Admiring Japan's 'No Looting' Culture

Photo by REUTERS/Asahi Shimbun

Yesterday’s news that Japan’s nuclear crisis appears to be spinning out of control only adds to the myriad of concerns I have for Japan and its people. The thought of more than 10,000 people dead, which is more than eight times the death toll of Hurricane Katrina, is stifling enough. I can’t imagine the devastation that could result if the nuclear crisis escalates.

Two years ago when the landslides and typhoons hit the Philippines, similar feelings of concern ran through me as they do today. This time it’s much different. This time, the people being affected are not Filipinos, but they are from a country I deeply respect.

I was at the gym the other day exercising while watching three television screens displaying horrific images of the disaster. There were thirty other people on treadmills looking at the eight screens above, but only a handful, including myself, chose to watch the news of the devastation in Japan. Sadly, the others were more interested in watching sports highlights and Hollywood shows about Justin Beiber and Charlie Sheen. The sight stung more than the sweat that kept entering my eyes.

“How can I help?” I asked myself. Part of me wanted to leave to volunteer in search and rescue missions, as was being at the time. Part of me wished I had extra money to send to victims. Part of me wanted to organize a fundraiser like before. Part of me wished my book could be published this month so I can donate a percentage to victims, and so on.

After reality and my priorities were just about to rule everything out and leave me feeling helpless, the sight of a lady closing her eyes and bowing in prayer-like fashion reminded of the power of prayer. She reminded me that despite one’s limitations, one should pray. For some reason, I still felt that prayer without action, especially when one has the ability to act, is an empty prayer. Then I was quickly reminded of my love for writing and decided to shed more light on a particular aspect of the Japanese culture that inspires me.

Victims gathered around fireplace

As I write this, I am very much aware of all media surrounding the disaster that touts how Americans and other nations are flooding Japan with support and aid, and I admire this fact. It is a strong testament to the good that still exists within the human race, and is also evidence that unity is still possible. For me though, there is something more admirable and inspiring happening amidst all this disaster than the help coming from the outside of Japan.

Japanese forming orderly line for kerosene

Despite all the chaos and tragedy going on in the earthquake torn regions of Japan, there are no reports of mass looting or unlawfulness. This phenomenon is a stark contrast to what has happened in the wake of other catastrophes, such as in New Orleans, Manila, Haiti and Chile. I still remember all the horrible reports of theft, murder, rape and so forth that took place during the disaster of Hurricane Katrina.

For some reason, crime has always been associated with natural disasters, but how can such a tragedy of this magnitude result in much different behavior from those within its grasp? The answer has much to do with culture. Today’s Japanese has both good and bad ingrained in their culture. Since the end of WWII, they have chosen never to repeat the unspeakable of their past, and the result of their decisions thus far reflects on the culture that flowers in the dark soil of their tragedy today.

During my last visit to Kyoto, Japan in 1997, I recall an analogy told to me once by an American who married a Japanese woman and has been living there for fourteen years. He said something to the degree that the Japanese are like the passengers of ship embarked on a long voyage around the world, and Americans are like people on a ferry boat going from one side to another. The Japanese passengers are well aware of the long duration and seek to become as humanitarian as possible amongst each other. They seek not to make enemies or cause trouble, but to maintain an orderly sense of unity. Americans on the other hand, know their boat ride is short and that they will probably not see the other passengers again. Rather than having the same outlook as the Japanese, they tend to have a “looking out for myself” or “take, take, take and prosper” attitude. When I first heard this, I didn’t know enough about the Japanese to give my opinion on his analogy, which I’ve heard several times more since then. Today, I would have to agree with him in a very general sense, though I believe there are many more good Americans than there are bad.

Patiently waiting in line for relief supplies

Every culture stands to learn a valuable lesson from the examples taking place right now within the Japanese people who are directly involved in this devastation. It would be great if their sense of unity and affinity for each other were exemplified by every ethnic majority and minority. Strangely enough, when I think of them, I think about my Igorot culture and how we share that sense of unity, despite our war-filled history between tribes. It makes me more appreciative of my roots and ancestry, and yes, I dare say that our cultural bond is something all Filipinos and other cultures can also admire.

The Rhythmic Salvation of Youth

Cultural dance has always played an integral part of civilizations throughout the world.  It is one of the vital threads that make up the cultural fabric of many ethnic groups.  Without it, a large part of history and the livelihood of any culture are lost.

Fortunately, here in America, many ethnic groups continue to keep their culture alive by keeping their cultural dances alive.  The Irish and Indian communities are notably two of the more popular groups.  Past Broadway and Hollywood appearances of Riverdance and Slumdog Millionaire, have attracted a captive audience.  As a result, more people continue learning and participating in their cultural dances.

We Igorots, do not have anything of such magnitude to promote and encourage the continual appreciation of our dances, but the need to do so has never been as great as now.  Among many other things, our cultural dances are being threatened by modernization and the continual rapid loss of our elderly, who possess such knowledge.  This is why the Igorot culture needs to “revive” and “keep alive” its dances.

Our dances are more than just “performances.”  They are our culture.  Anyone can put on an Igorot “costume” and mimic the movements, but by doing so only scratches the surface of its totality.  Our dances should not be considered performances, by rather, the continued appreciation and “practice” of our culture.  It has been, and should continue to remain a reflection of our past, present and future “way of life.”

They have traditionally been associated with ceremonies and rituals that mark the mile stones of our people’s life cycle in the Cordillera Mountains.  Its many different meanings are signified by certain steps and movements that ultimately show our close affinity to ancestors and mother earth.  When we dance, we express our love for our culture, our freedom and the unity we are so blessed with.  When our ancestor danced, there were no such things as scores or votes.  The only idols were that of the supernatural or spiritual, and certainly not any one particular individual.

 

In the spirit of preserving our Indigenous Knowledge, I hope more people continue their interest in our dances for the sake of keeping our heritage alive.  I hope that Hollywood and its relentless efforts to create idols by focusing on ego do not taint our dances.  Let’s leave all the critiquing and competition to those who put on “costumes” and “perform” for the sake of ego and “show.”

The evolution of our dance needs to continue with our youth because they are our future.  They should not be discouraged to partake in our music and dance, as I have heard in the past.  I am not sure why, but I have heard how kids were once “shewed away” from playing our instrumental gangsas.   Adult and elderly Igorots can no longer afford to keep our gangsas, drums and other instruments out of the hands of kids.  Instead, every Igorot kid in the Cordilleras and abroad should be given the opportunity to partake in our native music and dances.

When my cousin recently posted a video of Igorot kids dancing, I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of joy.  It was much more than a cute dance.  The kids demonstrated a sense of appreciation for their heritage that I wish more people had, including myself.  They possessed a kindred spirit so raw that it is so contagious.  I would love to have interviewed them to find out just how much the dancing meant to them.

So next time you see the absence of children dancing among adults performing dances like the Bedian, Taycheck, Takik, Salidsid, Tadok, Pinukla and others, ask yourself why there aren’t children dancing them.  Then, think of the words said in Mathew 18:13, “Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”

Gorals and Igorots

A few Sundays ago, after attending Mass, I took my family to Downers Delight, a nearby family restaurant known for their breakfast and brunch meals.  As we pulled into the parking lot, I immediately noticed the lack of parking and knew we would have to wait long.  I briefly thought of driving away to find a less populated place to eat, but my stomach convinced me otherwise.

After waiting approximately twenty minutes, we were finally seated in a cozy corner table that comfortably accommodated my family.  We took our time reading the menu and finally placed our order.  While waiting for our food, we engaged in our typical conversations the normally surround the table as I looked around the restaurant.

I noticed many families seated at their tables and thought of how nice it was to still see families making time to eat together.  Then I noticed the waitress walking towards us with a large tray of food.  My stomach became excited, but I knew it wasn’t ours because it was too soon for our food to have been cooked.

The waitress began distributing the dishes to a family of five sitting at the table next to us.  When the youngest boy, who looked to be five years old, received his food, he smiled from ear to ear and his eyes lit up like Christmas morning.  I smiled as he picked up a piece of bacon and held it in front of his face while licking his lips before biting into it.  He caught me looking as I smiled and gave him a big thumbs up.  He responded by nodding his head before stuffing the rest of the piece in his mouth. 

After that brief moment of amusement, I turned my attention back to my family.  Moments later, my right ear caught something that took me attention away from my family again.  The father next to me said something in another language to his oldest son, who looked to be ten years old.  I wasn’t sure of the language, but it sounded Polish or Russian.

The boy answered back in English.  Then the mother joined in and said something to the younger bacon-loving boy in the same language.  He too responded in English.  I casually turned my head slightly their direction as I continued to eavesdrop on their conversations. 

The parents would say something in their language and the kids responded in English.  Then, I noticed how the kids threw in some of their parent’s language into their English sentences.  I thought the parents must have been first generation immigrants because of their language, but when the mother flagged down the waitress for some syrup and the menu, I was surprised how perfect her English was.

My curiosity grew so much that I slowly turned toward them and politely said, “Excuse me.”  The father turned and looked at me in response.  Then his wife also turned her head toward me.

“Sorry to disturb you,” I continued.  “I couldn’t help but hear you talking to your kids in another language.  Is that Polish you’re speaking?”

The husband smiled and responded with an accent, “Yes, do you know Polish?”

I answered, “No, but I’ve worked alongside many Polish people and I’ve heard it often.”

His wife jumped in and said, “It’s actually a unique dialect that’s spoken where we’re from.”

“Oh, where’s that?” I asked.

“We’re from the mountains,” she replied with enthusiasm.

“Really!” I smilingly said.  “We’re also from the mountains where we are from.”

I looked at their kids, who were all looking at me, and asked, “Do they understand everything you say to them?”

Before either parent could respond, all three proudly nodded their heads and smiled.  The mother went on to tell me that their kids go to Polish classes every week to learn about their culture and practice their Polish dialect.  I congratulated the kids and their pride swelled as they smiled and continued listening to my conversation with their parents.

Our conversation revealed more about their culture, and I found it very interesting to learn that they referred to themselves as Gorals, which literally means “highlanders.”  Like Igorots, they had their own language, food and cultural ways that differed from the lowlanders of Poland.  Also like Igorots, they have an organization that unites the Goral highlanders called “Polish Highlanders Alliance of North America.”  After our 10-15 minute conversation, we both returned our attention back to our families.  Before they left, we exchanged pleasantries again and said our goodbyes hoping that we would bump into each other again.

After they left, I thought about how great it was for their kids to learn about their culture and to feel proud about it as well.  Then I thought about a Polish friend, who except for his last name, knew almost nothing about his culture and didn’t care much about it either.  Finally, I thought of how I forgot my own language and couldn’t help but feel envious. 

Since then, I have been thinking of the Goral’s ability to understand the importance of preserving their culture while assimilating in America.  That was a young family, yet they somehow knew the importance of their culture.  The mother had to have been at least second generation because of her perfect English, yet she knew her native dialect and chose to preserve it and her culture by sending her kids to a cultural school once a week. 

Two weekends ago, I visited some new Igorot friends in Elgin, Illinois.  Kankanaey dialect, Ilocano or Tagalog, she said, “But how’s that possible?”  Well if she only knew how strong the pull to become “American” is for new immigrants and their kids, she would understand just how easy it is.

I can’t help but keep thinking about a stark difference I notice between the Goral people and Igorots here in America: Igorots do not have the same motivation to preserve our culture here in America.  We have no such classes that the Gorals have, at least not that I am aware of here in Illinois.  Also, I “suspect” most Igorots who immigrate to America would rather raise money to help our people become better educated and more modernized than help preserve the Indigenous Knowledge of our heritage.  I hope I’m wrong, and if I’m right; I hope this will change. 

If any Gorals are reading this, I take my hat off and salute your efforts to keep your culture alive in America.  It is truly an inspiration.

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.