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The Happiness Of Trivial Pursuits – The sub-title of this blog entry could also very well be “Why I left the seminary.”Since everybody and his uncle nowadays seem to treat me like I’m old enough to be their grandmother, I believe I should now be at liberty to dish out free, unsolicited advice without feeling guilty about the consequences.
It used to be that whenever somebody tried to solicit some free legal advice from me, my sense of ethics and professionalism would somehow force me give such advice with the same care and responsibility as if I was being paid the proper fee therefor. So, now it’s pay-back time! And since I imagine the kids would hardly be interested to read what I have to say anyway, I might as well address most of this to parents and grandparents.
First of all, let’s lay down a few basic premises.
1. There is something unique, special and unaccountable about each and every child. It is a new human being, not a repetition of ourselves, not to be turned into copies of one’s own person, much less to serve our own frustrated desires, bigotry, fears, interests and ambitions.
2. The parents should serve this new life, to set it free, to be itself.
3. The purpose of education is to bring out (from the Latin, “e-ducere,” i.e., “to lead out,” or “to extract”), to discover and to develop the child’s unique talents, special gifts and aptitudes.
4. Our role as parents is by our own example to expose the child to the natural values and evangelical virtues which will contribute to his development into a responsible adult and a mature Christian.
5. Our ultimate goal as parents is to educate the child toward independence. A parent’s worst nightmare must be to raise a kid into a fully-grown human being with no known genetic or physical defect or disability but totally incapable of helping himself or who is simply too lazy to do so.
Many professional educators used to think that “to educate” is synonymous with “to mold.” Actually, “to mold” means to distort, to bend, to twist, to form or deform into the molder’s own wishes, whims or will. The PMA used to be a prime example of a molding machine. You insert into the machine a guileless barrio kid or a cool city dude, the son of a junkshop dealer or of a general, and they come out at the other end all looking alike, thinking, and acting alike, not unlike robots. Contrast that with the catch-phrase “academic freedom.”
The greatest tools of a molder (or manipulator, if you will) are shouting, screaming, food or money. The molder’s magic words are “No!” “Don’t” “Sit” “Stay!” “Quiet.” There’s a sign posted on a refrigerator door that says: “If I cook it, you eat it! If I tell you to sit, you sit… stay, you stay. If I buy you something to wear, you wear it! If I say no, you don’t say ask why … becuz I’m the MOM.”
Harsh, insulting words (now called “verbal abuse”), shouting and screaming can be worse punishment than spanking. Sticks and stones can break my bones, but unkind words can break the spirit.
Many parents think their greatest responsibility is to protect the child, to keep her from harm’s way, and to keep her well-fed. In our sincere efforts to do so, we tend to overdo it, to over-protect. The end-result is a person sadly lacking in self-confidence, timid, tormented by all forms of fears, self-doubt, guilt, and without drive and initiative; and with a serious weight problem. HRD would mark this individual as “an under-achiever with low self-esteem.”
Why? Because as a child he was constantly bludgeoned with the words “HUWAG,” “HINDI PWEDE,” “MAHUHULOG KA,” “MADADAPA KA,” “MASASAKTAN KA,” “NAKAKAHIYA,” “HUWAG KA MAINGAY.” We tend to forget that self-preservation is one of our strongest instincts. It should in fact be the least of our worries. A child does not need to be reminded, he is programmed for survival, for self-preservation. That’s why a child is selfish, self-centered. Just look at some orphaned children. They not only learn to survive but turn out to be super-achievers. Why, because there’s no one there to throw a wet blanket on whatever they think of doing.
I myself have realized almost too late that experience is the best teacher. A person has to have a few cuts and bruises, take a few falls, some scars and shocks to go with his character. It’s ironic that having been a neglected child myself and exposed early on to life’s great challenges, I would now tend to systematically deprive my own child of such learning opportunities.
After having spent quite a bit of time with some squatter families in my neighborhood, I have realized that my parents were wise after all. As difficult as it may be, the rule has to be: let the children play, let the children be. Bukhang-bibig ng mga lolo (after a lifetime of realizing their own mistakes): “Pabayaan niyo ang mga bata.” Leave them alone, for goodness’ sake.
The problem it seems lies not so much with the child as with the parent. If we had our way, a child would never learn how to walk, to swim or to ride a bicycle. It’s simply too risky, too dangerous. They can’t be allowed to venture out into the streets, run around the neighborhood, play on the street with the other kids, in the rain.
As a little asthmatic, undernourished kid myself growing up in Baguio, I would roam and explore the hills and valleys with other kids of my age, climbing trees, looking for fighting spiders, not the domestic or house spider but the wild, ferocious and colorful kind whose only instinct is to bite and fight to the death when he meets another spider. I would keep dozens of these in matchboxes to pit them against those of other kids, for money or simply for the thrill of watching nature’s gladiators duel while hanging on a little barbecue stick. I gambled with bubblegum cards, marbles, rubber bands till we had boxes and boxes full of them.
We would tirelessly wade and walk through little creeks and pools looking to catch little fish called “juju” or frogs, tadpoles, dragonflies, butterflies, birds, beetles, or anything else which might remotely resemble a trophy, or a pet. For our cuts and bruises we washed in some dirty running brook, pound some leaves of the “marapait” plant and rub it on the wound. The best part of the story would be regaling the other kids on how I got the injury.
I learned to make my own kite, big or small, fashion a good-looking wooden sword, wooden gun, and carve my own top (“trumpo”) from the branch of a guava tree growing in the wild which I myself had to search for and cut down. Guava trees are not common in Baguio. They grow better and are much more abundant in the lowlands. I would make sure to pound a four-inch nail into the top, sharpen the opposite end and duel with other kids to smash their tops to pieces.
Now that I think about it, I don’t remember getting scolded by my parents for wasting my time in all these trivial pursuits. Or, was it because they were too busy to supervise and watch our every move. But I distinctly remember that my father always encouraged us to use our imagination, to let it run free, to develop our creativity, and not to follow the crowd. In my youth I was Scaramouche (starring Steward Granger [yours truly], Eleanor Parker and Janet Leigh), Ali Baba, the Three Musketeers, or a bemedalled war hero.
Indeed, I believe the best way to kill a child’s enthusiasm or initiative is for a parent to give his comment one way or the other. “Stop wasting your time.” “Walang kuwenta yan.” “Ano ba naman yan?” “Is that what I’m sending you to school for?” Or worse, “hindi ka yayaman diyan.” If they had the Internet back then, you would have stopped your kids from wasting their time on such stupid games or toys. Well, tell that to Jerry Yang and David Filo of Yahoo! who only recently refused Microsoft’s bid to buy them out for $44.6 billion.
Just because a father turned out to be a highly successful lawyer or doctor does not necessarily mean that the son/daughter should become one, too. Or, vice-versa, just because the parent was a frustrated law student does not mean that his child should be forced to try his luck in that field.
And if you think you had problems raising small kids, wait till they become teenagers and start striking out on their own. If you haven’t yet learned by then how to pray, it’s a good time to do so. Prayer, “walking the talk” and laying off or leaving him alone are by far the best ways to survive that troubled stage in a teenager’s life.
Speaking of prayer, our late mother was a most pious woman. She was the busiest woman on earth. She was a full-time businesswoman, getting into all kinds of deals and schemes. She ran our restaurant and catering business at a time when there were no fastfood chains, no big hotels, so she had a thriving business empire to run. At the same time, she had to care for 11 growing children. And yet very early each morning, she was off to church. Sometimes she would drag some of us along. More often than not, we were left wondering what she was doing in church when we had a big catering service we all needed badly to take care of and needed all hands on deck.
Neither did we ask nor understand what she was praying for all along. Until one fine summer day we were visited by these two vacationing SVD priests from out of the blue (pls. refer to my previous blog), who charmed my mother into sending one of us children to the seminary. They obviously did not need to do much persuasion. My mother practically volunteered not one but two of us, John and I, who had just graduated from grade school. It will get you off the streets and out of the clutches of gangs, goons, gamblers and gangsters, she said. No, at least she didn’t say that’s two mouths less to feed. In a way, my father did. He said, “well, all I can say is at least you won’t go hungry.” He grew up with Spanish Dominican priests who were all scandalously pot-bellied and evidently well-fed.
What else could I say except: “Yes, Mommy.” Four years later, when a shocked Fr. Heinemann asked me why I was quitting the seminary, I told him I had learned to stop saying “’Yes, Mommy…’ before the seminary could teach me to say: ‘Yes, Lord.’” JAMES L.
James Deen, be hereby sufficiently forewarned: I have a mind to take out a column in a FilAm broadsheet and I will have no qualms whatsoever to appropriate your mental meanderings - properly acknowledged, needless to say. AMDG! (Mendiola, hindi ka nag-iisa! Kaya lang, sa akin, the AdMU education is only a patina of the underlying copper - my SVD upbringing.
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Hi, Viagra, tnx for your usual left-handed compliments. As I have indicated at the beginning of my career as an amateur blogger, my world is strictly micro, a handful of faithfulreaders, esp. of your caliber, is more than enough. I have always been your classic under-achiever. My motto is "Aim low ... and miss."
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Manong, we have some parallelisms here. With our moms, I mean. When my father died in a plane crash together with his brother, Fr. Amancio Joaquin, SVD, my mom had to take care of the six of us. How she did it is a wonder in itself. But I distinctly remember her famous phrase each time we ask for extra allowance (i.e. to be able to watch a blockbuster movie like Titanic....who's Stewart Granger, by the way???), "I have none to spare with SO MANY MOUTHS TO FEED". Me and my brother, the recently deceased Bert, would scrounge for old things to sell like newspapers, soft drink bottles, etc. and head to the nearest junk shop and turn these otherwise worthless crap into a few pesos. Then we would indulge in our favorite pastime of watching double picture movies in 2nd class theaters like Boulevard & Esquire and eating Mami and Siopao at Ma Mon Luk beside Life Theater. Ahh. The good old days indeed. And some maternal parallels. Oh, yes. My mom. She goes to church daily as well..
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Hi, Dalsa, tnx for taking the tym to read this blog. I agree it must be hard for a mother not to mother. It would help even at this time to mind your own career. If you let motherhood become your full-time job, by the time your children are grown, you may have become too old to be employable. It may be helpful to read the lives of some famous people who were orphans. Look up Steve Jobs, for instance, CEO of Apple. Or, Gaius Julius Caesar, Johann Sebastian Bach, Leo Tolstoy, John Keats, Nelson Mandela, Aristotle, Bill Clinton, Samuel Goldwyn, Marylin Monroe, John Lennon, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Rudyard Kipling, William Wordsworth. They were all extraordinarily creative, prolific and highly successful. Do you know that Wordsworth wrote 70,000 lines of verses, 40,000 more than any other poet? Without meaning any offense, I suspect it may have been partly because there was nobody to tell them it couldn't be done.Tnx agn. keep in touch. rgards.
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