I will never tire of telling my grandchildren, if I live that long. Hehehe.

Here’s to the power of the pen, errr... Net,

Jol Ong

* * *

Send e-mail to Butch Dalisay at penmanila@yahoo.com.