TAT’s All, Folks!

"Feminism" turns off a lot of younger women. Is it time to retire the word — or reclaim it?
By Rebecca Traister

July 5, 2005  |  A couple of years ago I interviewed a big-eyed activist-actress whose work and politics I have always admired. I asked her a question related to feminism. Her response? That she didn’t like the word "feminist" and preferred "humanist."

What a crock, I thought, with the same disdain I once felt for a high-school classmate who memorably piped up that though she was "totally not a feminist," she wondered if Mr. Rochester’s willingness to treat Jane Eyre badly and imprison Bertha in an attic might indicate a low-level misogyny. It was a fair observation, I thought at the time. Why did she have to preface it with personal disavowal? Did she think that the expression of such a sentiment brought her close enough to a militant conception of feminism that her lissome 10th-grade body might dramatically sprout armpit hair?

It’s no great news that "feminism" — the word and, by extension, the movement — has an image problem. Women of all ages and colors have, at turns, bristled at the term, embraced it, lauded it and disdained it, practically since it was coined. However, after years of soldiering on under the burden of a heavily loaded word, a new crop of progressive and politically active women are finally addressing the problem. Some are looking to reinvigorate "feminist" by laying claim to the word — a new magazine and a recent book are both cheekily titled "The F Word" — while others are contemplating new words and phrases to employ in the fight for women’s equality. After years of quiet debate, women are tackling their own labels with the energy of a movement anxious to make itself fresh again.

The debate acquired a new urgency with Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Connor’s announcement on July 1 that she is retiring from the court. If Bush, as expected, nominates a judge opposed to Roe. v. Wade, women’s issues will move to the center of the national stage.

It’s almost remarkable that "feminism" has survived as long as it has, stigmatized as it’s been by a sneering right, and criticized by groups on the left for its early lack of interest in the concerns of poor and minority women. Now, as second-wave feminists look to the future and see a generation of women with a very different set of battles than their own, the question becomes: What do we do about "feminism"? Does it have anything to do with younger female activism anymore, or is it simply an Achilles’ heel? Do we replace it, phase it out? Or do we embrace it with renewed vigor and a spruced-up, all-inclusive definition?

When asked to consider what other terms besides "feminist" might be useful descriptors of the movement she helps to lead, National Organization for Women president Kim Gandy laughed and said, "Nothing has really swept anyone off their feet, but ‘egalitarian’ is one that always comes up. There’s ‘humanist.’ Sometimes ‘womanist.’"

Gandy isn’t suggesting that anyone rub the word "feminism" off their bumper stickers or refrigerator magnets. But she did acknowledge that she has had informal conversations — both with people who work at NOW and with those she meets on the road — about agitation from some within the movement who believe it’s time to retire "feminism’s" number.

"There’s nothing inherently wrong with the word," said Gandy, invoking Dame Rebecca West’s famous assertion, "I … have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is; I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat or a prostitute."

But, she said, we cannot pretend that "feminism" has escaped the fate of "liberalism" before it. "This is what the right-wing has done to our language," she said. "’Liberal’ is a proud term. But at a certain point, it became very difficult for people to call themselves liberal. If you asked them about issues they would say, ‘I’m not liberal, I’m progressive.’ Excuse me, you are a liberal! But the right made that a bad word. They’ve done the same thing with ‘feminism.’"

Unsurprisingly, Gandy has had countless encounters with women and men who open up a conversation by saying, "I’m not a feminist," and then go on to espouse feminist ideals. "It’s like, ‘Do you have a belief in the political and social equality of women?’ Yeah? Then you’re a feminist," she said.

Language shifts have often transformed the struggle for women’s equality. Gandy recalled the way that the term "suffragists" became the diminutive, mockingly feminine "suffragettes," as though those who devoted their lives to secure the vote for women were actually a backup group for Ray Charles. Then there was the time in 1993 when the National Abortion Rights Action League changed its name to "abortion"-lite NARAL Pro-Choice America. But language has strengthened the movement as well. Gandy said that when she started at NOW in 1973, "We didn’t even have a word for sexual harassment. We knew how women were treated at work and on the street, but we didn’t have language for it. Domestic violence? You didn’t even whisper words for that in public. Now we have women’s studies. Now we have a word for everything," said Gandy.

But she acknowledged, "I think that there’s a new generation that’s looking for a word or a term they can call their own. At some level they associate ‘feminism’ with their mothers. Not in a bad way, but just in a way that’s not about them."

It might seem like a simple suggestion. But the hyper-sensitivity surrounding the "feminism" discussion makes it an ideological fire-starter. Weeks after my interview with Gandy, I called Feminist Majority leader Eleanor Smeal about this story. When I asked her to respond to some of the comments Gandy had made, I was apparently unclear, somehow leaving Smeal with the impression that I was reporting that Gandy wanted NOW to abandon the word "feminism." This was certainly not what I was reporting. But Smeal alerted Gandy to the possibility that my story might suggest that Gandy was rejecting the word just days before her reelection as NOW president. A very agitated Gandy called me to clarify that her comments were not reflective of any formal discussions within her organization. I assured her that I only planned to report what she had told me: that she had had discussions about the word with colleagues at NOW. She responded: "I hear people talk about it. But they don’t talk about it that often. To say that ‘there have been discussions within NOW’ would convey a really inaccurate thing." Gandy emphasized that she can’t imagine ever backing away from "feminism."

But some people didn’t think the notion of ditching the word was such a crazy idea at all. "I think it’s very smart," said Erica Jong, whose use of explicit language in "Fear of Flying’ changed the nature of American women’s fiction in 1973. "The problem hasn’t gone away. Women are still second-class citizens; the problem of choice is still with us — in fact it’s gotten worse. So if we need to change the name to get people involved, we should."

But Jong was stumped as to what a replacement could be, and noted that "words always get degraded when associated with something progressive or something female. This is the way right-wingers capture the language, so we need to be smart." She noted the right wing’s use of the term "pro-life" in the abortion debate. "If we had called ourselves pro-life — as in we don’t want women to die in illegal abortions — we would have won on that one, but they got there first."

Jong thought that dusting off our lexicon was a natural generational progression. "It’s all so cyclical," she said. "Mothers push forward, daughters pull back," she said. "We have been in a period of backlash and now we’re ready to push forward again."

It’s true that there is resistance to the feminist label from some young people. Kristin Rowe-Finkbeiner, a Seattle-area writer and author of "The F Word: Feminism in Jeopardy — Women, Politics, and the Future," described a poll she’d done for her book. Noting that the 300 respondents were self-selected college-educated women between the ages of 18 and 34, Rowe-Finkbeiner said, "Sixty-eight percent of young women didn’t want to be confined by labels, and the word ‘feminism’ chafed the worst."

But other national polls — including a 1984 Wall Street Journal/Gallup poll, a 1986 Newsweek/Gallup poll, and a 2003 Ms. Magazine poll — have shown that the younger the woman, the more willing she is to identify herself as a feminist. And, sure enough, many of the young women contacted for this piece were more vociferous in their defense of the word than their elders.

Melody Berger, a 25-year-old college student in Philadelphia, launched the new feminist magazine the F-Word in late May. She said she chose the name for her publication "because I was tired of tiptoeing around the word, of saying, ‘Don’t worry about us, we’re not feminists, we’re totally acceptable.’" Instead, Berger has proclaimed herself a full-blown "Howling Harpy."

Berger is not alone in her affection for the word. "If I hear one more person say, ‘I’m not a feminist, I’m a humanist,’ I’m going to kill them," said 26-year-old Jessica Valenti, founder of Feministing.com. "How do you possibly think you’re going to talk about gender equality if there’s no acknowledgment of gender?"

When I told Valenti that there was even casual discussion about the future of the word, she snorted, frustrated with what she perceives as generational tension between second-wave feminists and her activist peers — many of whom don’t align themselves with feminist organizations. "When they say they’re interested in pulling in young women, I understand where the sentiment is coming from because they feel like young women don’t like the word, but come on. How much are we willing to give up?"

Valenti acknowledged that many young women are "afraid of the word." "Part of me gets so angry at younger women who are nervous about feminism because they’re afraid that boys won’t like them," said Valenti. One of the reasons she started Feministing is because she wanted to meet young women and tell them, "I’m a feminist. And despite what you may think, feminism is pretty fucking cool." In addition, Valenti added, "Part of me wants to say, ‘Yeah, someone’s going to call you a lesbian. Someone’s going to say you’re a fat, ugly dyke.’ Suck it up."

Valenti did have a couple of non-linguistic suggestions about how to bring older and younger activists together, starting with how the older generation treats its daughters. She described meetings for young feminists where the young women talk "while famous feminists are sitting there taking notes and watching you like you’re some National Geographic animals." She said that the very suggestion that "feminism" could be disposable in any way makes her feel like saying, "Hey! This is your word! You started this and I took it on. I have been working hard for you. And now you’re going to just give up on it?"

Erin Matson, the 25-year-old NOW chapter president in Minnesota and a member of the Young Feminist Task Force, said, "I wear the feminist label with pride and I love it. It’s hard for me to imagine leaving it behind or discarding it." But Matson did recently write an article questioning the notion that feminism is a word that can describe a single, cohesive group, "all of us with pierced lips and hairy legs and the same concerns. That’s simply not true," she said. Instead of the plaintive 10th-grade cry, "I’m not a feminist, but…" Matson’s piece suggested that the new disclaimer is "I am a feminist, but…"

"Crystal Plati, 32-year-old executive director of Choice USA, said that at her organization, “We use [the word feminism] but we don’t belabor it. We are also open to other words.”

She continued, "More than looking at just one word, for me it’s about doing some listening for what kinds of language young women are using to define their empowerment for themselves." She also pointed out that it’s not just young women who are alienated by the term. "No matter what choice we make about language," said Plati, "we need to be building toward an inclusive movement, in particular a movement that has women of color and young women in leadership. Changing the word is not enough. We need to address why it’s alienating."

It’s an assertion familiar to women in the movement, who for years have been reminded that second-wave feminism of the 1970s did not address the concerns of women of color and women from lower economic strata.

It’s a concern that activist and author Rebecca Walker — whose mother, Alice Walker, coined the term "womanist" as an inclusive alternative to "feminist" — said she’s been anxious about for a long time. In an e-mail, she referred me to an interview she gave to Satya magazine in January. In the interview, Walker said that in 1992, when she co-founded Third Wave, an organization for young women activists, she worried that "the word feminist had become too divisive and culturally loaded." Walker also told Satya, "It seemed clear to me that the term had more of a repellent effect than a magnetizing one within my generation, and I did not feel the need to prove my allegiance and gratitude to the women that came before me by holding on to something that had meant so very much to them, but did not mean that much to me."

In the interview, Walker continued, "The left is getting our collective ass kicked because of just this kind of romantic, naïve attachment to movement narratives and aesthetics of 20 and 30 years ago." She also pointed out that "many women of color do not feel an affinity with the term because, among other things, we know firsthand that people who call themselves feminists are not always our friends," she said. "They have not de facto done their work around race … though [they] would become appalled if we suggested that some ‘feminists’ were also racist."

The racial wound remains fresh for many women who spend their lives thinking about and working on issues of female empowerment. When Berger launched her F-Word site in May, she said she was surprised that some of the anti-"feminist" mail she got was from other women activists. Berger explained, "The word ‘feminist’ alienated a lot of political allies I wanted to be tied to," including women of color "who told me that traditionally this word is off-putting because of the predominantly white, middle-class vibe it had." Others, she said, told her, "I hope you don’t make the same kinds of mistakes your foremothers did."

The result, said Berger, is that a month after her launch, "the word ‘feminism’ is on the site, but it’s not the tag line anymore. I’ve toned it down a little bit."

When I asked her what words could possibly replace the pesky descriptor of the movement, Berger was stumped. "I’m not such a fan of the word ‘humanist,’" she said in an e-mail. "I think it’s one of those ‘well, duh … who ISN’T pro-human??’ kind of concepts." As for "womanist," Berger wrote, "I like that it may be more appealing to women of color … However, I don’t think feminism is just about ‘women’ anymore." It’s these qualms, Berger said, that keep her "pretty attached to the f-word." But she conceded, "Maybe it isn’t worth fighting to reclaim a word. There are much bigger things we need to be fighting for."

But what if we don’t need to fight to reclaim it? What if we’ve already begun to make it new?

There is a camp of women who say, "’Feminism is just what we determine it is,’" said Mandy Van Deven, 25, founder of Altar magazine, a magazine about social justice, and the director of Community Organizing for Girls for Gender Equity in Brooklyn, N.Y. "’So if we wear makeup and call ourselves feminists then we are feminists,’" she continued, adding that she did not necessarily identify with this multi-purpose definition. Van Deven said that changing definitions is "part of the evolution of political movements and the evolution of language and how people are going to identify themselves as individuals and in the scope of larger political context."

Van Deven said she thinks that there are a lot of young women out there who — while they may not like the word or embrace the entire exclusionary history of the movement, "are really anxious to grab the word and claim it and say, ‘No, I don’t care, I am going to make this word work for me.’"

Rowe-Finkbeiner, author of the book "The F Word," said that Van Deven’s attitude is typical of broader political and linguistic patterns. "In the history of social movements, many of the people who are most impacted by negative connotations of a word are the ones who take that word back," she said. Rowe-Finkbeiner pointed out that women have already done this with "bitch" — as in popular "stitch and bitch" knitting circles and "bitch-n-swap" clothing swaps. It’s a phenomenon similar to a gay re-appropriation of "queer," or African-American usage of "nigger."

Third Wave co-founder Amy Richards said she isn’t too worried about the women’s movement agreeing on one word. In her work on campuses, she said the number of projects she sees young women taking on — from prison reform to AIDS funding in Africa to living-wage fights for university staff — is enough to satisfy her that there is tremendous life in the movement, even if no one knows what to call it. "The thing that’s different from 30 years ago is that young women are moving beyond organizing around reproductive issues and violence against women. It’s not that those issues aren’t relevant to them, but I think they’re just tired of them."

Gandy said that membership in her organization is bigger than ever. "Eighty percent of people in the United States, based on what they think now about pay equity and domestic violence, would have been considered total feminists had they felt that way 30 years ago. And the women’s rights movement is living in our daughters every single day. Whether or not they consider themselves feminists."

Besides, said Richards, "Whatever we’d change ‘feminism’ to would become a bad word too."

This story has been corrected since it was originally published.
http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2005/07/05/f_word/index2.html

a.k.a. The Original “TAT’s All, Folks!”
Tuesday, 30 March 2004
(Revised 18 September 2005)

I left work mid-Nov 2003 and decided to ‘rest’ a bit while doing full-time MA studies in UP Diliman. This is my third semester taking up Women and Development Studies. If I follow my academic plan religiously, I hope to defend my thesis and finish by October this year. I’m very interested in the area of Reproductive Health and Rights. At the moment, I’m trying to read up and immerse myself in this particular discourse and I hope to pin down a topic soon. As a result of this ‘lifestyle’ change, my sister [who's always been UP-based, now finishing her MS in Archaeology] and I moved out of our Katipunan dorm and moved into Sanggumay dorm in UP. It’s an all-female dorm for grad students and definitely agrees very well with my current student budget. It’s a bit of a ‘new’ world in UP, what with having been Loyola-based throughout College and for the past four years. Our Katipunan dorm has been home-away-from-home so the adjustment phase included quite a bit of POS [pains of separation]. haha

I turned 31 last December 18. No big celebration but just simple family get-together in Laguna. It was a nice day and as birthdays go, that day also gave me ample time for reflection and thanksgiving. Providence has always poured and the love of family and friends has constantly been there. On that day, I strongly felt that I was where I wanted to be at this stage in my life. I also felt that gladness of heart for having been guided through all my major life decisions and for always reaching that point where no matter what, things always fall into place.

As post-celebrations go and as a birthday gift to myself, I semi-backpacked through Vietnam [Ho Chi Minh City] and Cambodia [Phnom Penh and Siam Reap] from Dec 30, 2003 til January 4, 2004 with my sis. That was a fun time where the pace was unhurried and the moments of and for solitude were plenty. My favorite travel quote still holds true: “Travel is both flight and pursuit in equal parts.”

I guess this recent sojourn deserves a separate entry by itself. In the meantime, some ‘highlights’…

Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City now or HCM) architecture and ‘vehicle traffic’ got my interest going. The two-lane provision for the ’sea’ of motorcycle riders on one lane and cars on the other translated to drivers quite unperturbed by a slow traffic procession. Arriving in HCM greeted by this ‘peculiarity’ certainly signaled the beginning of my vacation; as well as reminded me of my long-ago dream to learn how to drive a motorcycle. (Digressing a bit, I may enroll in a driving course this April if I’ve enough budget. Anyone else interested?)

My sister and I did plenty of walking in HCM especially at night. It was during one of these lazy gallivanting moments that we chanced upon our favorite outdoor park-resto called Chi Lang. Fun, fun! There were plenty of memories to choose from but what may be interesting to all is our dipping our forefingers daringly into a beehive (hmm…forget if this is what it’s really called) just so we could taste fresh honey that the ‘busy buzzing bees’ ___ (what’s the verb here?). Well, survived that ‘fear factor’ experience! Haha…

With memories of my habal-habal experience in Siargao Island catching up with me (hello Trev, Ri!), my sister and I decided to get a refreshing motorcycle ride from our hotel in Phnom Penh, Cambodia to a place called Sisowath Quay. We looked for the Lonely Planet-recommended pizza place called Happy Herb Pizza. After getting our pizza delivered, I asked our waiter if this was a ‘happy pizza.’ He said it wasn’t but asked me if I wanted one. Ignorant me asked what extra ingredient made it a ‘happy’ pizza. He nonchalantly replied, “Marijuana.” All I could say was, “Oh…No thanks.” (Feel free to include in your imagination all the possible expressions that flit through my face.)

I must say Angkor Wat and the other temples in Siam Reap are travel destinations that should fall in your priority list soon especially since the prices got quite touristy already. (But that’s backpacker-budget-me speaking ) Our tour guide was supposed to have been Angelina Jolie’s guide when she was filming Tomb Raider in Angkor Wat so you can imagine the Tomb Raider poses my sister and I came up with!

There were many instances during our temple tours when the feeling of being on a spiritual pilgrimage caught up with me. Two come to mind right now. First was when we entered holy sanctuaries which were small echo chambers. These are usually places here the Buddha was installed and where people made their offering as well as lifted up their hearts’ desires. The latter was done by leaning your whole back on one wall and tapping your chest three times while envisioning your wish. The chamber echoes your taps and reverberates, to my mind, with a sacred sound of future good tidings. The second experience is our climbing steep (almost 90 degrees) narrow stairs literally on our hands and feet. In ancient times, this was to remind the pilgrims that they were climbing towards a holy place that required their whole being concentrated on that journey alone. A different feeling of accomplishment overcomes you upon reaching the top. I sat for quite some time just thinking of nothing and experiencing everything. (Hmmm… will try to digest this more and get back to ya.)

I haven’t been bitten lately by the travel bug. Perhaps it’s a bit too soon also. Nowadays, I cherish the time I have ’staying put.’ I spend most of my free time reading books relevant to my MA. It’s as if I’ve been deprived of good books in my growing up years that I’m making up for lost time. I also spend most of the week in Laguna with my family who has not really seen much of me since College when I started staying in dormitories. It’s a fairly simpler life compared to that which I led before. The novelty, so far, has not worn off. I never really thought I would look forward to the ‘quiet’ enjoyment of life but that’s where I am right now. Happily so. Amazing where we are led and where we decide to ‘land.’

The lovelife, on a final note.
Nothing earth shaking folks. Just a cute crush-for-a-day story that hasn’t been completely flushed from my system. Interestingly preceded by a bike accident which necessitated that I see an orthopedic surgeon. Saw and ‘fell’ for one. Quite a rarity for me. In any case, thanks to all my concerned friends who lovingly suggested I get into another accident so that I may see him again. Haha. Perhaps that motorcyle driving course would just do the trick… Not!

The future, as postscript…

Although I never thought I was the type to ‘plan’ my life and work towards a specific dream or state of life, I always envisioned myself settling down in Laguna only when I turn 40 or even after. I have also always been open to settling down elsewhere. I believe in being happy on my own ‘first’ so that if I end up with someone, that will just be a bonus. I know I still want to travel to many other places and have always seriously considered further studies abroad. Things were pretty much going in that direction. (And so has been my resume!) However, national politics seems to have rocked my boat of contentment. With the background of how Dirty national politics could really be based on the front seat view which my previous work afforded me, I have been contemplating more and more the call to serve Laguna now. Not through an elective position (yargh!) but through a strong advocacy towards women’s rights and issues which I’m certainly studying hard at the moment.

Oh well…

I read somewhere that there are only two things worth pursuing in life. The Known and the Unknown. To challenge the known. And to discover the unknown.

I can’t agree more.

TWO BEFORE THIRTY-TWO
(a.k.a. two more days before I turn thirty-two)

I just came from a fiesta-like dinner treat by old officemates who I haven’t seen a little over a year already. It was a great way of capping a day full of meetings as well as seeing other old friends. I am, undeniably, in a reflective mood. I am assuming that this may have something to do with my coming birthday on the 18th when I turn 32. Imagine that! I guess the sense that it will be a happy birthday comes from the simple fact that I am looking forward to it. I feel it is a day mostly for thanksgiving and being in utter awe at how much I’ve been blessed and how life has just been grand! More often than not, these past 31 years - and counting - have been a blast!

All this becomes more visceral because I recently came from two wonderful trips. Nowhere far nor new exactly. Just places very close to my heart. Negros Occidental because this is where I was assigned for one year as a Jesuit Volunteer after College. And Oriental Mindoro because this is my mother’s place of birth and where my fondest childhood summers were spent.

A wedding between old friends from way back 1993 brought me back to Negros. At the time I was fresh from college while they were seniors in high school. More than just a celebration of this sacred union, it was a grand reunion as well among friends who have made my Jesuit Volunteer experience a most memorable one. It was such a heartwarming experience to see some of them married (and hear how many kids they have), or to see how they were talking career first before any kind of settling down. They were, quite literally, more than just my buddies back then but my anchor as well. I recall our last project when we planned for a concert that failed to get that many audience due to an unexpected storm. One of them who was the group’s toughie (i.e., if you get into any street fight, better have him at your side) unexpectedly came up to me as I was feeling dejected and just said, “Tats, wala tayong magagawa. Gawin ko
sana kahit ano pero mahirap patulan ang bagyo,” or words to that effect. He was your regular streetsmart, dependable buddy that says very little but when he speaks, you listen. He, along with our whole gang, would drive, in a pick-up that has seen better days, to the nearest sugar mills in Kabankalan to catch the sun set. Most of us would be crammed at the back of the pick-up, just enjoying that special smell of dusk as it settles in your skin. Or we’d decide
to just meet up after dinner and hang out at the plaza; talk about anything and everything or scare each other witless as we trudged to the local cemetery for a different kind of adventure. Needless to say, there were so many memories that went through my mind as I saw each of them again and exchanged long-overdue updates.

That was Bacolod just last September. From there I proceeded to finally pay Boracay a visit. For the longest time, I’ve avoided Boracay simply because I thought it was too touristy for my taste. I also had the impression that those who raved about it did so because of the nightlife and not the place itself. I chose the longer way in reaching it - travelled by land and boat from Bacolod to Ilolilo, past Roxas until I reached Caticlan. I decided I’ll pick the place where I’m staying once I’m there. Quite unlike my usual travels where I had an
itinerary.

The long story properly belongs in another email. The shorter version is that I decided on Escondido - literally translated, means, hideaway. And it was. Near enough to the beach, far enough from the bars, luxurious enough even for those on a honeymoon but let’s not get sidetracked. So despite being female and on my own, I still got to do island-circling (no other islands to hop to), rode a banana boat, got a henna turtle tattoo, sprouted 33 hair braids and just had a blast with the locals. Had the weather permitted, I would have gone para-sailing as well. On my last day, a group of local kids ‘adopted’ me. So they went with me on my walking sprees and they taught me how to create a sand lantern at night. Heartwarming! Again!

On the first Saturday of December, I was on my way to Oriental Mindoro with friends and colleagues from the Mangyan Heritage Center (MHC). Off to a long-overdue board meeting and a visit to relatives all over the island. This visit quite literally transported me back to wonderful years of growing up with numerous cousins and listening as well as singing with uncles and aunts as they belted out Kundiman songs, other old English songs and those heart-rending
songs from the war years. After Sunday mass, we would all troop to the second floor of Mama’s ancestral home and just join in the fun. I can still see vividly how Tio Junior ensconces himself on the piano seat and belts out a Kundiman, all the while looking at us younger ones and teaching us the lyrics as he sings them. Or Tio Bert plucking away with his guitar as he blends with Tio Junior’s rendition. (These were the songs I knew by heart during my elementary years. I never even knew other singers who were popular then.) Growing up memories were filled with much indigenous family entertainment that no malls could probably compare to. We even had our own Miss Universe contests. In a sense, these years were my wonder years.

So my visit to Mindoro (Calapan and Naujan) conjured up all these images and blended with new memories of growing nephews and nieces. Lola and some aunts and uncles as well as older cousins have long been gone. Those of us they left behind are older and have probably been quite too busy lately with life instead of living. I wanted the music back.

Before I left Mindoro, I made sure to visit a far-flung barangay in Naujan called Melgar. I heard that there’s a new retreat center built by the locals. A niece accompanied me and true enough, the retreat center was on top of a mountain, right above the parish church. It was probably more than a 100 steps uphill, where a beautiful chapel sat on top. From there the view was simply spectacular. Around me were the trees and cool breeze, below me was the
magnificent view of the sea and the town. Above me was all-sky. Heaven on earth!

In all these many years, I have always felt showered with special unexpected gifts. These trips were special because it made me travel back to my heart’s fondest memories. I always found a place to call home wherever I went. The sense that I am where I am meant to be becomes as strong as ever.

These past years have taught me how to endure and how to surpass struggles that close friends went through. Their strength of character and will to make their dreams come true have simply amazed me.

Today I have decided to volunteer in Infanta, Quezon for distribution of relief goods. It will be for a few days right before Christmas next week. It seems to me the best way to prepare for Christmas.
I recall the beautiful Advent mass I attended recently where it was only among three Jesuit volunteer friends and a priest-friend. Advent, according to him, was not just a season of waiting but of yearning. It is a season where more than anything, we yearn to be much better persons than before. It is especially a season where our hearts’ desires all point to hopes of peace, solidarity, and love.

I do not know yet what I will find in Infanta. I am guessing that despite the hopelessness wrought by the typhoons that visited Infanta, I will find hope there.

In the end, I believe that all our yearning brings us face to face with grace.

16 December 2004
UP Sanggumay Dorm

CHRISTMAS IN INFANTA
December 2004

It was almost a trip not meant to be. From a group of about five volunteers, I received word at 10pm that all others could no longer make it. I was apparently the only one left among those who confirmed. This was the night of December 21, a day before all who volunteered to help in relief operations were supposed to make an early start to Infanta, Quezon. I told Bruce - the ‘harassed’ friend who was coordinating all this - that if possible, I still wished to push through. As usual, providence started pouring in. Since I was already in Alaminos, Laguna, he got me in touch with a colleague who was coming from Liliw, Laguna and was bringing an ambulance to Infanta the next day. So that was how I found myself early noon of December 22, ensconced for the first time in an ambulance, and on my way also for the first time to Infanta.

From Sta. Cruz, Laguna, we made our way towards Famy and went uphill towards Real, then Infanta, Quezon. It was a good day for traveling, passing through verdant ricefields in Laguna and the beautiful old archway of Pagsanjan, and then through a zigzag road reminiscent of the road to Sagada from Baguio.

Upon reaching Real, I was struck by the pockets of small children lined up along the road extending cups, presumably for coins, to passing motorists. I hardly saw any adults accompanying them. At a certain bend was a row of what used to be beach resorts but are now seemingly abandoned. I saw hundreds of logs just lolling with the waves in quite a long shoreline. Every now and then, I saw sides of the mountain that appeared to be scooped out of soil and trees that fell on the road; some already bulldozed to the side, others still waiting to be cleared. This began my slow but concrete glimpses into signs of the devastation in Quezon province wrought by the December typhoons.

Mud, wet and dry, some ankle-high or more, greeted me in Infanta. I saw small streets closed down; filled with soft, drying mud that was at times as tall as the second story of a house. All kinds of furniture salvaged from the typhoon were literally outside most of the poblacion homes. People, young and old, either walked barefoot or in boots. Those who I saw sitting outside their homes appeared to me pensive and faraway. What few cars I saw in garages were filled with thick, drying mud, inside and out. Ricefields were transformed into mudfields, some sticking out with a number of cars and jeepneys and small nipa hut homes swept away by the flashfloods. It was already the third week after being hit hard by the typhoon.

We arrived in time for a late afternoon evaluation meeting of ICDAI, the NGO that has been coordinating relief efforts for Sagip-Buhay Network (a coalition of NGOs and corporate foundations that are working on relief and rehabilitation operations for Infanta and other areas in Quezon). ICDAI’s office, situated beside the parish church and within the prelature’s compound, became both a working area by day and sleeping quarters at night.

Work began as three heavy-duty trucks filled with relief goods arrived. All these were to be stored at the high school also within the church compound. We set about arranging selected rooms to give space to the sacks that would be coming in. I ended up in the middle of a dimly-lit hallway, with a pen and torn cardboard, categorizing, counting and pointing to where all incoming sacks, plastics and other relief goods should be placed. It was a school literally transformed into a warehouse, where sacks of relief goods appeared like small mountains inside classrooms. The male volunteers, all locals, did the grunt work - the literally back- breaking work of carrying one sack after another. In the middle of the night as they shuttled back and forth unloading the trucks, the work was done with little rest and yet, much humor - all the way to about 2am when we finished.

During the community meals, I learned more about and from the local volunteers, several of whom were also hit hard by the typhoons. Amidst stories of flooded homes, waking up on a floating bed, saving family pictures, awaiting rescue on top of their roofs, and now living at evacuation centers, they still volunteered to help in relief operations. As an outside volunteer staying only for a few days, I was shown real volunteerism that I haven’t seen in a long while.

Sometimes when asked about what volunteerism entails, I never could answer with much detail. From experience, I learned that one just has to do what is needed for the moment and creatively get involved without having to be an added burden. More often than not, it is being prepared and taking the initiative to do what may appear to be the most ordinary and mundane tasks. For instance, reading aloud the names of beneficiaries (from 36 barangays) while someone encodes them for database purposes, or cutting relief stubs for distribution, or simply listening to each one’s story whether it be of loss, survival or both.

During my brief stay, I met a plant and seed pathologist with whom I tagged along as he took soil samples from ricefields that had varying levels of mud and silt. As I had a clear view of the southern Sierra Madre providing the backdrop for miles and miles of ricefields, I began to understand why most locals, when asked about what the typhoons did to Infanta, would always begin by saying that Infanta used to be paradise.

At various stops, farmers and their wives would approach us. Although they shared about future harvests now lost to them, hope still bloomed as they asked about how they may continue to work the fields despite the mud and silt. One story struck me in particular as I saw remnants of a home swept away three kilometers from where it stood. I was told that the family looked for it, and was somehow still able to salvage the sofa and bamboo bed. I wondered how that family was now faring and what gives them hope. In circumstances such as this, how does one not give up hope? And where does Christmas fit in all this?

Interestingly, an Assumption brother who was a French journalist came to write an article about how Christmas is celebrated in Infanta. In previous years, he was sent to areas where there was famine or severe political instability; areas that were sites of genocide or ravaged by war. This was how he has been celebrating Christmas for the past five years. With no respite from a long flight that began in Paris, he went directly to Infanta and arrived two days before Christmas. To say that Infanta is a long way from Paris was definitely an understatement. I couldn’t help but wonder how he would write his article and my musings probably led me to this lengthy reflection.

I may not have stayed in Infanta on Christmas eve nor spent Christmas day there but I was certainly reminded about what Christmas should be all about during my brief stay.

Christmas cannot be just within a close circle of family; it has to include, almost quite literally, our close circle of humanity. Only then could the hope of Christmas begin.

21 February 2005. Monday, Almost 3 am.
Fourth Day. Naujan, Oriental Mindoro

Keeping Vigil with Tia Pet

I think that I’m just now beginning to understand why grief is greater once a beloved departed is about to leave home - a final despedida, the last tangible goodbye, one final walk to the Church of one’s youth for one last mass.

This is what I sense most keenly right now. As Tia Pet lies in front of me - as if only in deep slumber - her presence is still very tangible. It is very easy for me to still capture her smile, her welcoming hugs, her bountiful offering of food and little knick-knacks from her trove of gifts. As I sleep in her room with Mama and Pelay, I could still recall how she would very lightly touch our forehead - either to nudge us to gentle awakening or to simply make sure that we had everything we needed - she who has always been one call away all our lives and most of her 78 years.

Tia Pet, who probably has one of the biggest hearts I know, could not have chosen a better week than the week of hearts to leave us. Her last days were strewn with thoughtful gestures that we all know and love her for. Valentine gifts and cards for all; food sent to Tio Junior, warmly welcoming him back from the hospital; and food reserved in advance for possible visitors and love ones who may come for a visit. Despite the shock and the sheer unexpectedness of her passing, it is as if Tia Pet still made sure the house is in order to receive all of us comfortably.

She has lived mostly for her siblings and their children - always eager to celebrate one’s good news and always ready with a listening ear. On her last night, she even exchanged cheerful phone calls with Mama, Tia Nor and Tio Do telling them to enjoy their gimik the next day in Laguna and all hurrying along to catch Hiram, their favorite teleserye. I have chosen to believe that in her usual generous way, she has ensured that all three of them had a full day and were together when they received news of her passing. As I kept hearing from other cousins, even as she breathed her last, she did not wish for anyone to be inconvenienced for her sake. Everyone’s encounter with Tia Pet this week is filled with stories of how they remember seeing her robust and strong. This is one of my consolation - that she has gone without pain and that her last week was a most happy one.

It’s now close to 6am. The house is very quiet. Everyone’s asleep except for me at the sala with Tia Pet. It is just like old times - those unexpected days when I find myself in Naujan, free for a visit
and in need of some pampering. She looks at me from her picture on the coffin - a lovely picture taken on her 75th birthday in Alaminos. It is a picture that captured how she looks like everytime she hears or sees me knocking on her door - a lovely engaging smile, warm eyes shining with excitement, arms ready to enfold you within her embrace, a soul brimming with love.

It all still seems quite surreal. Has Tia Pet really left us? Is she now with Lolo and Lola and the rest of her siblings that have passed on? Are they now having the time of their lives and catching up like
there’s no tomorrow? Has she seen Papa yet, or Mamay? What conversations I imagine they must be having!

As people come to extend their condolences, an oft-repeated phrase I usually hear relates to how it seems a shame that Tia Pet never had children. I think that for those who never got to know Tia Pet, they believe that being single and childless meant she was alone and unloved. On the contrary, no one knew better how to keep the family close than Tia Pet. No one has been more like a second mother to us all than Tia Pet. We love her as fiercely as she has loved each of us, and her leaving has literally brought us unimaginable pain.

I believe that since hearing of her passing, none among us who loved her most could stop the flood of memories that included her. She who we knew created magic in the kitchen, who never ran out of greeting cards, who made sure we had siesta, who never let us leave without a little pasalubong-keepsake - firmly occupies a special place in our hearts. As we each reminisce favorite moments with Tia Pet, we understand - although not yet fully - that hers was a simple but very full life. And as students of life, we are once again reminded that no matter where our pursuits take us, no matter how rich these make us, a life given for others is still the most fulfilling life one could ever hope for.

Sunlight has entered the sala quite unceremoniously. Mama and Tia Nor have now woken up and will be taking over my vigil. I think that we all want to capture Tia Pet’s lingering presence as we sit with her
and share to her - as we always did - our hearts’ deepest desires, our souls’ inner longings.

Perhaps this is our slow goodbye. It is certainly part of our last farewell.

We love you, Tia Pet!

And of course, if there’s a 2004 poem for me, Mary Oliver’s Wild Geese would be it…

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountain and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wildgeese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wildgeese, harsh and exciting—
ever and ever announcing your place
in the family of things.

I’ve always loved rainy afternoons in Alaminos. Today is no different as I ensconce myself in our porch area and ponder.

Tagalog has always defined best the depth and desires of my heart. I think that it’s just apt to begin this blog with what has been on my mind lately…

Mula sa The Bridge Called My Back:

Magsisimula tayo sa tuwirang pagtukoy
sa mga kamatayan at kawalang pag-asa.
Dito, sisimulan nating punan ang mga
puwang ng katahimikan sa pagitan natin. Sapagkat
sa pagitan ng tila di mababagong pagkakaiba –
sa uri, pulitika, sa araw-araw na paninirang-puri
natin sa isa’t isa, upang hindi natin panatilihin
ang pagkakaiba at pagnanasa na malayo sa atin
– narito ang katotohanan ng ating pagkakawing.

Unity IS everything.