OF DEATH, MIDDLE AGE, AND REALIZATION

 Death hangs over us. Youth may not know this. But middle age does – or should.

Our cousin, James Anton, just passed away. He survived a major stroke years before but this latest one was unforgiving. The clan just sent him off to Besao, Mt. Province where he served as an LGU official for his final resting place.

His mother, Aunty Lum-ay, went ahead less than a year before.

When relatives of the same generation as we are cross to the other side and we see them following so soon after the older generation, we are forced to take a reflective pause. The fact that earthly life is but fleeting sinks in.

We can count the members of the older generation in our Lugat clan who are still around to hold us together. They are a few and most of them are almost of the same ages as the older ones belonging to the younger generation. Manong James was among the oldest ones among us cousins. Yet, the death of someone we knew as manong or older brother hit, or should hit, too close to home.

The older generation is departing.

But so is the younger one - mine. And this is making me more aware of Death than I already am.

It is making me more aware I am middle-aged.

I had a discussion about middle age with Victor. Manong James' brother, who traveled to the Philippines for the second time in a year to bury a loved one. I think we are now more conscious than our younger selves, agreeing that the life we so far lived is longer than the years remaining for us. Words of wisdom we heard in the past truly hold meaning. When we were in the elementary grades, our teachers made us burn in our head the words, "Health is wealth." For years, I would hear that and I thought it sounded nice because of the rhyme. But what did it mean to a cat with nine lives who had no consciousness of Death?

When I got way older, I started spending a lot of money on my health issues. "Health is wealth" ceased to be a just a rhyme. It became a rhyme of truth, three words with 300 nuggets of wisdom.

The nine lives are now behind every person of middle age. We are standing on a bridge where the span of the distance we left may be way longer than what we need to walk on to get to the other side. This realization is more pronounced for people like me living second lives. I had a close brush with Death but was blessed with another lease in Life and now living on borrowed time. Time is ticking and every day could be my last. I prefer to spend my time on the profound that means something to humanity especially the less-heard ones. If we tarried earlier, now is the time to move faster. So much needs to be done and how much time do we have left?

And it is always good to review how we so far lived and draw lessons from them. I was grateful for a vacation spent in Baguio last December. I had occasion to clean my wardrobe and jettison vanity. Clothes I wore when my waist was merely 25 inches still resided in my shelves . Others were from when I was size 26 to 28 and that was over a decade ago. I always thought I could wear them again. When I was going through them, I laughed at myself for being either clueless or delusional. I gave them away to people who would have use of them. The ones with sentimental value, I asked Pro Art Belen to repurpose them. But with the time in the world I have left, would I be able to wear them? I hope I will so as not to waste Belen’s work.

It turns out I was not alone in clinging to old clothes. Victor said he kept jeans sized inches away from his current frame hopeful he could shrink and wear them again. Well, now - decades later, I think- he knows the difference between illusion and probability.

I was a collector of art works for years. "You will not bring your material things to the afterlife." I heard this a lot before in my younger years. I never disagreed. But where else would I enjoy material things if not in the material world? So I kept accumulating more things of beauty and I would shake off guilt feelings by telling myself I was buying from artisans and promoting social causes, not contributing to the profit of the already rich. Now that I am older, I realize our house does not look like a home. It looks like an art gallery. I still admire the art pieces. But I can only I hope the children will enjoy them when I am no longer around. Now, I have lost interest in accumulating more material things although I get compelled when I need to do it for a cause or to support people. I will just enjoy the ones I already have.

Yes, I am now more accepting that the earthly circle that enveloped us and endowed us with familial security cannot be unbroken. After all, Dad went away almost 10 years ago. Death began claiming members of my generation after almost ravaging the older one. Actually, my childhood best friend, a member of our clan, died 13 months ago. Life on Earth was never meant to be eternal. No one is immortal.

However, there is a promise of a heavenly eternal life. Death is an exit door. But it is also an entrance to a life that is everything described as utopia. All it takes to partake of this is faith in the Almighty who also goes by God, Kabunian, and other names. In the sweet by-and-by, we shall meet again on that beautiful shore and re-form the broken earthly circle.

See you in the next life, Manong James. But let this not be soon.

An Encounter With Dracula

From where I sit in a white monobloc chair,

Her face is pretty, sympathetic, calming as

Her white apparel. Between us are two people.

One moves closer to her. Suddenly, I see her

Eyes glint with mischief. She grows fangs; I

Sweat. Profusely. Dracula drops her disguise!

She draws fresh blood out of her victim. And the

Next. They do not die; but I will. And she is coming

For me. No escape. My feet get cold; my knees

Weak. This feeling of drowning after the boat

Capsizes…I am about to lose consciousness

In the belly of the ocean. Then Dracula calls

My name. She gets a rubber rope, tightens it

Around my left arm. Next she sticks out a long,

Pointed object. Like a snake’s fork-tongue,

My dizzied eyes tell me. Very long, very thick.

Longer than my courage, than the hours I spent

Bracing for confrontation with evil incarnate.

Deeper than my faith, the bottom end of the

Ocean will siphon my breath. The blood sucker!

With my heart in my throat, my sweat on my

Upper lip…My breath ready to escape me,

I plead for my sanity, for my life. Too late. Too

Late. The fork-tongue poked deep into my

Vein, I feel the prick. Then peace follows

As blood oozes out of me. I am in a boat peacefully

Sailing to sea, dancing to the music of the waves

Beneath, blending with the hum of the breeze

Above. I must be dead now. This is Nirvana.

Just as I slumber away, Dracula pulls out her

Fork-tongue. I feel like I stepped out of the boat

Ride- disappointed that it is over, emboldened

By the near-death experience. She wets a cotton

Ball with alcohol and presses it on the skin where

She buries the long, thick snake-tongue that is now

A short, thin syringe before my eyes removed

From fear. With the voice of a mother putting

An infant to sleep, she says, Come back on Tuesday

For the result of your blood chemistry, Ma'am.

cld/2006

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Act

Green Dot

Reading mails, I face the computer screen
Again, the gray dot beside your name turns

Green as mine is. Available, our dots say
How can that be when you and I are both

Shackled to commitments in isolated worlds?
A high fence between: hindrance to treason

I could click the mouse and knock on your virtual
Door. You will surely open; we will chat endless

But it does not release either you or me; We
Are like prisoners talking through iron bars

Sharing fantasies that elude us in the real world
So proximate and yet so remote from each other

In pain, I watch as a gray dot evicts the green
Temptation departing with graceful, quiet footfalls./chyt2007

Watching Daddy Struggle to Read

(My parents and older siblings taught me to love books. But Dad was the one who told me that reading could be humbling. It expands your knowledge, but it reveals your smallness. The more you read, the more you realize how little you know.

In the years before he left us, it was so sad to see him holding his grandchildren's books, turning their pages, and unable to read the letters. I wrote a poem after watching one such incident in 2011 or 2012.

Watching Daddy Struggle to Read

You hold a book open on pages 44 to 45

But it is just a weight on your jittery hands

Your decades of alliance with the written word

Have been broken, or worse totally obliterated

Your unsure smile reveals the hidden helplessness

You used to have such a sharp mind:

Your high school classmates would say

A genius with numbers

An English grammar police

Despite the strong accent

Reminiscent of that rustic place

You were born in

Where forthrightness and truth

Are more important than oration

With a foreign accent

I remember everything:

“You say, ‘independent of,’ not ‘from’

‘Result in,’ not ‘to’

‘Comply with’, not ‘to.’” I was nine or ten

But never too young to learn

For someone who believed

So much that familiarity with correctness

Could lead his child to bigger things

Perhaps, a voice for the unheard

A defender of the oppressed

Now, at 75, like a baby taking her first steps

You struggle hard-

I can only imagine how much-

To make sense of the letters

Your hand used to write so beautifully

The words you wrote were always

Shaped like an artist’s masterpiece

Now they are jagged on the edges

Like your memories- fuzzy on the corners

I wonder, Daddy, do you have nostalgia

Of the days when it was not like this?

How I wish the vacuum in your memory

Did not swallow remembered love for us

And our obedience, however failing, to your edict:

"Always be something for others

All the good books teach that."

DADDY AND THE GLOBE

Last week, I saw a globe lamp in a store in Geneva and felt something tug at my heart. I bought it.

To me, a globe is less about geography than it is about memory. Every time I see a globe, my eyes well up with tears.

You see, the second to the last face-to-face conversation I had with my father involved a globe.

I went to my parents’ place to borrow a weighing scale. I was traveling to the US for an academic fellowship for a year. I had to make sure I would travel without excess baggage.

In the family area near the dining room, I saw the globe. It used to belong to my brother’s family who moved to Canada.

My daughter, Kathlea Francynn Gawani was then 9 and was fascinated with geography and the capitals of countries. I asked Dad if she could have the globe. Dad said yes so I brought it home. That day, I also gave Dad bread I bought from a bakery in Agoo, La Union where I had a court hearing.

Two days later, I drove to my parents’ house to return the weighing scale and to say goodbye. Mom was there.

Mom said, “So it was you who got that. Your Dad said a woman came and took the weighing scale and the globe.” I also learned Dad put the bread I gave him under the kitchen sink. Maybe, since the bread was given by someone he thought was a stranger, he did not want to risk anyone harmed from eating it.

That was amusing, although a bit hurtful. Mom and I had a good laugh.

Dad would die five months later. It was winter. I flew to the Philippines for his funeral. When I was on the plane, I withdrew from my memory bank my last conversations with him. I remembered the globe and sadly thought that I was practically circling Earth to be with Dad. I wrote a poem.

That was when my memory of the globe evolved from amusing to poignant. The sight of a globe now makes me sad and happy at the same time. Sometimes, it reminds me of my grief at its worst.

A few weeks after we buried Daddy, I returned to the US. My sorrow reached its pinnacle when I was alone in my apartment. There was a protracted time I who, by nature, draw energy from being with people, preferred solitude, turned off my phone, and shut the world out. I kept going back to that day I got the globe and, even if I was no believer in the existence of ghosts, kept praying that Dad would show himself to me. I would force myself to sleep, hoping I would dream of him. I alternated between sleeping with the help of tablets, and remembering the globe, crying, and grieving.

My friends got worried when they could not connect to me and decided to call 911. But they thought of doing a wellness check first. Of course, Kuya Judge Philip Aguinaldo and Desmond Kaunda found me alive but distraught. I told them about the globe, my last conversation over the phone with Daddy when he was struggling to remember me (“If you are my daughter, why are you not here?”) and my pain that he died when I was away from home. I was in another part of the globe.

Yes, Daddy had Alzheimer’s as did his siblings. He was a man of intellectual brilliance . Yet, in his final years, his brain shrank. Asking him what his children’s names were would make him draw a blank and, later, recognizing them was a wrestle he could not win.

I may suffer from Alzheimer’s when I get old(er), too. I may forget what a globe is for or what it means to me these days.

But for now, I will always cherish globes, even if they make me sad. They also remind me of my father’s smile on that day when he received me in his house and I assumed he knew it was me he was smiling to (It took some prodding for him to recognize me - or so I thought.) and not some strange woman whose bread offering was suspicious and should not be put on the family dining table.

That day, while I knew he had trouble remembering his children, I forgot that. He made me forget it with his welcoming smile.

LESSONS FROM DAD ON PUBLIC MANAGEMENT, EFFICIENCY, AND EFFECTIVENESS

I was wet behind the ears - virtually a fresh college graduate and a lawyer under construction - when I first got appointed by a Philippine President. I became a Director of the now-defunct Cordillera Executive Board and was the youngest then. I understood the Cordillera struggle for self-determination very well and probably used a better lens in deconstructing social issues than much older colleagues, thanks to my exposure to activism. However, I was inexperienced as a manager or administrator. I was, in two words, scared and insecure.

Thankfully, I had a father for an adviser. Do not push and throw your weight. Do not cover up your inexperience with arrogance. Do not engage in power trip. Do not mistreat the people under you. Use your power for the needy and weak. Give priority to those who traveled miles to see you. Aside from his reminders, Daddy pushed me to pursue a master's degree in public administration so I could fill the lacuna in my experience.

In UP, I had the best management professors. But my biggest mentor was Daddy. His long and diverse experience in public service and the wisdom he imbibed from growing up in an indigenous society where he observed collective decision-making on and management of community affairs became my Public Ad 101 lessons that I cannot forget. He imparted the same lessons to my siblings.

One time, I discussed Max Weber with Daddy. We talked about efficiency and effectiveness. What is the difference? I asked him.

My father, a baby boomer then in his 50s and member of the old school whose love affair with the Olivetti typewriter was characterized by eternal devotion and exclusivity, would always explain with illustrations.

"I draft a communication and give it to my secretary for typing. Inadvertently, there is a misspelled word. My secretary types the letter exactly as I drafted it. That is efficiency. "

How about effectiveness, Daddy?

"Effectiveness is when my secretary corrects my error."

I relate these because it seems even efficiency is a forgotten value among some civil servants in possession of managerial or supervisory powers. I heard complaints from various agencies. I have observed it myself. This contributes to bureaucratic malaise and the often-complained-about bureaucratic red tape. Some use the little power in their hands to promote self-interests and/or to inflate their relevance. They are threatened or intimidated by colleagues and subordinates who have initiatives or usher in new ideas or invoke old ideas that are not obsolete but remain practical. Some are simply incorrigible and lack imagination that they refuse to abandon old systems that are not working and have become obsolete. Others have no capacity to be shakers and movers even if their positions require them to be so. Imagine a manager saying, "We cannot do anything, " or "We have no control over those matters," when clearly he or she has. (This week alone, I heard this twice from two different agencies. One was the agency to whom I referred three people whose issues were brought to my attention by Samaria Santa Gall-Tang. They traveled from the province to seek the intervention of government on their plight only to be told nothing could be done. I am still incensed.)

In the process, these civil servants derail public service. They sabotage the quantity and quality of public service. So what? They will still receive their salaries. And they enjoy security of tenure. No one gets dismissed from the civil service for lack of imagination and creativity, or inability to be practical, or insecurity.

In their minds, they probably rationalize they are not stealing from the public coffers. But they are in a way. Incompetence in the form of a non-performing manager or civil servant who gets paid nonetheless is expensive. It is money lost. Every derailed public service is money lost. Lack of creativity and the feeling of lack of control or refusal to take control of matters within one's turf bear striking semblance to corruption in consequence.

I wish we all endeavor to optimize whatever little power we have to serve the people. If there are people we can command to accomplish things, let us use them. Only the insecure people in positions of power -great or small- are uncomfortable when surrounded by people who are highly accomplished, or driven, visionaries, or brilliant.

Having said that mouthful which is also a lecture to myself, I am glad I work under a leader who inspires his lieutenants to steer the move forward towards the vision, to deliver without being told, to take initiatives aligned with the vision, to self-actualize with no motivation higher than to serve the people. What a shame to respond to the expectations with inefficiency and ineffectiveness.

I am glad I am led by Department of Labor Secretary Silvestre "Bebot Bello.

#Theteacherisonlecturemode

#Waragainstlackofimagination

IS AN EXCLUSIVE ECONOMIC ZONE PART OF THE TERRITORY OF A COUNTRY?

 

I read that Nemo was finally found and he knows where he is.

But Nemo does not want his friend Dory to get lost - again. He wants you to tell him if the West Philifin Sea as Philifin Exclusive Economic Zone is part of the national territory of his beloved Philifins. The debates are confusing him.

Why is the question material? Dory wants to visit Nemo. He is now in the Recto Bank. Is he in the Philifins? If he is, Dory must get a fisha (the equivalent of the visa humans use) from the Philifin Emfishy (the equivalent of the embassy for humans). She was advised to get a fisha from the Chinapa Emfishy  by her best friend, Finyol.

Or Dory might not need a fisha at all because the Recto Bank, while within the EEZ of the Philifins, is outside of its territorial waters.

(Of course, Nemo says that regardless of whether the EEZ is part of Philifin territory or not, the Philifins should tell Chinapas not to gather planktons there. He plans to gather the members of Congdilis, the lawmaking body, to study the matter.)

SOME TEACHINGS FROM DAD ABOUT ENTITLEMENT

When we attended a social gathering two years ago, my aunt, who is with the UN, and I joined the queue for lunch. An in-law who has a column in a newspaper wrote about it. Just. Because. We. Queued.

But queuing was not really something spectacular we did. My father instilled that in me and my siblings. And he must have been molded by his own clan to think the way he did. My relatives -at least, most of us - abhor the sense of entitlement people think are attached to positions or social status.

Dad always stressed that a high post in government does not give one entitlements. You become a public servant. It is just a role which is not more than that of the farmer who produces our food, the teacher who educates our children, the activist who struggles to change the world, the doctor or nurse who takes care of the health of others, the driver who takes us places, the janitor who keeps our workplaces and environment clean.

What is important is that we do right by our roles, regardless of how high or low, or how important or not, society views them. No role is more important or higher than the others. What matters is we do not use them to take advantage of others. We use them to help humanity.

But stratification and the entitlement attached to it are a social reality. In the Department of Justice, there are celebrations to mark milestones. During the anniversary in 2017, there was free lunch for everyone. When I said to the staff, "Let us now have lunch, " Kuya Loloy, a staff of ASec Macarambon, said to me, "Ma'am, VIPs will have lunch in the (other building). Let me take you there." I jokingly told my staff, mostly Igorots, and ASec Macarambon's staff, all Muslims, "You are also VIPs - Very Indigenous People. I will join my cohort of Very Insufferable People." We all laughed.

Anyway, back when when we were making the invitations to my wedding, someone - a relative of my husband- said we should list the sponsors according to "order of importance" and that meant putting the names of the high-ranking politicians (Two were asked by us while the rest offered.) ahead with their titles prefixed by Hon. (eg. Hon. Juan Dela Cruz). To the long list, I added my Aunty Francisca Lim-ay Anton, Ms. Rosita Dang-awen and Ms. Paula Agdaca, also aunts who were among my favorite elementary school teachers, Mr. Esteban Tiwaken (to appease my aunts who so wanted him to become my father-in-law even if his son did not intend to make me his wife. Haha. And I also wanted him to be there.), Ms. Dolores Lagyop, one college professor of mine, Cong. Victor Dominguez who was like a second father to me, and Mayor Mauricio Domogan (who happens to be a relative).

I objected to the "marching order" of the well-meaning relative from the other side to list the ninongs and ninangs according to "order of importance." The well-meaning relative insisted that we use "Honorable" for the incumbent politicians who should be first on the list, "tay siya ino nan maik-ikkan (it is how it is being done)." I said, "What makes them more honorable than the others? They are all honorable." My mom said to me, "You give in. That is not enough reason to create conflict." I would not give in to convention but I also saw wisdom in Mom's entreaty. So in the end, the ninongs and ninangs were listed in ALPHABETICAL ORDER and everyone's name was prefixed by "Hon." That was my small defiance.

Every time I look at the invitation, I laugh and remember how I stuck to "honorable" in its ordinary meaning (The political meaning is different. "Honorable" means you are an elective official or hold a high-ranking government post, even if you do dishonorable things.). I bite my tongue, too, for my hard-headedness.

But I stayed true to a belief my father taught me: Human beings are equal. Treat the powerful guy as you would the weak one. And if you have power in your hands, use it for the weak.

I remember Daddy poignantly today, Father's Day. It has been 6 years since he left us. But his words abide in his children. May our children catch them.

(He wrote me a letter when I graduated from high school. He wrote me when I graduated from college. I guess I was

his problem child.)

HOW I WISH IGOROTS WERE LIKE DOGS. THEY WOULD BE THE BEST HUMAN BEINGS.

Yes, I said that.

 In fact, how I wish all humans, not just Igorots, were like dogs.

 Dogs are known for loyalty. They are protective of their human associates.

 

More admirably, dogs do not devour or feast upon their kind. So when a situation is called "dog-eat-dog, " it means it manifests a total breakdown of goodness, of morality, of how it is to be humane. It means everyone has become selfish. It raises the questions, "Why have we stopped caring for others?" "Is love still alive?"

There is a series of famous paintings by Cassius Marcellus Coolidge showing anthropomorphized dogs playing poker. I have yet to hear a human being whisper a protest. But I honestly believe that if dogs could speak to us in a language we fathom, they would probably demand that the paintings be expunged from the face of Earth and human memory.

As I said, dogs do not eat their kind. When human beings gather around the table to play poker, they are not being "doggy." They are being human - and by that, I mean most probably selfish. In a real poker game, the objective of the poker player is to empty the other players' pockets and siphon their wealth to his/hers. Who cares if the poker players you defeat are gambling away food for hungry children at home or medicine for a sick spouse, child, or parent?

Sounds like greed, no? It should.

The Coolidge paintings earned Coolidge fame that outlived him and earned the paintings enormous popularity that made their maker seem smaller than them, a case of the creator fading as the creature shines.

Coolidge's paintings' fame is the diametric opposite of the instant notoriety gained by the painting of two anthropomorphized dogs - one a woman dog and another a man dog, both in traditional Igorot clothes. The female dog is dancing while the male dog is beating an Igorot gong. The hands of an Igorot artist, Clemente Delim, produced it.

According to those who know Delim, he created the work to celebrate the Year of the Dog. It is currently on exhibit in a mall-that-I-would-rather-not-name-and-this-has-nothing-to-do-with-this-post. 📷:-)

An Igorot lawyer, a prosecutor from the Department of Justice (DOJ), hurled the painting to the attention of the Facebook community. He expressed concern that it could perpetuate discrimination against Igorots. His post became viral. Personalities from the National Commission on Indigenous Peoples (NCIP) and the Commission on Human Rights (CHR) added their dissenting voices. Some concerned individuals echoed them in careful language that revealed genuine and well-meant fear of exacerbating ethnic marginalization.

 

"The artist may mean well; however, considering the historical ethno-prejudice we are still suffering from, he should explain what his work means. Not everyone understands artistic license."

 

"What is he trying to tell us? Am I right that there is something in this painting that is offensive?"

 

However, more were angry in their articulation of dissent. Make that livid.

 

"He is assaulting our dignity and honor as Igorots."

"Insensitive to indigenous peoples."

"He disrespects the Igorot culture!"

"Dog-brained!"

 There was also that litigious, knee-jerk two-word statement. 

“Sue him!"

 Some embarked on a hate campaign.

 "Behead the painter!!!"

 "Chop his head into pieces!"

 "Let us make azucena pulutan out of him!!!"

 If the painter really slurred Igorots by depicting us as dogs, he caused far less damage than the "Crucify him!" crowd. They claim to be Igorots. They offended me by spreading the message that we, Igorots, are irrational, murderous, and diabolical. We do not behead others over matters that deeply vex us. We are not cannibals. We do not chop fellow human beings to pieces when they say things that ruffle our feathers.

Opps...Did I just liken Igorots to birds? Will I be virtually crucified, too?

More than 20 years ago, my and my siblings' friend and singing buddy, the late Lito Bagano, was working with the community of persons with disabilities in Baguio. Lito was a community member who had severe polio since infancy. He used to hang out a lot with his deaf friends, introduced me to some, and -I honestly believe- even forced one of them, a really cute guy named Mike, to court me (and I had to learn a little sign language to converse with Mike). Lito also introduced Delim and convinced me to have him paint my portrait in charcoal. I still have the portrait at home in Baguio, at the topmost shelf of the wall cabinet beside a bedroom.

I must admit that when I was just out of my teens, I was still not sensitive enough to persons with disabilities. When I asked Delim to paint me, it was because I was a bigoted jerk. I was incredulous that deaf persons could paint and it was nice to have the work of one who could. And I used deaf-and-dumb and deaf-mute to refer to them like almost everybody else did and seemingly still do, not aware that the deaf are deaf but not necessarily mute or dumb since they speak sign language and are as capable of discernment as everyone.  Remembering it now, I feel deep regret and remorse.

Delim, without knowing it, helped transform my consciousness. I am now an advocate of persons with disabilities. In fact, in the DOJ, I am in charge of Disability Affairs. That's the beautiful part of my shameful, self-flagellating narrative. 

Delim may not remember that he painted me or may no longer have a clue of me at all. That should make us even. I forgot he was the one who did my portrait. But this uproar over his work summoned buried memory back to life. As if it was just yesterday, I vividly recall that he delivered the portrait to me in General Luna in Baguio.

As Delim helped salvage me from my own bigotry, I need to speak out to reinforce the volume of voices defending him, which are less audible than those condemning him.

No, Delim is not vilifying Igorots nor is he trampling upon our collective dignity. On the contrary, he is utilizing anthropomorphism as an expression to dismantle ethnic prejudice directed at us. He is unquestionably interrogating the outsiders’ ethos which is biased against us.

We, Igorots, are widely known as dog-eaters. In fact, some of us actually believe we are dog-eaters, when only a few of us are. In a world that considers the dog a human being's best friend, dog-eating is outright infernal, fiendish, even demonic. That is why in the early 1900s when the imperialist forces in the United States wanted to convince the American public of the morality of its continued occupation of the Philippines, they imported 100 Igorots from the Mountain Province who reached The Land of the Free, Home of the Brave by ship.

In what could easily be denounced now as unforgivable objectification, the US displayed the Igorots naked but for their loincloths as spectacles in the St. Louis World Exposition of 1904. The Igorots were regularly given dog meat to eat, less to nourish their bodies and more to make a case that the Manifest Destiny of the Superior White Race to Civilize the Inferior Brown Heathens had to be honored. The American public gawked at the horrifying half-devils, half-children. In their collective mind, Benevolent Assimilation had to be enforced. This cruel, racist policy was immortalized by US President McKinley in his instructions to the Philippine Commission of April 7, 1900:

In dealing with the uncivilized tribes of the Islands, the Commission should adopt the same course followed by Congress in permitting the tribes of our North American Indians to maintain their tribal organization and government, and under which many of those tribes are now living in peace and contentment, surrounded by civilization to which they are unable or unwilling to conform. Such tribal government should, however, be subjected to wise and firm regulation; and, without undue or petty interference, constant and active effort should be exercised to prevent barbarous practices and introduce civilized customs.”

Delim is saving us from a false narrative that has become the Igorots’ inter-generational curse. Dog-eating has been too long portrayed as the most stark badge of our inferiority. And this supposed inferiority is the justification for the discrimination we suffer. This discrimination finds expression in barriers that make it difficult for us to access social services, justice, and other public goods, and in oppressive policies and programs that target us.

Yes, some of us eat dogs for breakfast, lunch, or dinner to please palates, as do some members of other ethnic or national groups. But azucena is not a staple of every Igorot meal. Pinikpikan, not azucena, is to the Igorots what tinola is to the Tagalogs and what pinakbet is to the Ilocanos. In the days of yore, Igorots butchered dogs as offerings to Kabunian during sacred rituals. Dog-eating was, therefore, an act of reverence for the Supreme Being.

 Rather than nourishing ethnic prejudice, Delim is helping us recapture the glory days of our “Igorotness.” We are descendants of people who, during the greater part of the last century, still shared resources and bounties and ate from one plate, carried one another's burdens as communal pains, and considered it inayan to cause others' sufferings or to be greedy. We are keepers of traditional knowledge that conserved much of the natural resources still unreached by greedy hands in this country.

 We were like dogs. We did not gobble up our kind. This is Delim’s message.

Let us not pick on the likes of Clemente Delim, Igorot artist who is deaf. Delim has been bullied far too much when he should be hailed as a model of how an Igorot should think.

Let us reserve our voices for the real enemies of Igorots: the royalties and principalities of greed and selfishness, their bishops, and their other enablers.

We need to speak out when the avaricious bulldoze our mountains and kick us out of our ancestral lands to build homes for the opulent while we are rendered homeless. We need to speak out when they mine our mountains for gold and mercilessly pollute our rivers and lands hurting our food security and making us poor even if our lands are rich. We need to speak out when they frenetically denude our forests, apathetic to our fate as locals who have nowhere to go for refuge when landslides bury our homes while the plunderers can always scamper to the safety of their luxurious, safe villages. We need to speak out when they keep slandering us in textbooks, movies, and popular media.

Unfortunately, the times when we need to speak out are the times when many of us choose to be silent as the grave.

 Let us be like dogs again. This is Delim’s entreaty.

 Keep the gongs beating.