Igorotdō 道

Many of the Japanese arts use a particular kanji character at the end of their names.  The term “dō” appears as 道, and simply means “way or path.”  This term connects the practice of Japanese arts to the philosophical concept of Tao.  It is a vital element in the different Japanese martial arts such as Bushidō (way of the warrior), Aikidō (way of harmonious spirit), Kendō (way of the sword), Kyūdō  (way of the bow) and Judō (gentle way).  In addition to the martial arts are Shodō (way of calligraphy), Chadō (way of tea – tea ceremony) and Kadō (way of flowers – flower arranging).  The “dō 道" is so important that the early founders of these arts saw these “ways” also as a “way of life.”

My very first experience with any of these arts happened at the age of 11 when my father enrolled me in Judō classes; which was his favorite sport as a teenager in the Cordilleras.  Still too young to grasp the philosophical side of it, I enjoyed it more as a sport than anything else.  As a teenager, I was lucky enough to have a Judō club in high school where I continued to practice and compete.  In addition, I began learning Chinese Shaolin Kung Fu in my sophomore year followed by Kenpo.

            Bushido                        Aikido             Kyudo              Judo

At the end of high school, the movie “The Karate Kid” made a huge impact on the way I saw (and still see) martial arts.  The main character’s Karate teachers, Mr. Miyagi, had me thinking about how so many people, including myself, misused and abuse it for vanity sake.  I remember so much emphasis on belts, competition, being the best and just kicking . . . ubet.  I really felt like I missed out on the entire “dō” that Daniel-san reaped in the movie series.  Fortunately, there were other mentors like my basketball coaches to help me with the “dōs” as a teenager and young adult.

Chado                                    Shodo                                          Kado

Shortly after my parents and sister passed away, my interest in landscape architecture and Japanese culture led me away from the financial services field to explore a new interest in Japanese landscape architecture.  It was then that I talked to Professor Ikka Nakashima on the phone inquiring about the Japanese gardening classes that she taught at the University of Illinois at Chicago.  She told me that she stopped teaching at the University, but invited me to sit in on a class at her home.

Eager to learn, I went to her house only to find out that the class was a Chanoyu (Japanese Tea Ceremony) class.  Haven driven almost an hour, I politely stayed to observe, albeit wondering what the heck I got my self into. To my surprise, I became fascinated with the demonstration by a young Army Special Forces soldier who performed the ceremony in such precise movements and discipline.  That evening at home, I did some research and learned that Chadō used to be performed by Japanese samurai men before Westernization influenced the inclusion of women practitioners.  This along with the soldier’s earlier demonstration quickly got me over the initial concern of learning something feminine.

I became her student and learned Chadō (also known as Chanoyu), different aspects of Japanese gardening, some basics in Kadō (Ikebana), and even went to Kyoto, Japan to learn about Japanese gardening at the Kyoto University of Art and Design.  Most importantly, she taught me about the “dō” or “way” of Chadō as a “way of life.”  Just about everything she taught had a connection with how to live a good life.  She was my Mr. Miyagi. 

Morikami Japanese Garden - Lesson in living the present moment & focus

I later became employed by Master Garden Designer, Hoichi Kuriisu, who also took a very philosophical approach to Japanese gardens.  Although I was hired to project manage his large project at the Morikami Japanese Museum and Gardens in Florida, I became his apprentice and soaked up as much knowledge possible.  Like Nakashima-sensei, Hoichi found a way to connect everything to life itself.  In a way, he embodied a way life that I call “Niwa (garden) dō (way of).”

Kyoto, Japan

In Bushidō, the way of life is centered on seven main virtues.  These virtues are rectitude, courage, benevolence, respect, honesty, honor and loyalty.  In addition, filial piety (respect for parents and ancestors) and wisdom are also associated virtues. 

Although there is nothing (at least that I’m aware of) documenting Igorots living by a certain code or “dō” like the Japanese practitioners of their arts, I strongly believe we Igorots can look to our ancestors for inspiration and therefore, develop our own “dō” in life as Igorots.  All we need to do is identify the values and traits that our heritage is so rich of, and then implement them into our daily lives.

Where does one find such values?  Our “dō” is found in our values, which originated in the Cordilleras where our ancestors originated.  Notice I said the Cordilleras and not just the Philippines.  I still maintain that our Igorot culture is rich in values that make up our own true identity, which is very unique in many respects.  Unfortunately, modernization and other influences continue to strip these values from our people.

I know and have met many immigrants who have been raised here in America and have become so detached from their heritage that their “dō” has been lost or discarded.  Among these immigrants are many Igorots that were raised in melting pot places like Baguio who know little of their true heritage.  In fact, I continue to meet more and more Igorots who claim their heritage, but know little of it.  They speak fluent Tagalog, almost all speak Ilocano, but not everyone knows their native language.

I like to use language as an example because it is usually the first to die followed by everyday ways of life, and then values.  David Harrison, a linguist at Swarthmore College, was asked, "What do we lose when we lose a language?"  His reply included:

"When we lose a language, we lose centuries of human thinking about time, seasons, sea creatures, reindeer, edible flowers, mathematics, landscapes, myths, music, the unknown and the everyday. Only some cultures erect grand built monuments by which we can remember their achievements. But all cultures encode their genius in their languages, stories, and lexicons. . . We would be outraged if Notre Dame Cathedral or the Great Pyramid of Giza were demolished to make way for modern buildings. We should be similarly appalled when languages—monuments to human genius far more ancient and complex than anything we have built with our hands—erode." [read article]

Does this mean that people who do not possess their native tongue have lost their heritage?  Of course not, but the process of cultural erosion has already begun for them, and unless they connect to the cultural ingredients associated with their native language; the erosion will continue at an alarming rate.  In my opinion, the most important ingredient are cultural values and virtues because these are what make up our "dō."   These are the actual fiber that weaves the lufid or wanes of our souls.  One can still "be" Igorot without possessing their native tongue, but without the values and virtues of our heritage, one is like faith without action: an empty vessel.

One major goal of my upcoming book, “Igorotak: The Warrior Within,” is to create or re-create an interest in our culture that can spark a new or renewed interest within and outside our Igorot communities.  Once the interest is there, people will likely want to know more factual information about us and begin researching and learning more.  This is why it is so important to support the preservation of our indigenous knowledge by documenting as much of it as possible.

As Professor Maria Luz Fang-Asan of the Benguet State Unviversity claims, “The loss of IK (Indigenous Knowledge) is alarming.”  As more and more of the bearers of our heritage die and take our Indigenous knowledge with them, our Igorotdō also withers away.


Chanoyu Demonstration at Anderson Japanese Gardens

Endangered Species: IGOROTS

Well, the holidays are behind me and my mind swims in a pool of thoughts relating to the endangerment of my Igorot culture.  For me, the idea of it disappearing is a fascinating, albeit haunting thought.  What would it be like if the Igorot culture suddenly stopped existing?

I don’t refer to the type of disappearance that happened to civilizations like the Mayan, Aztec, Persians and so forth.   Instead, I am talking about the indigenous treasures that make up the Igorot culture: values, beliefs, behavior, language, arts, artistic expressions and way of living.  When I think of these things, I can see how easy it would be for them to disappear; first in the mind, then in the soul.

Except for very few credible written works documenting various aspects of our culture, all of what makes up our very essence today exists only because of the oral transmission of knowledge that has been passed down since the beginning.  Ancient writing systems that the Egyptians and American Indians had were luxuries that we Igorots forewent.

   

Guess who holds this knowledge today?  If you said the old folks, lolos, lolas and such; you’re absolutely correct.  Fortunately, there are still some alive who can transmit our indigenous knowledge, but some would argue that the accuracy of such knowledge lost much of its originality over the centuries.  Yet, the knowledge that has survived over the years is quickly fading away because the bearers of our golden indigenous knowledge are quickly leaving this earth and taking our treasures with them.

Now factor in the overwhelming modernization of the world we live in.  My cousin recently returned from my hometown of Guinzadan and told me how so many people vacated and moved away to Baguio, Manila and countries abroad.  The lure of a more modern life, educational advancement and better financial opportunities continue to draw people out of the mountains and into cultures different from their origins.

If one is not careful in their assimilation to that new culture, one can lose their identity as I almost did.  Take language for example.   According to the National Geographic, “Every 14 days a language dies.  By 2100, more than 7,000 languages spoken on Earth – many of them not yet recorded – may disappear, taking with them a wealth of knowledge about history, culture, the natural environment, and the human brain.”  They even go on to say, “. . . the Philippines host a multitude of diverse languages.  . . . The popular Tagalog and Filipino languages threaten small indigenous languages in the Philippines.” 

What about those who remain in the Cordilleras and intend to stay there for the rest of their lives?  Are they safe from the same dangers that threaten us who live abroad in different lands?  I don’t think so.  The city life of Baguio and other Philippine cities has a way of also threatening the preservation of our indigenous knowledge.  In fact, a reoccurring sentiment usually arises when relatives in the Cordilleras comment on pictures that I post on Facebook of us American-Igorots dancing in public with our gangsas, wanes and tapis stating something to the extent of “we are more Igorot than many in the Cordilleras.”

I applaud people like those individuals in the Benguet State University’s Department of Extension Education & Development Communication who are hard at work trying to save the very fabric that we Igorots are woven from: our indigenous knowledge.   Their first project, “Stories of Alapu”, is a book of indigenous stories that continues to be distributed to schools throughout the Cordilleras.  It is the first of other projects that are aimed at preserving our culture through proper documentation.  I was told they will be releasing a video tutorial of how to wear our native attire correctly.  I can’t wait to see it especially if it will aid in relieving the uncomfortable rubbing between my butt cheeks and the choking of my family jewels when I wear my wanes (g-string).

This topic is so close to my heart that I will be doing my best to convince Igorots here in America to support the preservation of our Indigenous Knowledge or “IK” as I prefer to call it.  This will start with the members of BIBBAK Illinois (see IK letter).  On a related note, my future book, “Igorotdō: The Warrior Within” aims to create an interest in our Igorot culture within non-Igorot markets as well as renew enough interest with Igorots to pick up books like “Stories of Alapu” or watch videos to learn more about their heritage.  

 

I leave you with a couple thoughts.  First, next time you think about throwing more money to individuals in the Cordilleras to further their modern education, remember the thousands of Igorots who would like to learn about their endangered culture as well.  Lastly, many of you may have heard Microsoft’s marketing expression, “I'm a PC.”  Well, I just created a new one . . . “I'm a IK.”  It just so happens that I prefer PC’s over Macs so “I'm a PC,” and I prefer the preservation of our Indigenous Knowledge (IK) over modern progression, therefore, “I'm a IK.”  . . . . Are you?

The Igorot-ness of Christmas Past

I don’t have to tell any of you how bad commercialism has taken over Christmas and how it is considered politically incorrect it is to say the words, “Merry Christmas.”   The social climate in America encourages people to replace “Merry Christmas” with “Happy Holidays.”  With so much emphasis on the removal of “Christmas” and the materialism of the holidays, I wonder how many people are truly happy this time of the year.

Our economy hasn’t gotten better.  It still continues beating down on American families, and more people are financially strapped this year than years prior.  Unemployment is still very high, foreclosures continue, “stay-cations “remain the sensible alternative to vacations, and so on.  Yet, people continue digging themselves deeper in debt to keep up with the materialistic expectations that society has engrained into their kids, family and friends.   I don’t think this is what the real Santa Claus intended. 

Despite all the materialism and false notions that plague this time of year, Christmas still ranks number one in my list of favorite times of the year.  Yes, number one, and not because of the gift giving or materialism associated with it.  I love it because it’s that time of the year when I always recall the simple reason for so many years of joy and happiness: my Igorot parents.

Since I arrived in America at the age of four, Christmas in my immediate family was always about the simple meaning of Christ and mass.  I never knew it to be truly about anything else.  Television and society always tried making it into the American notion that centered on Santa Claus, Christmas trees, gift giving and the typical Norman Rockwell scenes of Christmas, but my Igorot parents, like our Igorot ancestors of the past, refused to be “colonized” by these things that bombarded my childhood years.



My Igorot Mother - Dolores Lengua Delson



Both my parents were Christians.  My mother was the first in her family to convert to Christianity.  Her father, my lolo, was actually an Igorot pagan priest who worshiped and believed in the Igorot god, Lumawig, before my mother convinced him to convert shortly before his death.   So you can see, there has been many more years of paganism in my family than Christianity. 

Because of her though, there was never a Christmas that went by without Christ and Mass as the center of everything that happened every Christmas.  My parent’s “Simple”, yet “Meaningful”, Igorot upbringing influenced the way we went about the holiday each year.  There was always an unmistakable contrast in the way we celebrated Christmas compared to the world I lived in. 

While all my friends were gearing up for the day they got gifts (the only thing on their minds), I rarely got my hopes up about the kind of gift I would get because gifts like socks, underwear and basic necessities were usually to be expected.  We never went through all the trouble of lighting up the outdoors, except for Christmas Eve when we lined our sidewalk with luminaries (small paper bags with a candle inside).  Decorations were limited to a small manger and advent candles.  Our long lasting aluminum Christmas tree with sparse ornaments seemed always dwarfed by the large fancy real trees of my friends and neighbors.

On the other hand, time seemed filled with more substance and quality.  Our meals that we shared each night usually lasted longer because it seemed as if we enjoyed conversing and laughing more because Christmas was approaching.  We watched more television together as a family; something that my parents really limited on a normal basis.  I used to love watching the old Mutual Life of Omaha broadcasts and my parents enjoyed them as well.  Overall, the house was a happier place because everyone knew it was that time of year to love one another more than usual. 

On Christmas Eve, we attended the midnight Mass.  It didn’t matter if we were celebrating with our close family friends.  I remember on two rare occasions when we went to a Christmas party at my auntie Toring’s house and dropped everything we were doing at the party to leave for Mass, and then return to the party afterwards.  On normal occasions, my parents made it a point for us to try napping that afternoon so that we could stay awake during Mass.  It usually worked, but I could remember many Masses when I was barely able to stay awake because I pretended to nap that afternoon. 

After Mass, we went home to open presents.  For us, presents were always handed out one by one so that we were able to have a sense of appreciation.  Even though the gifts were usually very simple, I don’t recall any instances of pouting from any of my four sisters or myself for that matter.  Maybe it was because we knew it wasn’t “about” the gifts or maybe we were just happy to see my mother and father happy.

Once, my parents tried the whole Santa thing.  I don’t know why, but I guess they wanted us to experience what our friends also experienced every year.  Maybe, one of the neighborhood mom’s convinced her to go along with the Santa story in attempts to “Americanize” us.  Well, whatever the reason, I will never forget how good of a job they did in making us believe in Santa.

While we were a midnight Mass, my father went to use the bathroom, so we thought.  Since we lived only three blocks from Church, my father had enough time to slip back to our house and put the gifts under the tree.   When we arrived back to our house after Mass, my parents pretended not to know anything.  As I entered our house and looked into the sala, I couldn’t believe my eyes!  There was a bicycle and wrapped gifts under and surrounding the tree.  I swear, we all thought Santa visited us that night! 

That was the last time they did that.  I don’t know why, but I didn’t bother me.  Maybe we were at that age when all our friends stopped believing or maybe they just saw beyond its temporal meaning. 

After going back to sleep and waking up later on Christmas day, I would usually run to my best friend’s house across the street to see what he got for Christmas.  It was usually something cool like a Shutes and Ladders game or GI Joe figures.  We would play with it all morning, but on more than one occasion, I remember him getting tired of it after only playing with it a short while.  I think I understood then about the limitations of how much happiness toys really bring a child.  I think this is why my parents never took stock in Santa Claus.

After Christmas, my sisters and I always looked forward to New Year’s Eve.  I think I had more fun on New Year’s Eve than I did on Christmas because my parents had us line up side by side at the end of our block with pots and pans in our hands fifteen or twenty minutes before midnight.  What made it more fun was the fact that our neighborhood friends joined us.  We counted down the seconds just before midnight, and then at midnight, we started banging the pots and pans as hard as we can while we all screamed at the top of our lungs, “Happy New Year!”  We did this from one end of the block to the other.  Oh, was that fun!

Each year I reminisce about these things and wonder about how much more happier people could be if they had some of that “Igorotness “ in their lives during Christmas.  Simple and meaningful: two words that go a long way, but are so hard to achieve in the kind of society we live in.  Having been raised in America, I really see the value in my experiences as a child, but I also see the value of the traditions of an American Christmas. 

There's a part of me that has adapted to the materialism and Santa traditions of Christmas.  In fact, I tried pulling off the same type of trickery that my father so successfully accomplished that night he snuck back home during midnight Mass on several occasions.  The most memorable one happened during Christmas eve of 2004.  After Mass that evening, the kids went to sleep relatively early.  I waited a couple hours until I knew they were sound asleep.  Then I snuck out my upstairs bedroom window and climbed down a ladder that I pre-positioned earlier.  It was lightly snowing and about 5 degrees outside.  The ladder had accumulated some ice and was somewhat dangerous to climb.  Once outside, I opened the hidden bag of gifts that I placed outside earlier that day.  With the gifts positioned immediately outside the kitchen sliding doors, I literally inched into the house on all fours without making a sound.  One by one, I carefully placed the gifts by the tree.  What would have taken me five minutes under no secrecy actually took me almost an hour since I had to move so slow and cover my tracks.

After the gifts were placed, I plugged my Ipod into the computer speakers, turned up the volume and set the alarm sound to the sleigh bells sounds that I downloaded earlier.  The alarm was set to go off at 2 o'clock in the morning.  Afterwards, I ate all the cookies and drank the egg nog that my kids placed on the table for Santa.  Back up the ladder I went and into my bed. 

An hour or so later, the sounds of sleigh bells filled the house for about fifteen seconds.  I heard the kid's doors open and their little footsteps in the hallway as they cautiously investigated.  "Santa came!" cried my youngest.  Then the other two joined in and began telling each other how they heard him and the reindeers.  I think my son even added to it by saying he thought he saw shadows.  I laid in bed with a huge smile on my face knowing that I more than accomplished what my father accomplished way back when.

So yes, I think the whole Santa story is a great one, but there’s a bigger part of me that knows how much more important it is to teach my children the real meaning of Christmas: the birth of Christ.  Fortunately, we have a very strong and active Simbang Gabi movement where I live, and I am also fortunate my wife started the tradition of attending them each year.

My Children as Candlebearers - Simbang Gabi 2005

It started when my son was three years old.  My wife volunteered to help the Simbang Gabi organizers at our church by helping organizing and supervising the kids who brought up the gifts to the altar.  Since then, all my children still participate in Simbang Gabi by performing Filipino dances, reading scripture and whatever else they could do.  Oh, and after thirteen years, my wife still helps coordinate the children’s roles each year.   I’m glad she started this tradition in our family because it really helps keep the real meaning of Christmas in perspective.  

I hope everyone reading this can experience the real meaning of Christmas as I have.   To all my fellow Igorots, I would love to hear some of your Christmas experiences as well so please share.  Have a MERRY CHRISTMAS and a happy New Year!  Naimbag a Pascua!  Gawis ay Paskua ya Nalagsak ay Balo ay Tu-en!

My kids performing after Simbang Gabi Mass  in 2009 with other kids.

Ti Kosinero Within

Thanksgiving Day just passed and the Christmas and New Year holidays are fast approaching, which means more food in the oncoming weeks.  It is one thing to enjoy eating food, but it is definitely something else to enjoy cooking it. More than often for me; I enjoy cooking it more than I do eating it. 

Since I was about ten years old, I have always enjoyed cooking.  As early as the age of ten, I woke up before any of my five sisters and parents.  I didn’t need an alarm clock because I must have had it in my mind to wake up early just so I could cook breakfast for everyone. 

Immediately after waking up at around five thirty or six o’clock, I wasted no time brushing my teeth or changing the clothes I slept in.  Instead, I quickly wiped the dry crusty mukot from the corner of my eyes and silently swept through the hallway, down the stairs and to the kitchen.  Once in the kitchen, I placed the round stainless steel bowl on the table and gathered flour, eggs, milk, salt, baking powder, butter and the desired fruit of the day, which usually turned out to be bananas.

After mixing the ingredients together and achieving the desired smoothness and thickness of the batter, I dipped the ladle into the bowl making sure there was an even proportion of fruit and carefully poured it into the center of a hot frying pan.  Once the right number of bubbles appeared, I quickly flipped the pancake over with a goal of not splattering any of the batter beyond the perimeter of the pancake.  The smell usually woke everyone up by the time I got to my final few pancakes to cook.  When they came downstairs and gathered around the table, it always made me happy to see them enjoying my cooking.    

Back then, I used to dream about having my own restaurant some day.  My mother would often say, “You should start your own restaurant when you get older.”  Then my sisters would reply, “Yeah.”  I would agree and say, “Yeah, and when I do, it’s gonna be on a boat so I could catch my own fish and cook it for people.”  Well, I never did go into the restaurant business for myself, but if anyone were to ask any of my five sisters today who the cook in our family is, they would always mention me.  In fact, I still do most of the cooking in my house now.

I always thought it to be normal for a guy to cook until sometime in high school when a group of guys made fun of an underclassman for always cooking.  They made it seem like men who liked cooking were sissies or feminine.  Needless to say, when around my peers, I kept my desire to cook to myself for most of my high school years.

After graduating from high school, I became re-acquainted with an old family friend whom I call “Uncle Sam.”  Uncle Sam Molitas is an Igorot who isn’t really my uncle, but since he was very close to my parents and called my dad “Manong,” I prefer to look at him like an uncle.  At the time, he was still enlisted in the Naval Reserve as a cook.

I noticed how he too did a lot, if not most, of the cooking in his family.  Every time I ate his food, I enjoyed it so much that I wondered what his recipe was.  One day, I was fortunate to have him teach me how to make a fish dish with patis, onions, tomatoes and lemon.   Knowing he was in the military and loved to cook shattered any reservation I developed about expressing my love for cooking. 

Since then, I continued cooking and experimenting with all sorts of recipes.  Rarely did I refer to a cook book.  Most of what I cooked started with a desired taste in my head.  Sometimes it wasn’t about taste.  Sometimes it was about a special occasion, such as when my son was born.  He was such a sweet baby that I concocted a chicken recipe using mangoes & mandarin organges and named it after him by calling it “Chicken Joshua.”




Ide-san Sensei (far left)

 

Later in my thirties, an opportunity came my way to work part-time in a Japanese restaurant as an assistant chef.  I became an apprentice of a Japanese sushi chef whom I call “Ide-san.”  This guy is the real deal; not like what so many so-called Japanese restaurants have today.  Ide-san learned his skills the old fashion way in Japan where he spent the first five years just cleaning fish.  Most sushi chefs I encounter these days don't come close to his knowledge, skill and passion for sushi.  Fortunately for me, even though I was his student or “deshe,” he taught me a lot from the very beginning.   



Making Sushi for Friends



I have always wondered where I got my knack for cooking.  I used to think it was from my mother, who constantly cooked for us and kept me away from the restaurant dining experience for most of our lives.  Now I wonder if there is a little bit of that “Igorot within” that is responsible for many happy tastes buds as well as hand burns.  I don’t consider myself a believer of one’s actions being the result of one’s “nature,” because I believe that we are nurtured or taught to become who we are and that “who” we are is a matter of choice.  However, I can’t help but play with the thought that I am picking up from generations and generations of Igorot men before me.

For an unknown number of years or centuries, the Igorot man was never a stranger to the task of cooking.  In fact, Albert Ernest Jenks once mentioned the role of the Bontoc Igorot man in preparing meals in his letter of transmittal to the U.S. Department of the Interior in 1904 by saying,

“The man of the family arises about 3.30 or 4 o'clock in the morning. He builds the fires and prepares to cook the family breakfast and the food for the pigs. A labor generally performed each morning is the paring of camotes. In about half an hour after the man arises the camotes and rice are put over to cook. The daughters come home from the olag, and the boys from their sleeping quarters shortly before breakfast. Breakfast, called “mang-an′,” meaning simply “to eat,” is taken by all members of the family together, usually between 5 and 6 o'clock. For this meal all the family, sitting on their haunches, gather around three or four wooden dishes filled with steaming hot food setting on the earth.”

I am sure not all Igorot men like or know how to cook, but I myself have not met an Igorot man who couldn’t cook a tasty meal.  I was reminded of this last Christmas when visiting my aunt in Atlanta.  Her son, who is of a younger generation, surprised me by cooking a wonderful Igorot dinner for our family and his one night.  I also suspect he is the kosinero in his family as well.  Maybe there is some truth in having some of that “Igorot within” us after all.  Hmmm.

Thanksgiving Day Thoughts

Every fourth Thursday of November, we Americans celebrate a holiday called Thanksgiving Day.  Since as far back as I could remember, the Thanksgiving Day story was about how the American Indians and Pilgrims once celebrated the bounty of their harvest together.  My memories of all the Thanksgiving day school plays, television shows and movies drove home the meaning for this day – a day to celebrate and give thanks.  However, like Christmas, its original religious meaning has been under attack and more and more people are calling it “Turkey Day.”  What a shame. 

I have experienced forty Thanksgiving Days while living in America, and I don’t recall the details of most of them, but I do know they all involved food and family.  Though most are fuzzy or forgotten, there are three particular Thanksgiving Day occasions that still remains clear as day to me.

The first took place when I was about six or seven years old.  It must have been the first time my mother cooked turkey for us because I remember how big of a deal it was to eat a whole turkey for the first time.  After morning Mass, she spent many hours cooking while we kids cleaned the house for what I thought was a celebration with family friends at our house.

When it came time to eat dinner, it was just our immediate family.  We all sat down at the table with eyes wide open.  It was our first time to see such a large cooked bird on our table.  The drumsticks alone was the equivalent of one whole chicken.  Eventually, my mother had us bow our heads in prayer.  Less than a second after our prayer, our little eyes shot back up at the huge turkey.


My mother's eyes opened wide as she looked at my dad with bewilderment before looking at my sisters and I.  It was clear that she didn’t know how to cut it or serve it.  The anticipation and hunger in our eyes were too much for her to keep us waiting longer, so after taking a deep breath she loudly said, “Attaaaack!” 

Armed with only our little bare hands (our normal way of eating then) we kids attacked the huge soy and garlic basted bird.  Chicken drumsticks have always been my favorite so I grabbed a drum stick and yanked it from the big ball of flesh.  The skin tasted so good, but the meat was not what I expected.  It was tougher than chicken and had several thin tendons that got in the way.  I was curious how the rest tasted so I impaled two of my fingers into the turkey’s side and ripped out a chunk of breast meat.  This too was disappointing because of its dryness, but fortunately a bowl of siwsiwan was right in front of me.  I drowned the dry meat in it and the rest was history.  Needless to say, turkeys have rarely found their way back on our kitchen table.  Dinardaran, pinikpikan, rotisserie chicken, steak, kambing, pancit, kilawen, pasta, and mostly anything else were and still are preferred over turkey.

Another Thanksgiving occasion that comes to the top of my head was when I spent it with my Filipino high school friend and his family while living with them for a year when my parents were in Illinois on business.  We drove to his cousin’s house for the day where I encountered my second Thanksgiving turkey.  This time it was placed in the center of the food table surrounded by an assortment of Filipino food for people to serve themselves and eat buffet style.

I was amazed when many people gathered around the table to watch his uncle carve the turkey.  He brought out an electric knife and proceeded to display his turkey carving technique to everyone watching.  As I watched, I thought about how silly it seemed to get all caught up on the technique when people could just grab a knife and cut off whatever piece they wanted. 

Thoughts of that day my sisters and I “attacked” the turkey brought a big smile within me.  I quickly realized how much I took our family celebrations for granted when I noticed the lack of "thanksgiving" and close family interaction.  It was a fun party, but it just didn't have that meaningfulness that I was accustomed with. 

The last Thanksgiving I shared with my family before my parents and sister died was in 1990.  With my sisters living out of state, Thanksgiving Days have almost always been spent with friends and my wife’s family, and almost always eating the meal in a buffet-like manner. 

This brings me to the third Thanksgiving that I’ll always remember.  This took place in 2003 just after I was laid off from my job in Florida and moved back to Illinois.  My wife’s parents were so gracious to have us live with them until we found our own place.  When Thanksgiving came around that year, I was so happy to hear that all my sisters and their families were coming to spend Thanksgiving dinner together with me. 

It was the first time we all got together since my parents and sister’s funeral.  At first, we weren’t sure where we would have dinner that night since I was technically homeless.  Fortunately, my in-laws were so kind to allow us to use their house that evening.

It turned out to be an unforgettable reunion.  Even though we barely managed to cram around the table, we were able to share an evening of thanks, love and laughter.  That feeling of sitting around a table together as a family again along with my own family was so surreal that I had to stop and appreciate the moment on several occasions that night.

More Thanksgiving Days have passed since then, but they all seem to become more diluted in meaning as more people gravitate toward the festive side of the day.  I was lucky several years back to sit around the dining room table of my friend, James,  to share their Thanksgiving dinner with his family and other mutual friends.  Nothing beats a Thanksgiving around the dining room table, except for two dining room tables connected to each other, as was the case at James' house.

As we continue to progress in this ever progressing world of technology and social networking, I hope some of us can find a way to “regress” and experience what it’s like when “family” and “thanksgiving” meet around the dining room table.  HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYONE!

A Pause for Veterans

Today I was greeted by a fellow co-worker in a way that triggered my writing juices again.  In passing, he smiled and said, “Thank you for your service to our country.”  I was caught off guard and quickly realized today is Veterans Day.

My immediate thoughts were of the thousands of modern day Veterans still living today and how we as a country are so indebted to them for making it possible to live in this wonderful country I call home.  As the day unfolded, I started thinking of all the Filipinos who militarily served this country.  The idea of Filipino-American Veterans rang a bell of irony that continues to resonate on this important American holiday.



The Battle of Manila 1899

 After the Philippines went to war against America at the turn of the century, who would have thought that the Filipinos would be fighting alongside their former enemy only thirty seven years after surrendering to them in 1902.  Certainly, Filipino historian E. San Juan Jr.,who alleged that the death of 1.4 million Filipinos during that war constituted an act of genocide on the part of the United States; wouldn’t have believed it himself.  Our alliance with America during World War II is proof that the hatred toward the Japanese at the time was undoubtedly greater than the hatred that Filipinos once had for Americans. 

Image if a similar scenario happened here in America.  What if, in 1973, a foreign nation invaded America and killed 1.4 million Americans in a span of 3 years.  Would we be so willing to fight alongside them today if war broke out?  Better yet, imagine enlisting in that country’s military to fight the war.

Nevertheless, many Filipinos did just that, and today we still have many who are still living to tell their stories.  Out of all the living Filipino Veterans who fought as an American soldier in WWII, I wonder how many of them are Igorot.  If any of you reading this know of any, I would love to write them and express my appreciation.

In many cases, the involvement by small minorities during large scale war are often overlooked and/or forgotten.  This is not the case for my Igorot predecessors of WWII.  Even though they made up the smallest percentage Filipinos who served in the American military, their bravery and courage was so great that it caught the attention of American General MacArthur at the time. 

Igorot Scouts wearing their wanes (g-string) with their American uniform

An article in the Time Magazine edition of March 2, 1942 captured the General’s appreciation for Igorots when it wrote:

"This War Department communique last week, like so many of its predecessors, was 100% terse pessimism. Douglas Mac-Arthur and his battle-weary, outnumbered troops were still holding Bataan Peninsula and Manila Bay's five defensive forts. But their collapse under ever-increasing enemy weight and ferocity seemed imminent as never before. . . .  There were bright spots in the picture, however. In his weekend communique Douglas MacArthur included the dramatic story of non-Christian Igorot native tribesmen who, in an offensive over rough, matted terrain, mounted U.S. tanks like so many half-nude jockeys to direct American drivers inside. "When the attack was over," said the General, "the remnants of the tanks and of the Igorots were still there, but the 20th Japanese Infantry Regiment was completely annihilated. . . . When you tell that story, stand in tribute to those gallant Igorots."

While I wish to express my thanks and appreciation to ALL veterans today; I really want to give a “shout out” to my fellow Igorots who are American veterans and those who continue to serve this wonderful country.  By the way, I wonder how many Igorots were or are Marines.  I haven’t met any Igorot Marines to this day so if anyone knows one, please let me know.  Happy Veterans Day everyone!

An Ethnic Migration of Purpose

Staying on the subject of purpose; I think back again at my family’s immigration to America.  I don’t recall my father’s reasoning for becoming a civil engineer nor my mother’s reason for becoming a nurse, but I would suspect it had something to do with their social and economic climate when they were young adults.  Both were probably intertwined, but the latter was probably the bigger of the two motivating factors.

After graduating from nursing school and starting our family in the Philippines, my mother joined the many other nurses who at the time were the only professions America was accepting at the time.  On her own, she came to Chicago and began laying the ground work for our family to follow.  For this reason, she was extremely glad to have chosen the nursing profession as hers.

Nearly forty years after she left the Cordillera Mountains to plant new roots here in America, the same two factors behind Igorots’ choices of “careers” are probably still the same.  The American dream still spans the oceans with its burning allure to many Igorots.  Nursing, for example, is still the most popular of choices today.

In one of the worst economic times of America, nursing is one of the few professions that are still in demand throughout the country.  Yes, there are many nurses who have lost their jobs due to the economy, but compared to all the other professions; they are still in need.  Another thing I have noticed is the number of male nurses there are today.  Twenty years ago, I never heard of a male nurse; but times have certainly changed.

As long as the American dream continues to burn in the hearts of Igorots back home and professions such as nursing continue to provide the means to pursue greener pastures in other countries; Igorots will continue choosing careers like my parents did.  Also like my parents, they will quickly come to the stark realization that the greener pastures aren’t necessarily as simple to maintain as once thought.  Thus, many like my parents find themselves in a “rut” of working to keep up with maintaining the green pasture.

Every now and then, some question their life, what they are doing with it, what they want out of it and so on.  As I said earlier, I don’t know exactly what led to my parent’s initial choices of professional careers, but I am certain of their reasons for leaving them to pursue other avenues of work that I identify as their purpose in life.

My mother used to tell me stories of how happy she was that my dad left the Philippines because in his line of work were constant influences to overly indulge in alcohol and palutan.  I found it funny that my dad had to lay next to the fire on many occasions while she rubbed coconut oil on his belly because of how drunk he was after a night out with fellow co-workers.  That must have been the “Vicks” cure for drunkenness then. 

My father was happy to have left his engineering profession in America because he always felt limited in what he could achieve and provide for the family.  He used to tell me how he looked at fellow engineers who have been in his company for twenty or more years, and didn’t like what he saw.  Five hungry mouths to feed, a Catholic education and maintaining a roof over our heads were his biggest of concerns.  I sometimes think the real “ancestral” Igorot in him kept him from being pinned down by corporate America.  After all, America has a way of “colonizing” our inner Igorot. 

My mother liked her job as a nurse, but loved spending more time with the family and helping my dad with his endeavors more than her nursing profession.  The one thing about nursing that stayed with her, which molded her purpose in life, was her desire to help people in any way she could.  Physically, she steepened herself in alternative & preventive medicine and constantly shared what she could to help better the health of others.  Spiritually, she was a constant advocate of many religious organizations.  In addition, she made several missionary trips to Puerto Rico and other places to volunteer her time in various missions that helped the poor.

For both my parents, it was all about their purpose as parents and how they could use their God given strengths to help others.  They were simple Igorots to the core.  When my father started making a noticeable amount more of money in financial services, material things and status quo were the furthest from his mind.  Unlike many who would buy fancy cars and get themselves in a heap of debt for appearance purposes; they sacrificed those things for us kids.  I still remember how my dad drove an old silver Ford LTD that was so outdated and embarrassing (for me) when he could have driven something else.  I even recall when my father received an award in front of thousands packed in the New Orleans Superdome and telling me how happier he was to have my sister, her husband, my fiance (now my wife) and I with him there than receiving any award. 

A handful of adults have helped me realize the importance of having a purpose-filled life, but none were more influential than my parents.  Their purpose of family and helping others are even clearer to me now that I am faced with my own discernment in life.  They are the reason why I admire people who use their God given talents and gifts for the betterment of others, and why high achievers in education, business and sports no longer impress me unless they are applying their gifts in a purpose-filled way that focuses more on others than themselves.

In September, I introduced you to Tim Tebow and wrote about how he personifies a purpose-filled person – a Warrior amidst our self centered society.   Last month, I had the privilege of meeting a wonderful person through this new world called Facebook.  She was introduced to me through Charity Bagatsing when I was writing Charity’s “Igorot of Character” blog.

Her name is Perla Paredes Daly.  She is a Filipina who is fed up with the poor sexist image Filipina women have around the world.  Charity told me of how Filipina women still have the terrible connotation of being mail brides and sex objects.  When I heard how Pearl’s friend bought out the website domain, Pinay.com, to “save it from the wolves of the internet” who would use it to sell their womanizing and degrading ideas or much worse – pornography; I immediately became impressed with this person.   She currently uses Pinay.com and other websites on the internet to battle the tainted image of Filipina women around the world. 

When I asked Perla’s permission to feature her as an “honorary Igorot of Character” (knowing she isn’t Igorot), she humbly replied, “I don't want to take the place of a well-deserving Igorot waiting for you to find them . . .  for me, it is the work and its effects that are most important to be highlighted... not for me being named for it. Lifting up my fellow pinays/pinoys is a calling I live for and can do from the sidelines very happily.”  Her reply reminded me of my parents and spoke volumes to me.

I hope that as more and more Igorots migrate across the oceans to plant their new roots; more will live purpose-filled lives, whether it be through their profession that enabled them to immigrate to their new homeland or a newly discovered one.

Perla Daly's websites:

Pinay.com

Newfilipina.com

Fabulousfilipinas.net