June 15, 2010
The doctrine of posse comitatus appeals to our sense of roots and home. Almost no one is exempt as it is equated to labor of love—love of country that is. Although forced servitude is frowned upon by law as in the case of Delos Reyes v. Alojado, being called upon to fight for one’s motherland is a great sacrifice sanctioned by the 1987 Constitution (Art. 2 Sec. 4). The fundamental law provides that the Government: “may call upon the people to defend the State and, in the fulfillment thereof all citizens may be required, under conditions provided by law, to render personal military of civil service.”
Being a reserve officer, I can expect that I would be called out also to defend the country. I can just imagine how it would feel like, standing in line being given an old M-16 rifle with a half-full magazine due to limited ammunition. And then singing the national anthem just before being sent to the front to face war machines. Perhaps at that moment I would think of the following: my loves, the government bureaucrats who would benefit with the outcome of the conflict, and my native Iriga, particularly Tarusan street—the place of my boyhood, my roots. They say that you will not really think of the entire Philippine territory as defined under Article 1 of the 1987 Constitution. Instead you will think of your home, the place you grew up in. It will inspire you to face the tanks and the nukes.
These things came to my mind during a visit by poet Marie Bismonte on May 29. Perhaps addressing her homing instinct she put a rest to her itinerant nature and settled for the meantime here in the Philippines. She revived her writers’ group and reconnected with local friends. She started to look at Bikol culture and literary tradition in search of her poetic voice and her roots. During her visit I also invited Bikol literary scholar Dr. Cyril Conde and Sumaro Bikolnon President Mr. Ramon Olaño to spice up our discussions. It was a forum of sorts, a dialogue. Marie gave us her standpoint as a Bikolana who left for the US when she was only ten. It is a peculiar fact that she maintained proficiency both in the Bikol-Legaspi and American-English. She could enounce nuances and idioms of the Bikol-Legaspi language like your typical Albay gal while she could also discuss Philippine politics in perfect English with your usual American twang. But then, here’s the rub, she almost can’t speak Tagalog. When asked why she answered: “Dai man pa’no yan pigtuturo duman.” It made sense. She could not speak much of Tagalog because it was not part of the curriculum, and she and her family use Bikol at home, even when in the US.
She is a living proof to the argument that English may not be our second language as usually placed in TESL (Teaching English as a Second Language). Within our framework, English may very well be our third language, Bikol being the first and Tagalog/Filipino being the second. Bikol is truly a language and not a mere dialect of Tagalog. As in the case of Marie, there is no apparent inter-intelligibility between the two languages. In the absence of proper instruction and exposure, there is no chance that a Bikolnon would be able to acquire Tagalog as a language.
Language can be an issue for writers, especially under a post-colonial setting. We advised her to relearn the language for it is common even for Bikolnons to be more at ease with English and Filipino as literary language. We told her that it is the usual route for all of us. We also gave her other sources and authors. Dr. Conde and I even gave her complimentary copy of our books, knowing that she is a poet of the first water and an excellent reader.
Roaming around the city was the next logical thing to do. After walking around Ateneo de Naga, we went to Museo de Caceres, Basilica, Plaza Quince Martires, Kakanon Bikolnon and Kulturang Bikolnon. We temporarily parted ways at SM City Naga and curiously enough, we talked about labor standards and how it is violated by multinationals. In the same vein, we shared sad stories of copyright issues being suffered by local writers. So much to talk about so little time, but there is always next time.