Manong Frankie Sionil: 90 years young

MANILA, Philippines - Every writer on the verge of penury should have a Teresita Jovellanos Jose in his/her life. Look at F. Sionil Jose, our National Artist for Literature. His living to the robust age of 90 is on account of the ministrations of his muse, mistress, masseuse in the form of his Tessie. She acts as his secretary, too. This has made him the envy of many writers, male and female alike.

Long ago, novelist Jun Cruz Reyes observed, “Shouldn’t she be the National Artist?” No wonder that at the literati-studded celebration of Jose’s 90th jubilee at the Cultural Center Main Theater Wednesday, a lot of the accolades were heaped on his wife who made the conditions right and ripe for his prolific genius and artistry to flower.

While highlights from his travels, conferences, meetings with VIPs and renowned writers (Wole Soyinka, Norman Mailer, Edwin Thumboo, Mochtar Lubis) were projected on a large screen, Tessie regretted that an old picture showing Frankie with actor James Stewart and his wife wasn’t included. The American actor was so tall, her husband so short that when their kids first saw the photo, they thought Frankie was still a boy at that time it was taken.

Fictionist Menchu Aquino Sarmiento, whose latest fiction collection Ukay-Ukay: Cuentos & Diskuwentos is introduced by Jose, recalled how during the memorial service for Prof. Nieves Epistola 12 years ago, “Manong Frankie arrived with his left hand grasping his usual walking stick but his right hand firmly planted on Manang Tessie’s shoulder. He had slipped and fallen in their home that morning, and the experience had so shaken him that he no longer felt secure unless he literally had her within arm’s reach. I pointed out that if he slipped again, he would drag her down, but Manang Tessie just smiled. She understood him perfectly and didn’t seem to mind at all. Every writer should have such a wife.”

The Joses’ San Francisco-based grandson Nik shared his memory of his lolo’s visit. He’d waken in the middle of the night to the sound of “rapidfire typing” or loud singing of Iluko songs. It was his own introduction to social injustice —deprivation of sleep! Nevertheless, he was grateful for the old man steering him towards finding his Filipino roots.

Daughter Brigida “Jette” Jose Bergkamp announced the launch of the F. Sionil Jose Young Writers’ Award. In an interview, she said, “The award is to honor my father’s legacy to the young writers of the Philippines, up to 30 years old. It seeks to advance excellence, integrity, social justice and love of country in literature. Or, as our father often tells young writers, ‘Emulate Jose Rizal.’ The award also honors our mother’s devotion to nurturing both our father’s well-being and his art.”

The competition will begin in March 2015, the 50th anniversary of Solidaridad Bookshop. The seed award of P300,000 will come from all seven Jose children, and they hope to continue it over the years.

To underline Jose’s faith in the young, the speaker after Nik was teacher-blogger- community worker Nash Tysmans, 64 years younger than the celebrator She recalled how in high school a guy tried to impress her by quoting from Jose’s short story “Platinum.” She said, “He was trying to woo me but alas, I ended up with you instead, Manong.”

From Jose, who took her under his wing, she learned that “a writer’s integrity is paramount… I can spend the next 20 years of my life explaining how deeply your words and your friendship has meant to me, but I know you’ll have none of that. You’d rather I find my own voice and write. So I will.”

Nash also spoke of what frightens her about being young and in love with this country. “It’s lonelier still to love it because so few really do — and this is why our friendship means the most to me. So many of our leaders have let us down and even in the realm of literature and art, we are not spared from betrayal. But I just want you to know–you haven’t let me down. You haven’t let me down.”

The Joses’ contemporary Gilda Cordero Fernando said she and “the birthday boy” go back such a long way. She had some words to describe him, but “he threatened me, ‘Don’t talk about me. Talk about Tessie. No one can take care of me like my wife does. I owe everything to her. And to my children.’”

Of Tessie and her role in his life, Gilda said, “She’s always devoted, serene, optimistic and beautiful. Tessie is happy clearing the way for Frankie, making sure he doesn’t stumble, been fed and injected, neatly dressed, his fontanel well-covered, steering him away from people he may be tempted to insult. She is always in clear and present danger that he may fall on her and flatten her. Indeed, some marriages are made in heaven, and that is Tessie’s marriage to Frankie — heaven.”

Poet-musician-broadcaster Lourd de Veyra showed off his black T-shirt with a portrait of the iconic and recognizable Frankie. It was his version of a “Mao Sionil Jose” or “Sionil Guevara” after two revolutionaries. Frankie, who was making ready to donate his papers to De La Salle University some months ago, summoned Lourd to bequeath something to him. He imagined or wished that the gift would be a collectors’ item like the draft of a short story, galley proofs of a novel, a diary or first editions of books.

It turned out to be a wooden penis sheath from Papua New Guinea. In Filipino he called the “cock sac” pangtakip ng salusukan ng pag-ibig, sisidlan ni Junior, espanada ng pagnanasa. He was puzzled by the mythological and literary significance of this passing of a sheath to the point that he curiously asked, “Manong, have you used this?”

Then he realized his manong had a sense of humor not unlike that of comedian Groucho Marx (the only Marx Frankie would abide by) who, upon being given the highest honors by the French government, quipped, “I’d give it all up for one erection!”

French Ambassador Gilles Garachon  incidentally added to Frankie’s stash of honors and medallions, the Order of the Arts and Letters, while requesting him to “keep your anger intact.” He said the award was being given “in the name of your readers. We are grateful to you for your writings and books” that have given insight into the Filipino psyche and society.

A jet-lagging Celeste Legaspi, who for some nanoseconds missed a name and her cue, found an apt song in her repertoire that was deserving of Frankie — Gaano Kita Kamahal by his fellow National Artists Ernani Cuenco and Levi Celerio.

Before his response, Frankie took off his beret because it was warm enough. He told of how he’d answer the question about his secret to living long. “Simple! The good die young.”

Then he acknowledged the people who made his longevity possible — “the best doctors in the country are looking after me, my wife takes care of me very well.” He thanked his friends in media “who have tolerated me and corrected my grammar, the governments and foundations that have given me awards and grants that have helped me in my writing, my loyal staff.”

Rewording Gen. MacArthur’s “Old soldiers never die, they just fade away,” Frankie closed the short program that made way for a long evening of fellowship, “Old writers never die, they become footnotes.”