IT IS said that there are only two kinds of men: men who admire those who are beautiful and men who think they are beautiful. I’m astounded at how more and more obsessed our world has become with beauty. Add to that how we take for granted that obsession. I’m equally amazed at how more and more sophisticated people have become in making themselves look good or better. Again, add to that how that preoccupation could be regarded a thing so natural it’s taken in the same league as breathing, eating or drinking, or a goal so fundamental it’s regarded by so many as a sine-qua-non of the pursuit of happiness. Isn’t it amazing how some people think not being beautiful means not being happy? In fact, I’m amazed that I’m amazed.
But let me drop these rambling thoughts and get down to the business of reflecting.
First, it’s at least clear to me that the ancient thinkers have different perspectives on beauty. Socrates once said that beauty is “a short-lived tyranny”, possibly because beauty, say in a woman, can make her the cause of a variety of afflictions in people, particularly in those under her spell, from having to carry its possessor’s luggage to committing graft or even murder on that person’s order or wish, if actual events were to be our gauge. But, perhaps fortunately, physical beauty is characteristically ephemeral and yet, let’s face it, the fact that beauty fades in time, even if somewhat slowly in a few, is the agony of people whose number is beyond counting. As Mėrė once declared: “Beauty is the first present nature gives…and the first it takes away”, evidently an extension of Plato’s earlier opinion that “beauty is a privilege of nature”. In a word, though it does not come to a person by way of merit, its possessor gains an incomparable edge in the society of all-too-flawed humans such as ours. Of course, we say in no way is beauty on the same footing as achievement. A man or woman who has a successful career—for instance, as a lawyer, doctor, accountant, artist or writer—by logic has more reason to feel proud than a man or woman who simply possesses beauty or a handsome appearance. Still, in real life, we all know how physical beauty can so enthrall or even possess people that it becomes a veritable source of power and influence for its owner. The ‘artistas’ and people in showbiz are a perfect example. People with beautiful faces, handsome appearances and crisp well-chiseled bodies could, to repeat Socrates, become tyrants, if often unintentionally, simply because they command people’s attention and adulation, despite sometimes not having the talent or competence in any given endeavor they get themselves into. All the more reason we are not surprised when Aristotle, even in ancient Greece, already said that “beauty is better than all the letters of recommendation in the world”.
On the other hand, we realize, sooner than later, that physical beauty alone, though admittedly a form of power over others, is only “skin-deep”. Genuine beauty, our finer instincts tell us, has deeper roots.
In fact, lesser known thinkers already lead us to these deeper roots. For example, Quarles said that “the fountain of beauty is the heart”. Bacon, as if in response, asserted: “The best part of beauty is that which no picture can express”. But I am most taken by the words of Bovee to the effect that “when a graceful figure is the habitation of a virtuous soul—when the beauty of a face speaks out the modesty and humility of the mind, it raises our thoughts to the great Creator…”
All these confirm the insight that genuine beauty is within and involves the heart and one’s inner attitudes and conduct, though admittedly external physical beauty helps. But the really profound observation is that beauty takes us to God himself. Ironically Pinoys find it funny when, to the question of “Is she beautiful (Maganda ba sya?)”, they hear the answer, “She’s kind (Mabait sya)” in an apparently polite way of saying, “No, she’s not beautiful” and a deft way of not having to say the ‘U’ word (if you, dear reader, want to know what that is, please don’t ask me). In the process we miss the deeper insight that ‘kindness’ is at the heart of true ‘beauty’, bearing in mind Pope John Paul II’s teaching that the “heart of God is compassion.”
This is where Mama Mary comes in. When St. Juan Diego saw the Blessed Virgin Mary whom we call now Our Lady of Guadalupe he saw, in his words, “a lovely lady dressed in Aztec dress”. We wonder how Mama Mary’s beauty could be so unfading, what with two thousand years having passed. But from the angel’s words we clearly hear of God’s action in her and, no wonder, it is a touch of beauty. Bovee’s words quoted above are a reminder of a universal sense among human beings that when physical beauty is coupled with virtue, such as modesty and humility, it becomes a powerful sacrament of God. In his words, “it raises our thoughts to the great Creator”.
When the archangel Gabriel declares to Mama Mary God’s plan of making her the Mother of his Son, he calls her kecharitomene. Earlier translated as “full of grace”, later scholars render it (the) “favored one”. ‘Grace’ indicates not only Mary’s beauty in its fullness, both physical and spiritual, but especially its character as a gift from God, which is also clear in the concept of ‘favor’ being showered on Mary, a name which in Hebrew means “excellence”. Although the physical beauty of Mama Mary is often not stressed in her apparitions, it’s also just as factual, and this we gather from visionaries of her in Lourdes, Fatima, Lasalette etc. But it’s also true that in the gospels, attention to the physical beauty of Mama Mary is beside the point. Rather what we read and hear about is the beauty of her heart, her total innocence when she asks the archangel Gabriel how she is going to be a mother in the absence of a man’s intervention (a remark that some early Fathers of the Church interpreted to mean Mary’s intention not to get married), her indomitable hope and courage at the foot of the cross, her deep humility in regarding herself as merely the “handmaid of the Lord” but, most of all, her faith and obedience apparent in her surrender to God’s will, i.e., “Let it be done to me according to your word”.
This is what makes Mama Mary truly beautiful. By her humility and obedience Mama Mary easily makes herself the perfect dwelling place of God. And indeed she is the ‘new ark of the covenant’ because in her God the Son dwelt even as the angel declared, “The Lord is with you”. Now, when someone is filled with God, she must be the most beautiful creature in the whole world for, as St. Augustine once said, God is “Beauty ever ancient, ever new”.
Now here’s the best part: This is a beauty everybody, male or female, can possess. That is, if, with God’s grace, we could also imitate the virtues that make Mama Mary the quintessence of true beauty.
Then the matter of distinguishing those who admire the beautiful and those who are beautiful wouldn’t matter anymore.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Meet Virgilio, child laborer
TRUTH is stranger than fiction, so I heard. Take Virgilio’s case, for example. He is from Brgy Cabalagnan (literally, a place with vines), one of those villages in my parish that can be so easy to forget because they are so hard to get to. Looking back, I feel now that my meeting him was a cross between accident and destiny. Cabalagnan is more than an hour walk from Brgy Camada which is a ten-to-fifteen-minute ride from Brgy Lalawigan, the center of my parish. At that point I had lost track of the exact number of kilometers to measure the distances. I had just celebrated the Eucharist and received simple but generous “thank you” gifts of root crops, veggies and bananas from the villagers for the efforts my companions and I made to reach them.
Actually when I saw them with broad daylight smiles bringing said gifts during the Offertory, I was more worried than glad. You guessed right. It meant we had to carry added burdens aside from our bags on our way back. You would react the same way, too, if you were in my boots (I was wearing a pair). Yes, I decided to use a pair of boots because the last time I was in Brgy Cabalagnan, some zigzagging, up-and-down and just plain pathways were under water or muddy. I remember wishing I had boots on instead of the rubber shoes I was wearing then. This time I saw that having boots was a big mistake. The road surfaces were dry, rough and tough because of El Niño. My feet were swollen from walking because I refused to put on socks out of some misplaced pride in my ability to endure the boots with bare feet. I had to eat my pride for breakfast when I went asking to buy a pair of socks from a parishioner in the village. Thankfully, I found what I needed.
But let me go back to my story. The Brgy Chairman sought and easily found someone who would bring the rather onerous offertory gifts. But I gasped when I saw a rather diminutive boy carrying some native backpack loaded with our root crops, veggies and bananas bulging on his back. I felt I couldn’t take what I was seeing.
“What’s your name?” I asked. “Virgilio po.” “How old are you?” “Ten po.” “Do you go to school? What grade?” “Yes po. Grade three po.” So that’s why he speaks partly in Pilipino, I thought. School can make people speak Pilipino. But that’s no guarantee they’ll act like they are, I said to myself. “I don’t think I’ll let you carry all that load,” I said, trying to be manfully righteous. “Even I won’t dare to do that nor ask you to, not only because my own bag is heavy enough but also because you are a child…” “Padre, it’s ok. I can carry as much as 30 kilos, as a matter of fact…” “What?” I exclaimed. “You carry 30 kilos of what?” “Copra po. There are no vehicles that can come here. Our roads can be very difficult and dangerous. So they hire us sometimes.” “And how much do they give you for 30 kilos of copra?” “Depends, Padre. Some copra dealers just give twenty pesos, others are even more miserly because they give less.”
I was furious at being unable to dissuade Virgilio. Yet, frankly, I couldn’t, for all the manly pride I had in my physical abilities, take the load off his back. I had to admit I wouldn’t be able to walk and carry that load at the same time. And I couldn’t ask him to go back to the village either, as he behaved like the bulging basket on his back was just a piece of salukara (our local rice pancake) compared to 30 kilos of copra. But I felt terribly sorry for him and the reasons why his parents wouldn’t hesitate to allow him to do child labor.
In fact, parents in Brgy Cabalagnan and in its environs assume not only the rightness of this awful practice but also demand child labor from kids like Virgilio as though it were among their parental rights. There certainly are anti-child-labor laws in the Philippines. But who would enforce them in this law-and-order-forsaken place? Who would not be compelled to ask little children to do heavy adult labor when there are no farm-to-market roads worth the name to Brgy Cabalagnan and not even a shadow of them to Brgys Banuyo, Canyupay, Hebacong, Benowangan, Baras, Pinanag-an and Bagong Baryo?
In other words, child labor in our benighted land is a direct product of the virtually ‘invisible’ services one expects from a working government. You might say, “Why doesn’t he simply admit it indicates bad governance?” One could say, “What governance? There’s nothing you can call that here.” Maybe I’d say “minimal governance” after a season of maximum political propaganda (the recent elections). Different shells, you might retort, same eggs. Believe me poverty can rob you of the ability to distinguish things.
Virgilio and I had a long chat about school. “How is school?” “Ok, Padre. Grades One, Two and Three are all in one classroom. Masaya pero maingay (fun but noisy).” I tried to give him my cap. “Take my cap, so it won’t be too hot while you walk with that load.” It was a very humid El Niño day. I thought it was the least I could do to ease his burden. He refused. “Salamat na lang po, Padre (No, thank you, Father). Sa ‘yo na lang po (Please have it for yourself).” I sensed that he thought I needed it more than he did. I was put to shame by his deliberate toughness.
The day’s mood was sunny but, as I hiked with Virgilio, I remembered the song about laughing on the outside, crying on the inside. That’s how I felt for myself, for my homeland, for Virgilio and children like him, for my parish, for Borongan my hometown of which these villages are a part, for my province Eastern Samar, for my country. I asked myself, “Until when do we refuse to learn and finally stop going round and round in circles reaping the fruits of a sick political culture that makes money decide elections, bringing leaders that hardly lead, servants that barely serve?”
As we reached Brgy Camada I thanked Virgilio and gave him something more than the usual fee for 30 kilos of copra. I saw his eyes flash gratefully. But I knew it was still a pittance for all his pain. But I was not prepared for what I would see next.
I saw a smaller boy, around eight years of age, by the waiting shed, sweat all over his body and a huge ‘sarasad’ basket full of veggies, root crops and house items on his back, which he ever so slowly laid down. On the other side of the road his mother was barking commands to his younger brother, around seven years old. He too had an identical huge ‘sarasad’ basket on his back that seemed to dwarf him. Both were about to get their rest, still breathing hard and perspiring profusely after a long hike. It seemed to me that they were Virgilios carrying the burdens of our sins…
As I watched them with bated breath I soon found myself wrestling with another question: Will a smiling tomorrow ever overtake these boys?
The answer depends on whether you and I will do something about it.
Actually when I saw them with broad daylight smiles bringing said gifts during the Offertory, I was more worried than glad. You guessed right. It meant we had to carry added burdens aside from our bags on our way back. You would react the same way, too, if you were in my boots (I was wearing a pair). Yes, I decided to use a pair of boots because the last time I was in Brgy Cabalagnan, some zigzagging, up-and-down and just plain pathways were under water or muddy. I remember wishing I had boots on instead of the rubber shoes I was wearing then. This time I saw that having boots was a big mistake. The road surfaces were dry, rough and tough because of El Niño. My feet were swollen from walking because I refused to put on socks out of some misplaced pride in my ability to endure the boots with bare feet. I had to eat my pride for breakfast when I went asking to buy a pair of socks from a parishioner in the village. Thankfully, I found what I needed.
But let me go back to my story. The Brgy Chairman sought and easily found someone who would bring the rather onerous offertory gifts. But I gasped when I saw a rather diminutive boy carrying some native backpack loaded with our root crops, veggies and bananas bulging on his back. I felt I couldn’t take what I was seeing.
“What’s your name?” I asked. “Virgilio po.” “How old are you?” “Ten po.” “Do you go to school? What grade?” “Yes po. Grade three po.” So that’s why he speaks partly in Pilipino, I thought. School can make people speak Pilipino. But that’s no guarantee they’ll act like they are, I said to myself. “I don’t think I’ll let you carry all that load,” I said, trying to be manfully righteous. “Even I won’t dare to do that nor ask you to, not only because my own bag is heavy enough but also because you are a child…” “Padre, it’s ok. I can carry as much as 30 kilos, as a matter of fact…” “What?” I exclaimed. “You carry 30 kilos of what?” “Copra po. There are no vehicles that can come here. Our roads can be very difficult and dangerous. So they hire us sometimes.” “And how much do they give you for 30 kilos of copra?” “Depends, Padre. Some copra dealers just give twenty pesos, others are even more miserly because they give less.”
I was furious at being unable to dissuade Virgilio. Yet, frankly, I couldn’t, for all the manly pride I had in my physical abilities, take the load off his back. I had to admit I wouldn’t be able to walk and carry that load at the same time. And I couldn’t ask him to go back to the village either, as he behaved like the bulging basket on his back was just a piece of salukara (our local rice pancake) compared to 30 kilos of copra. But I felt terribly sorry for him and the reasons why his parents wouldn’t hesitate to allow him to do child labor.
In fact, parents in Brgy Cabalagnan and in its environs assume not only the rightness of this awful practice but also demand child labor from kids like Virgilio as though it were among their parental rights. There certainly are anti-child-labor laws in the Philippines. But who would enforce them in this law-and-order-forsaken place? Who would not be compelled to ask little children to do heavy adult labor when there are no farm-to-market roads worth the name to Brgy Cabalagnan and not even a shadow of them to Brgys Banuyo, Canyupay, Hebacong, Benowangan, Baras, Pinanag-an and Bagong Baryo?
In other words, child labor in our benighted land is a direct product of the virtually ‘invisible’ services one expects from a working government. You might say, “Why doesn’t he simply admit it indicates bad governance?” One could say, “What governance? There’s nothing you can call that here.” Maybe I’d say “minimal governance” after a season of maximum political propaganda (the recent elections). Different shells, you might retort, same eggs. Believe me poverty can rob you of the ability to distinguish things.
Virgilio and I had a long chat about school. “How is school?” “Ok, Padre. Grades One, Two and Three are all in one classroom. Masaya pero maingay (fun but noisy).” I tried to give him my cap. “Take my cap, so it won’t be too hot while you walk with that load.” It was a very humid El Niño day. I thought it was the least I could do to ease his burden. He refused. “Salamat na lang po, Padre (No, thank you, Father). Sa ‘yo na lang po (Please have it for yourself).” I sensed that he thought I needed it more than he did. I was put to shame by his deliberate toughness.
The day’s mood was sunny but, as I hiked with Virgilio, I remembered the song about laughing on the outside, crying on the inside. That’s how I felt for myself, for my homeland, for Virgilio and children like him, for my parish, for Borongan my hometown of which these villages are a part, for my province Eastern Samar, for my country. I asked myself, “Until when do we refuse to learn and finally stop going round and round in circles reaping the fruits of a sick political culture that makes money decide elections, bringing leaders that hardly lead, servants that barely serve?”
As we reached Brgy Camada I thanked Virgilio and gave him something more than the usual fee for 30 kilos of copra. I saw his eyes flash gratefully. But I knew it was still a pittance for all his pain. But I was not prepared for what I would see next.
I saw a smaller boy, around eight years of age, by the waiting shed, sweat all over his body and a huge ‘sarasad’ basket full of veggies, root crops and house items on his back, which he ever so slowly laid down. On the other side of the road his mother was barking commands to his younger brother, around seven years old. He too had an identical huge ‘sarasad’ basket on his back that seemed to dwarf him. Both were about to get their rest, still breathing hard and perspiring profusely after a long hike. It seemed to me that they were Virgilios carrying the burdens of our sins…
As I watched them with bated breath I soon found myself wrestling with another question: Will a smiling tomorrow ever overtake these boys?
The answer depends on whether you and I will do something about it.
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