A lesson in true power

MANILA, Philippines - The year I graduated from college in 1991, the Jesuits were celebrating St. Ignatius’s 500th birthday. I did not mean to be part of that grand celebration 18 years ago. I was walking along Katipunan Avenue (now almost completely bereft of trees!), and bumped into Fr. Joe Quilongquilong, a Jesuit. I said hello and he casually asked me if I would like to sing at St. Ignatius’ birthday Mass. It has always been in my nature to say yes more than no (I have yet to learn how to say “hmmm…give me some time to think about it…”), so I obviously said yes.

I was to never realize until the day itself how grand that celebration was actually going to be. I’m clueless sometimes and although I was asked to rehearse with Fr. Joe, and I was asked to rehearse with a tiny orchestra, it never dawned on me that I would eventually have to perform in front of the entire Ateneo community. The event was held in the grade school gym, at the time the largest place the whole community could gather. The Mass involved everyone from grade school to college.

I cannot conjure anymore today how I must have felt walking up to the area where the readers and Mass servers were assigned to sit. I do remember being inappropriately dressed, arriving in the usual “area attire” (my organization worked with the urban poor), meaning to say, a plain white shirt and jeans. This is just further proof that I had no idea what I was getting into.

You must know at this point in the story that I am actually deathly afraid of singing solo all the time, regardless of the number of times I’ve done it. Singing solo is sometimes as exciting as having a root canal. The way to get it done is paved with sorrow, but boy, when done, there is immense relief! Going to the dentist and singing cause the same lurching in my tummy, which feels like I am about to vomit.

You would think: why even say yes? Really, there is no explanation except that maybe the joy one receives at the end of a performance is commensurate to the agony before the performance. But there was something comforting about being in the teeming mass as well. The altar was on an elevated stage and to sing from that vantage point meant that I was facing a faceless crowd. That calmed my heart somewhat because then that meant the crowd could not see me either (thus, there would be no throwing of stones at me while walking back to the college.)

The responsorial psalm refrain was this: “Diyos ay tapat at totoo, sa dumadalanging tao” or “The Lord is faithful and true to those who pray.” Until today, I still know the melody of that one line. I must have sung four verses and what I remember most was the feeling that something greater had come over me and taken me. I could literally feel as if some One or some Thing had taken my voice so that it could soar and reach places I could never reach on my own. I felt no nervousness — only a strange peace that comes from surrendering to experience.

The Mass continued and here’s the absolutely fabulous thing: at the “peace be with you” part of the Mass, Fr. Bulatao walked to me (and I thought he was going to scold me!), put his arms around me and whispered in my ear, “My dear, you have such power.”

What a Gandalf-like moment!

I keep that memory close to me always and treat it like prophecy.

This story could end here except that I would once again sing the Responsorial Psalm at my Graduation’s Baccalaureate Mass. The song this time was Panginoon Aking Tanglaw (The Lord is My Light). And again, a large crowd, and again my cluelessness, and again, that feeling that my voice was being used. At the end, I walked to my mother and she put her arms around me and said, “I did not know you had so much power.” (There is, of course, a sub-story here about love and recognition and the irony of a stranger’s ability to see more than my mother. For Fr. Bulatao, it is a statement of fact.)

These are stories that I keep in my memory because I like their narrative structure and because they are satisfying plots. It appeals to the storyteller in me. There is the reluctant, clueless heroine who says yes and that is her tragic flaw and her one great gift. She is awkward and prone to insecurity but her one defining quality is that voice. The clueless young girl simply says yes to experience and is rewarded richly by that experience. There is conflict, there is resolution and there is a lesson. The I’s openness to derring-do always pays off with a recognition of the I’s power.

And yet, in all the years I’ve played out this story (in moments of great fear, in moments when I’ve had to sing in public again, in moments when I feel youth has gone and there is truly nothing left), it has always played out as a testimony of the inherent power I always had in me. And yet strangely, strangely, not so these days. These days, what thrills me and moves me are the two songs that brought me that power. “Diyos ay tapat at totoo sa dumadalanging tao. Panginoon aking tanglaw, tanging Ikaw ang kaligtasan.” In all these years that I’ve interpreted this story as mine, what it actually is, is a story of…something else. And it has taken me 18 years to get to this particular conclusion.

I say this to you now as you recognize that power that lies within you — that power comes from being educated, formed and by being young. Fr. Bulatao was absolutely right. I was powerful and was at the height of my promise. You will feel that as you enter the grown-up world and as the world embraces you, as it is wont to do, because it will have to rely on your power. It can sometimes be heady and exhilarating and you will feel as if you can truly conquer the world.

But the greater lesson in these stories is the revelation of what true power is. The answer to that lies in the nooks and crannies of these little stories of mine. I wish I could write it down and tell you what it is but…I’m not going to do that today though. It took me 18 years to be worthy of that lesson and I get the feeling only time will eventually get you there as well, but hopefully, in less than 18 years. So let me be a teacher to you one last time and withhold this one little secret. Do write me, when you get the point.