Lenten reading - JAYWALKER by Art A. Borjal

Every now and then, through the years, I have been publishing this essay that I wrote, more than 20 years ago, about a memorable scene that I saw along the Manila-bound national highway in Camarines Sur. Up to now, almost every detail of that poignant scene is etched in memory. I wonder why time has failed to erase it from my mind.

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I included this essay entitled "As Dusk Set" in my book, Walking Through the Pathways of Life, and I hope that it will add food for thought in the reader’s Lenten reading:

It was drizzling and nearing twilight when, travelling along a lonely stretch of the Bicol South Road, we chanced upon three boys, barely in their teens, walking barefoot at a brisk pace. Unmindful of the rain which fell on their capless heads and of the strangers’ eyes upon them, the three boys were obviously concerned only with the task that they must do: to bury their infant brother whose wooden coffin was slung on a bamboo pole carried on their shoulders.

There was no procession of relatives and friends to the burial grounds, no brass bands to keep the mourners in step, no aluminum or steel casket, no paid obituaries and flowers in imperial suites, not even tears and sobs from loved ones left behind. Only the patter of the rain and the purr of our vehicle broke the stillness of the moment.

The scene initially evoked sympathy and sadness. For why should these young boys and their family be denied the "privileges" of city folks in burying their dead? But then, we asked ourselves, is not the act of interment, coupled with a prayer or two, the only substantive and meaningful thing in burying the dead, that all others are mere trimmings – meaningless, superficial, even extraneous?

By force of habit and out of a distorted sense of values, we have somehow succeeded in making ourselves believe that the superficial are more important than the substance itself. Thus, a city wedding is incomplete without several pairs of influential padrinos, flower girls and candle sponsors, gilded embossed invitation cards, photo sessions from the dressing of the bride till the entry to the honeymoon suite, a giant cake with white doves and Oriental horoscopes and, to top them all, two motorcycle cops and police prowl cars, with full sirens wailing, as escort to the bridal cars. Take out one item, and the "I do’s" become meaningless.

Even the parish priest himself is a party to the display of lavishness. For a higher fee or contribution to the church, he suggests flowers to bedeck the hall, satin carpet rolled along the aisle, ceremonies at the middle altar, and the tolling of church bells as the final vows are exchanged. As the newly-rich are expected to react, the bride’s parents readily accept the priest’s suggestions.

From birth to marriage to death, we appear zealously concerned with nurturing our shallow vanities. Obsessed with the pleasure of showing off, we turn every event into an occasion for display.

We give a bash after a baptism, on the graduation of a favorite daughter. We stage glittering debuts where we drink brandy or sip champagne just to appear elegant when, in fact, we were brought up on beer. We can compile a long list, culminating in the fiesta, of which much has been said.

Where did we learn these habits? The Filipino is both humble and hospitable. And he is proud of being both. Thus, we apologize to our guest for having inundated with our hospitality. "Pasensiya ka na sa handa namin," despite the fact that we treated him like a prince.

Was the Filipino of earlier centuries like this? Complementary to the old refrain that we were conditioned by the colonial masters to look up to them as the paradigm of everything that is right and good, it is our own obsession of trying to be other than what we are that has brought about the vanity and pretense in our customs and habits.

Which brings us back to those three boys carrying out the lonely task of burying their dead, while their parents are just as busy in their farm trying to keep them alive. Perhaps, they offered an example that should put us in our place. Whether by force of circumstance or by their own choice, they grieved in a way that was more meaningful and intimate. Leave us to our sorrow, they seemed to say, we will bury our dead with neither varnished casket nor motorcycle cops.

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Here is one other essay that I wrote in 1989 for a Holy Week issue of the Times Journal. It is also included in Walking Through the Pathways of Life, which is available in National Book Stores nationwide:

We are a people who love to suffer. In our religious rituals, in the things we do, and even in the way we think, we take pleasure in suffering.

Thus, on the ninth day of every January, we hustle, jostle with one another, and get hurt in the process, just to touch the image of the Nazarene. Yet, we can touch Him at any day of the year.

During Holy Week, we carry a cross, whip our backs, place thorns on our heads, and walk barefoot upon miles and miles of dirt road and searing asphalt streets. Moreover, we love to crawl on our knees from the portals of the church up to the altar where we hope He waits.

Even in the way we sing a joyful church hymn, we turn it into a dirge, making ourselves feel so dad that a tear or two would actually fall from our eyes. When death visits our family, we hold a long, long wake. And even after our loved one is buried, we hold another sorrowful recollection on the ninth day and, at times, every year thereafter.

Our love to suffer is also manifested in the mañana habit which we inherited from the Spaniards. Right now, we can already file our income tax returns, but we do not want to move until, on the last day for filing, we will wrestle with thousands of our countrymen to beat the deadline. This is true in other fields: in registering our motor vehicles, in writing a speech or a newspaper column. We want to take it easy until that moment comes when we have to really hustle in order to earn our daily bread.

It is correctly said that traffic jams are our own doing. We overtake each other, turn one-lane streets into three lanes, beat signal lights, leave stalled cars in the middle of the road, and bribe the traffic cop whom we have conditioned into believing that traffic enforcement must always end up with coffee money to bloat his potbelly.

Even some government people love to see suffering. They love to promulgate regulations and SOPs which make life miserable for the general public. They emphasize controls rather than output.

Through centuries of living under "superior" forces, we have been brainwashed into accepting suffering as a part of life. For instance, we want to wear Bally shoes despite the fact that it causes blisters on our feet. We can hardly make both ends meet, but we want costly imported apples, grapes and chestnuts on our table. The heat is scorching, but we prefer the coat-and-tie to the barong. We were the first to hail that taxicab, but we graciously give way to the tourist from the West.

Our love for suffering stems from the fact that we feel inferior. Just like in the basketball games of the PBA, we always cheer for the rivals of Crispa or Toyota because we associate ourselves with the underdog. We want to see movies which make us cry, read stories about the atsay, the jilted suitor and the abandoned wife. We think that we, like them, are downtrodden.

We do not feel sorry though that we love to suffer. For did it not take the colonizers 400 years to make us accept suffering as a part of life? Or can we not always hope and dream that someday, in exchange for our suffering, we shall be in paradise, as the Church has consistently preached?

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