One step backward

I can’t think of a person whose political and cultural views would vary more with mine than the former chief censor, Mr. Manoling Morato. He’s a crusty conservative and I’m a flaming liberal, and while we’ve never met, we’ve often found ourselves on opposite sides of the issues of the day, such as last year’s National Artist brouhaha which saw his good friend Carlo J. Caparas appointed — wrongly, I thought — to that exalted position. I’ve also never believed in censorship, which I think turns people into idiots by robbing them of the responsibility of choice. But never mind that.

A week ago, on the heels of a column-piece I wrote about a new book celebrating Art Deco in the Philippines, I received a letter from Mr. Morato — and, much to my surprise, I found myself in agreement, on principle, with his concerns. It’s a very long letter so I won’t reproduce it here — I gathered later that the same letter had been published by Mr. Morato as a paid advertisement — but the gist of it is that Mr. Morato wants to save the Quezon Institute building on E. Rodriguez Ave. in Quezon City from demolition by the Department of Public Works and Highways. Morato used to chair the Philippine Charity Sweepstakes Office, which has been using the building, now owned by the Philippine Tuberculosis Society.

The PCSO’s new chairperson, Margie Juico, had sought the DPWH’s opinion about the safety of the building, and DPWH Sec. Rogelio Singson had written her last August to say that, based on the findings of DPWH engineers, the QI’s main building would not probably withstand a major earthquake and should be demolished. The PCSO then moved its offices and employees to the PICC.

Mr. Morato suspects, however, that Mrs. Juico and the DPWH are merely facilitating the entry of a major private developer into the site. Last December, Ayala Land Inc. acknowledged that it was interested in developing the 6.5-hectare property.

The building — a graceful prewar structure from the days when Mr. Morato’s father Tomas was Quezon City’s first mayor — was designed by National Artist Juan Nakpil, who also designed many metropolitan landmarks, including the administration and library buildings of the University of the Philippines in Diliman. Morato wonders why the QI building should be singled out for demolition while Nakpil’s other structures — erected at a time when engineers didn’t skimp on materiales fuertes — remain standing to this day.

There’s probably more to this issue than meets the eye, and I’m willing to listen to technical explanations from all those involved. On the surface of things, however, before the wrecking ball descends on another irreplaceable architectural treasure, a way should be found to reconcile the needs of heritage with the demands of safety, even as I realize that considerations of beauty and culture fall a far second to those of safety. The Quezon Institute building should be preserved and its safety issues addressed without tearing the whole structure down.

I’m sure it can be done — with imagination, goodwill, and, of course, resources. Back when I was a graduate student in Milwaukee, I enjoyed walking through the Grand Avenue Mall, a stately building and now a bustling mall which in its earlier incarnation used to be a home for Douglas MacArthur’s family.

Sometimes, the best way forward is one step backward.

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Speaking of the past, my hometown of Alcantara, Romblon, will be marking its 50th Foundation Day anniversary sometime next month, and I was asked by the celebration organizers for a page or two of my words that they could include in the souvenir program. Rather than provide the standard greetings, I came up with some reminiscences of the place, and because only a few hundred people, if at all, will come across that program and even fewer will actually read it, I thought I’d share them with my readers here, on behalf of all the island boys-turned-city boys in this archipelago:

The last time I was in Alcantara, in 1994, my father Jose Sr. was still alive, and we had come home so I could be welcomed and publicly recognized as one of Alcantara’s more successful sons. We had a ceremony in the plaza, where a drum-and-bugle corps played Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White as the formation spelled out “W-E-L-C-O-M-E-T-O-A-L-C-A-N-T-A-R-A” letter by letter across the wide lawn.

As impressed as I was by the this artistic display of affection, I took pity on the young boys and girls who marched in the hot sun in my honor, and it was the one time that I wished, on their behalf, that Alcantara had a shorter name.

My passport actually gives my birthplace as “Looc,” so that would have been kinder on my hosts. Born in 1954, I came from a time when Alcantara was still part of that bigger town and had yet to come into its own. I have passed through Looc now and then, but only by necessity; I have little to do with it, otherwise. Alcantara, Romblon, has always been my hometown, and in every other document except my passport, I proudly say so.

It seems strange that I would feel such a close affinity to a place I hardly know. My parents left for Manila with me just two or three years after I was born, and while we returned to Alcantara now and then — taking the boat to Looc or Romblon, or the DC-3 to Tugdan — I don’t think I ever stayed in Alcantara for longer than a month, except in 1964, when I spent a whole glorious summer there, enjoying the ocean, the hills of Lauan, and visits to my mother Emy’s relatives in nearby Guinbirayan. It was everything a 10-year-old city boy could ask for: the sense and memory of an island hometown where the hilltop was never too far from the shore, where the people took their problems in stride with a hearty laugh and a glass of tuba, and where the nights were punctuated only by gas lamps and fireflies.

The next time I returned to Alcantara, it was in 1974, and I was 20 and an expectant father; I had come with my new bride Beng, and I recall walking home with her under a canopy of stars. It was the most starlit sky I had ever seen, and as if that were not dramatic enough, a comet hung up there, like a bridal veil.

This was the Alcantara I memorialized in my first novel, Killing Time in a Warm Place. While I could not always come home, and maybe because I could not, I wrote my hometown into my novel, so I could visit it every time I turned the pages.

These days, working in Manila, I wonder now and then what life must be like in Alcantara. The last time I was there, television and VCRs were all over the place, but cellphone services had yet to be started. I can imagine that the Internet must have invaded Alcantara’s schools and living rooms.

For all that technology, Alcantara will always be that spot for me where, somewhere on a pretty hillside, my grandfather Anatolio’s bones lie in an unmarked grave, reminding me how important it is to leave our signature where and while we can, but also, ultimately, how we all return to our native soil, rich and poor, lettered and unlettered alike.

A lot can change in 50 years; people can, too. But the Alcantara I was privileged to be born in and to visit from time to time will be as it always was — my hometown — in this 57-year-old boy’s mind.

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E-mail me at penmanila@yahoo.com and visit my blog at www.penmanila.net.