Sweet whistle's bitter end
Rodrigo Duterte belongs to a generation older than mine, so I would not know what whistling meant to him, or even how and why he learned to whistle. But for the generation to which I belonged, the generation that grew up in the Sixties, whistling was as much a part of the rites of passage to manhood as was, say, tuli, or circumcision.
Not only does one have to learn to whistle, he has to do so early. Just like tuli. The older you get without knowing how to whistle, or remained pisot, the queerer you became in the eyes of your peers. That part of my life is so far behind me now I am no longer sure -- but I think you had to whistle and be circumcised by the time you enter Grade Four. The consequences of being otherwise were simply unimaginable.
My earliest recollection of the "tweet-twew" of a wolf whistle was of a radio commercial for Rosita's Bazaar. The commercial went like this: "Tweet-twew. Asa mo? Sa Rosita's Bazaar! Unsa'y paliton?" And from there I can no longer recall how the commercial originally went, because everybody just seemed to substitute the last line with anything. In my neighborhood, for example, boys my age replaced the last line with: "Panty'ng itom!"
Growing up, I did not know "tweet-twew" even had a name, much less that it was called a wolf whistle. Soon enough, however, "tweet-twew" became the most useful two notes of a whistler's repertoire. And to a young boy just discovering the palpitating effect of a young girl's presence, a "tweet-twew" in her direction became the most evocative and spunky expression of appreciation.
How a "tweet-twew" has fallen to such ill-repute in this day and age I attribute to the collapse of decency among the succeeding generations. Growing up in the Sixties, boys were never different and were still boys -- daring, adventurous, mischievous. But there were lines never to be crossed, and customs we knew enough to keep sacred. We were gentlemen in the making.
We kissed the hands of relatives and elders and never interrupted the conversations of adults. We always came home for the Angelus and for supper. If we had to play afterward, we had to be home by nine, and washed before going to bed. Sleep was impossible without at least a sign of the cross. Sunday's best was really Sunday's best. And the best meal of the week was always the family Sunday meal.
It was in this environment of relative decency and innocence that a "tweet-twew" was either innocuous or made a girl's knees weak and her walk wobbly. Far from being the insult and form of sexual harassment that it has degenerated into today, it used to be an expression of genuine appreciation of beauty. In fact, a girl that has been "tweet-twewed" would, more often than not, turn and smile back. Instead of being unnerved, they were flattered.
In instances where a girl disapproved, she would twist her lips or stick a tongue out to feign a dismissal that neither cut nor bruised relationships, in a way that only girls so sweetly can. In short, it was not an offensive thing to do. Why it is so now, I do not know. Maybe it is because people have become so obsessed with too much freedom they have taken liberties with the meaning of a whistle, and even life itself.
In my day, most everybody knew right from wrong. Things that were right, you believed in your heart to be right, such that when you are wrong, you know you are wrong without being told. With the difference so clear as day, people were happy just being themselves. There was less to worry about because people did not take offense easily. Hypocrisy is non-existent when everybody knows their limits. But that was in my day.
Today, hypocrisy has taken up the vacuum at the center where God used to be. Instead of being at the core of the human being, God has become a mere rallying point for wherever the ebbs and flows of life take us. Instead of true faith as a guide, people now make up all sorts of politically correct rules for themselves when all that is really needed is a little more God and a lot less of the self.
So, when Rodrigo Duterte whistled at a female tv reporter from some deep recess in the past, all hell broke loose, and everybody became his own judge, jury and executioner. The hypocrites were shaken loose from their lofty pedestals and, for lack of anything better to do, attacked. There are no angel defenders among those trained to attack even when pretending to be nice and professional.
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