As I was telling Don Jaime at the wildly successful opening of Igan D’Bayan’s one-man art exhibit (wildly, I say, because the whole town was there, and only Juaniyo Arcellana was left at Port Area to close the next day’s Philippine Star issue) at The Crucible Gallery at SM Megamall last Tuesday…
(Why, even the stratospheric Ali Peek was there; guess Quinito Henson required attendance from PBA players trundled out of the finals. And Sev Sarmenta of AdMU’s Communication Arts. And Butch Dalisay of UP Diliman. And National Artist Arturo Luz, who’s abandoned our cause and even proudly announced he’s quit smoking. And National Artist-to-be – why, they better, if they know what’s good for them, and us – Mon Orlina. And my bosom buddy Pandy Aviado, who should be declared International Artist… And many others… But everyone had been beaten to the punch by a Brit who happened to stroll past, stopped, insisted on getting into the gallery before opening hour, and reserved much of our patrimony for hauling off into the empire… Well, Igan’s gonna get so hebigat with all those pounds.)
Uhh, yes, what was I telling my dear friend Jaime, once upon a time our Ambassador to the Court of St. James? Oh, among other things, that someone interviewed me recently, and among the questions fielded was whom did I envy most in our country. Hmm, no-brainer, I replied. And as I told dear patrician Jaime, as no courtier but the purveyor of veritas: "I said it was you, not because of any of your (bank) accounts or position, but because you can happily retire with the full assurance that your boys are fine gentlemen who will continue to do the country and the world a lot of good."
Something like that. Of course it reflected my own possible state of wish fulfillment when it comes to my own boys. Raising sons has always been a tricky, often thorny affair. Hair-raising sons are a prospect that seems imminent in most cases.
Can’t really complain much, yet. Oldest son Aya has found his niche in jazz; he’s a wiz at the guitar, and his first CD, a solo album, has sold out, if in guerrilla fashion. The two much younger boys, teeners, alas, are due to graduate from high school this March. Knock on wood. Aye, there’s the rub, and all those sorry cliches.
Their mom and I, we’re not yet positive they both will. It’s prayer time, crossed-fingers time, and our state of parlous anticipation, read fears and concerns, can only find calm closure some weeks from now. Despite their acceptance at the Ateneo for college, meaning they passed the dreaded ACET, D’s and Fs in Math and Science render the next weeks a touch-and-go affair.
Now, how come Jaime Augusto and Fernando never gave Jaime and Bea that kind of problem? Or anything else much, as far as we know? Evidently, they were well brought up. It wasn’t the continuum of privilege; heaven knows a lot of 2nd & 3rd generation guys only manage to dissipate the clan wealth in no time. Were the Zobels pere et mere just lucky? No, I believe they both had a hand in it; no recessive gene managed to show up past their stalwart defense.
So it must be my failing as a father where the blame now lies with regards this tenterhooks cycle. Okay, I’ll accept it like any deficient man, or temporarily unlucky one. Like Gabby Lopez, I say I take full responsibility.
Now, my heart goes out to Gabby. Seeing and hearing him on TV, that dreadful box that can only be good for showing live sports of unscripted drama, I can say that his father Geny – Eugenio Lopez, Jr. – bless his soul – must have looked down and smiled with contentment, that he too had raised an eventually fine son who’s man enough to take any blow with dignity and nobility.
One of those words, in reference to Eugenio Lopez III, comes from Fr. Tito Caluag, who should know. Working with him on a book these past months, I have come to know Fr. Tito as a person of commendable probity, especially as a judge of human character. Yet his testimonial is not the sole reference for me to rise in Gabby’s defense – not that he needs it.
I just don’t like, and have never approved of, the way most of us always rush to judgment, especially when it involves the so-called big fry. Certain socio-political columnists, given any incident involving a tricycle driver on one hand and a guy in a Mercedes on the other, instantly assume that it’s the poor guy that merits justice.
Years ago, I sat down with Geny Lopez over several sessions of intimate interviews, when fellow journalist Paulynn Paredes Sicam passed up on completing the account of "Escape from Marcos" – a manuscript meant to become a book – and recommended that I take over the project. We had nice breakfasts together, Geny and I. It also meant talking to other Lopezes and Geny’s associates. On a trip to Los Angeles to get Serge Osmeña’s account, Gabby was around, and graciously treated for lunch at the few restos left that had a smoking area.
Sure, Gabby had his wild days in his youth, and friends from Forbes made sure everyone in Manila knew about it. But he did grow up, and proved heroically instrumental in his dad’s and Serge’s escape from Fort Bonifacio detention, and upon taking over part of a business empire, has – more or less as some rivals would see it – also proven worthy in running it.
His sister Gina worked with a team I ran in the mid-’70s that put out Ermita magazine, well ahead of its time. She was noble, too, and stays the same, after years of self-exile for a religious cause. Till recently, I did copyreading for an ABS-CBN Publishing mag, and while I never had to show up (thanks to e-mail) except for Christmas parties, the younger brother Ernie always seemed gracious, kindly and friendly. Other than what I saw and sensed, his employees vouched for that.
In the summer of 2002, Gabby found himself with family in Dumaguete, or rather off it in the family yacht, and apart from treating a few drunken poets to a sunset cruise, made sure to leave behind a couple of donations – for National Artist for Literature Edith L. Tiempo’s National Writers Workshop, and for zugzwang philosopher Cesar Ruiz Aquino’s champion chess team.
Now, this is no brief for the rich and powerful, whom some will always claim are so guilt-ridden that they throw scraps to us animals. It’s just a reflective consideration I throw to the winds – in the hope that spores of a good notion spread where they must, in our consciousness as a people, one that is less embittered over the fact that archetypes like Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald are vastly different from you and me.
Seeing Gabby Lopez doubling up in laughter over a Cesar Aquino quip, and instantly taking a liking to the Sawi that also rises, is to appreciate the fact that he was and is no different from any decent human being for whom convivial laughter, bonhomie and camaraderie are what separate us all from the hyena or the kookaburra.
There’s something to be said for the "big people" who run companies and provide jobs, even if they’re often faulted for greed. Not every Filipino can or should embrace the idea of equal benefits and privileges while cradling a snatched AK-47 in the name of a laughably passé ideology. The people who put up capital for Ozone Disco did it not for greed, but for some profit and a mini vision of good clean fun. That they may have failed to provide contingency escape routes shouldn’t damn them to hell or jail time any more than it should city officials who approved the business permits. It could’ve happened to any of a thousand other establishments. Cynical as it may sound, but shit does happen.
Now, this isn’t meant to gloss over a titan company’s accountability for the deaths of over 70 destitute Filipinos. But darn, let a spade be called a spade. Mass deaths like that have always been cyclical accidents waiting to happen, from an inter-island ship going down, to Ormoc and villages in Aurora similarly going under water by force of nature. Sometimes no one is really directly to blame.
We’re still growing up as a country, and sometime in our adult life we will look back at those "tragedies" and acknowledge that they helped bind us as a people, because they taught us lessons on how to avoid repetitions of such high-number casualties, or simply because we saw how disaster-prone we can be because of our high numbers.
The real if petty crime is when soundbyte-happy grandstanders violate good sense just so they land on TV. Perhaps taking the cue from a Justice Secretary who will never learn to keep his trap shut despite the obvious decorum required of his office, the DILG Undersecretary in charge of a fact-finding investigation simply couldn’t resist loading up on his metaphors in playing to a perceived mass audience.
What is reprehensible is that everyone in this country very easily forms an opinion about anything and everything, so that rare is the person who will candidly say when asked under floodlights: "I don’t know."
"I don’t know. We’re still trying to find out the facts." Or "I don’t know. I don’t think I should say anything other than that we believe we’ve compiled all the facts. After all, ours was a fact-finding task." That was how it should have been handled, rather than implying any guiltless gulf between empires and the animal kingdom.
Maybe we’re too nervy as a people. Maybe our fathers were antsy while we were being brought up. Maybe that’s what the artist Igan D’Bayan had in mind when he painted his portraits of seeming angst. Maybe that’s what the Brit art-lover recognized when he ambled along: "Hey, what the bloody… But these are precious. Why, here’s the angst we had as Picts and Celts, all of centuries ago, before we dourly accepted the weather and mellowed up as a people with a wry sense of humor – pictorially best represented by our Ralph J. Steadman."
Maybe that’s what Igan had in mind when he set about on his arresting art, that his people’s angst could best be depicted with wry, laconic humor. I don’t know. I can only guess – at art, life, countries, fathers and sons.
In any case, I don’t know, but Happy Valentine’s…