In the Philippines
where I was born and raised, English is a medium of instruction in
all the schools. Once a year, there were organized declamation tournaments,
very similar to 'spelling bees,' except that these were actually elocution
contests in English. The tournaments, organized by regional districts
throughout the country, culminated in a national championship held
in Manila; the one for private schools was hosted by an exclusive
university called Ateneo de Manila (Athens-in-Manila) run by the Jesuits.
The best declaimer was judged on the basis of diction (which was usually
the declaimer who had the closest thing to an American accent), delivery
(which meant a great deal of elaborate gestures and intense feeling),
and choice of material (many of which were taken from the Reader's
Digest). When
I was a sophomore in high school, I was chosen to represent my school.
It was common knowledge that my parents actually used English at home,
as in "Please pass the rice," or "Pitoy, fetch my slippers"
or some such ordinary utterances. I think this perception helped define
the kind of children who 'hang out' with me; usually sons and daughters
of professionals-- doctors, lawyers, accountants when most of the
time, I really just wanted to shoot birds with my sling shot - something
the janitor's son whose name was Homer, was very good at. This perception
also contributed to my being the perennial English 'monitor' in my
class - the person who caught students speaking the dialect and who
fined them five centavos for every Cebuano word spoken. Of course
this did not make me very popular with my peers; every time I walked
towards a raucous, noisy crowd, whatever enthusiasm they had over
the moment would be replaced by a deafening silence. Five centavos
was five centavos and a whole sentence was a lot of money. In fact,
in some of my classes, teachers imposed silence by simply asking students
to 'Speak English.' Conversational English was difficult for a lot
of us because we weren't familiar with idiomatic English and a conversation
that could be spontaneous, fluid and colorful with the sing-song sounds
of the dialect would be replaced by such formal exchanges as "Aurora,
did you bring your homework for Mathematics class?" "Yes.
Did you bring your homework, Belita?" "I am sorry, Aurora,
I do not have it because the house maid Pilar put it in the wastebasket
by mistake." This between classmates who may have been close
friends since they were two. So on the basis of such a reputation,
and also because my mother was the principal of the school, I represented
the San Carlos Girl's High in the try-outs for that year.
My mother chose
the Gettysburg Address. Every Filipino boy and girl knew that Abraham
Lincoln 'freed the slaves' and was shot for doing so, and it was my
mother's favorite speech. This was also the time of the Marcos dictatorship
and many of her friends were either in jail or not teaching anymore.
But because it was an old speech written by a dead American president
more than 300 years ago, the City Council permitted it.
Although I liked the speech, I was puzzled by mother's choice of material.
Nobody ever did a speech for the declamation contest. They did poems,
long one, Casey at the Bat, for example. The year before, Dr. Tiempo's
daughter took parts from a play written by a man called T. S. Eliot
about a murder in a cathedral. It was very intellectual, and no one
understood what she was saying but she was very talented and spoke
with the best accent; her father had a Ph.D. in English Literature
from the University of Iowa. The one that got the gold, however, was
a short story from the Reader's Digest about a group of Catholic girls
in their first Communion in a place called Quebec. Alhambra wore white
for the occasion and did not trip over a single word once. Everyone
knew the Peace Corps volunteer who taught Speech at the Lab was her
tutor.
To prepare for
the contest, my mother and I practiced in the porch after school every
afternoon for six weeks. She had the whole process down in writing:
the first step was to underline all the words I didn't understand.
As it was a simple speech, there were no difficult words for me, except
for the word 'score' as in "Four score and seven years ago."
The second step was understanding exactly what speech was about. My
mother gave me a brief lecture on the importance of Abraham Lincoln
in American history, what happened in Gettysburg and the Emancipation
Proclamation. The first two steps were easy, they didn't take too
long, and strangely irrelevant. Slavery was too abstract a concept.
I couldn't imagine owning slaves, or being one, and the closest thing
I could think of was something that Captain Infante, our neighbor
and Chief of Police did. He would let prisoners from the city jail
come out once a month to help him with his gardening or repair a fence
or fix his water tank. I would see them sometimes, four or five men
pruning fruit trees or spraying his orchids with malathion spray.
Sometimes, I'd see them around the mango tree, eating their lunch
at noon. As for black people, I had not met one yet; the Americans
we knew were all white and they were usually Peace Corps volunteers
or the priests and nuns who ran our private schools, or missionaries
who came down from the mountains for their monthly shopping at the
supermarket. The only black people we'd ever really seen were all
in the movies like Sidney Poiter and Harry Belafonte and I couldn't
see them as slaves either. The last step in
the process was the best. This was the part where I learned when to
raise my voice, when to lower it, when to pause, how to use my hands.
My mother said it was best to start slowly, then gather speed. To
begin softly, then end with great feeling. She also said to use the
hands or arms only for emphasis, which worried me because I'd seen
a few declamation contests, and physical movement seemed of great
visual significance. But what she wanted me to do was to stand still,
pause for a few minutes until I got everybody's attention, then begin
in a low voice: "Four score and seven years ago, our forefathers
brought forth in this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty
… "She told me not to raise my voice and to remain motionless
until I got to the part where it says, "…and dedicated to
the proposition that all men are created equal." As soon as I
said that, she told me to make a sweep of the arm and hand, throw
it out in a 'majestic arc' making sure everyone in the auditorium
was included, both men and women. The finish was to be rousing, all
the emotions reserved for last. I was to raise my fists in a ringing
crescendo of passion when I got to --- "and this government for
the people, by the people and of the people shall not perish from
the earth." She made sure I got this right, even writing bold
exclamation points in red at the end of the sentence. She also said
something strange: "Be angry."
My father who was a civil engineer and who was always away on long
trips made it a point to come to the contest. My two brothers were
there and my one sister Nena who had told me I was up against Jurgette
Arietta who had taken parts of the Rime of the Ancient Mariner and
had been preparing for the past 6 months. She was from St. Theresa's
and we hated everyone who went there because they were all wealthy
and put on airs and everybody spoke English even during recess. Rumor
had it they didn't even need English monitors. There were ten contestants,
but I only remember three of them: besides Jurgette, there was another
girl from Inmaculada, and a boy from San Jose. Jurgette forgot her
lines. Although I had not read the poem at that time, I knew the parts
did not work together because there were so many gaps in the story
even the judges looked confused. From the stage, I could see Nena
looking flushed with triumph as Jurgette fled from the stage, embarrassed
and in tears. The boy from San Jose who delivered an essay entitled
"Growing Up on Long Island" was good but no one knew where
Long Island was so it cost him. I had to admit the girl from Inmaculada
was very good. She did Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven. She gave a very
good imitation of a raven and every time she said 'Nevermore' it brought
chills up and down my spine. I came last so by the time all nine contestants
had done their pieces, everyone was tired or fanning themselves or
coughing. I stood up and began. I did exactly what my mother told
me. I started slowly, made few movements, then gathering momentum,
I roused myself to the final climax of the last sentence. My fists
pounded the air, once, twice, three times as I erupted in a frenzy
of exclamation, to the auditorium, no, to the whole world itself!
I finished. I was met with tremendous silence. Even now, when I think
about that moment, I still tremble. At that time, it was with profound
consternation. What did I do wrong? Nobody is clapping. Everyone's
just staring at me. As if struck dumb.
Like one of those
frozen shots they do in films. I went back to my seat in a daze. I
couldn't wait until it was over. And when they announced the winners,
I felt humiliated. Even Jurgette who could not finish her piece was
among the runners-up. My family and I walked back to our car in silence.
I did not utter one single word, acknowledge a single sympathetic
comment; I couldn't hear them. The only thing I knew was that my mother
was making signals for everyone to shut up. I was to be left alone.
I didn't go with them. I muttered something about taking the walk
home instead. My mother nodded. Even in the dark, I felt the glitter
in her eyes. When I got home, I heard my father and mother arguing
in the kitchen.
"How could you do such a thing. Do you realize what you've done?
Do you? How could you do such a thing?" My father was shouting
at her.
I heard my mother's voice, gritty and hoarse. "She showed them,
didn't she? She showed them! Did you see their faces? Did you hear
their hearts beating wildly? Their eyes wide with knowing. They know.
They know. In their silence, they know."
"But your own daughter! You're out of your mind!"
"They wouldn't do anything to her. She's only a child. She doesn't
know any better. And it's only a speech. A speech they permitted.
They actually allowed it. The stupid pigs. The ignorant stupid pigs."
"Your own daughter. Jesus Christ."
The next day when I came home from school, I found out from our Yaya
Ines that Captain Infante was visiting and that he had brought a box
of Baby Ruths, right now being devoured by Nena and Eduardo and Zacarias.
I raced to the bedroom and found my brothers and sister doing exactly
that. I fought my way to the box, grabbed the last bar before Zacarias
could bite into it and left him crying in the bedroom. Captain Infante
was in the living room with my father and mother. I kissed all their
hands. Captain Infante patted me on the head.
"So. This is the revolutionario."
My father laughed so loud I stepped back to look at him curiously.
My mother had her back turned; she was pouring Coca-Cola into some
glasses. Then she turned to me.
"Say good night to Tio Joaquin." She took, my hand
before I could say so and we left them. I went to bed too early that
night. The next day my father left for his long trips. My mother lost
her job a month later. It wasn't so bad. If forced my father to take
jobs that did not have to be done in Manila or Baguio or Cavite. He
stuck to small construction projects right there in our town.
So much has happened since then. I was only 13 at that time, and I
understand things more clearly now about that night. As for the girl
who love to declaim in English, I continued to do so until I actually
won the gold in my senior year. I did Vachel Lindsay's The Congo.
My mother is now a professor in the Graduate School in Education at
San Carlos. My father retired a year ago and is tending his grapes,
one of his investments. Grapes in Cebu. I can't believe it myself.
But things have been very different since the end of the Marcos regime.
Take what they're doing in the class rooms, for example. Students
are not told to speak English anymore. In fact, to teach at Atenco,
that exclusive university run now by Filipino Jesuits, you have to
know how to teach a whole lesson in Tagalog. If you're not from Manila,
you have to take a two-year course in the language. I did it. Most
of us end up teaching in a combination of English and Tagalog we call
Taglish. It sounds like this:
Itong concept
na deconstruction, parang ang hindi sinabi o sinusulat sa text is
actually parang mas importante than what is actually said and written.
Kunwari, ano, kung walang mga babae sa text, all the characters lahat
lalaki, ay importante yon sa analysis mo …
In the old days
that would have incurred a fine of one peso and fifty centavos.
The End
