[Oe List ...] ST March 21 OpEd

[Jaime R Vergara]

With gratitude to Randy W. for the Rifkin quote.


The usual caveat: curious, welcome; not, see you at the next bend.


j'aime la vie



-----Original Message-----
From: jrvergarajr2031 <jrvergarajr2031 at aol.com>
To: editor <editor at saipantribune.com>; Mark_Rabago <Mark_Rabago at saipantribune.com>; jayvee_vallejera <jayvee_vallejera at saipantribune.com>
Sent: Tue, Mar 20, 2012 10:09 am
Subject: March 21 OpEd


The day my father gasped
 
It was an auspicious year, 1912.  On the 21st day of March a centuryago was born my Dad, from whom I was named and who receded as stately a Seniorwhile Junior grew in professional wisdom and became a man of his own.  My Mom used to say that my Dad would ratherwear his sons worn clothes than let them wear his!  Much of his life was a celebration of thepresent and a hopeful anticipation of the future.
 
1912 birthed China’s first Republic and the formation of theGuomindang, a long shimmeringcaesarean delivery by means of a bloody revolution that festered long after themanifestoes of many combatants were sheathed on cabinet folders.  The ill-fated Titanic made its maiden voyage.
 
A century before, Napoleon Bonaparte’s undefeated Frencharmy met Russian resolute defenses that later led Tchaikovsky to scribble his 1812 Overture, which our Madison Avenuemind lords did not hesitate to mine for the world-renown Lone Ranger and the MarlboroMan!  
 
The Philippines finally emerged after the Americanoccupation with a national identity and its Illustradosquickly merged their pocketbooks with the imperial designs NYC’s captains ofcommerce and industry, and married their oligarchic privileges with the shakersand movers of Washington DC.
 
Jaime Sr. was the runt of a brood of 11 children.  He was two years older than the first of manynieces that followed.  In fact, thefamily story goes that as an infant, he was cared for by his eldest sister whohad already been married but seemed to have difficulties conceiving, and hercare of my father apparently got the maternal juices flowing enough to bringforth her first born.  My Dad’s firstplaymate and later close friend of his family, was his niece but belonging tohis own generation.
 
There is nothing special about recalling father’s birthother than our historical sense of calendar markings.  The use of “gasp” rather than “birth” is ourliterary rendering of the moment of birth and death – the first gasp into life,and the last out of it.  
 
We recall his centennial for what he left deeply embedded inmy psyche, that is, the facticity of one’s birth is sufficient for the lifelongcelebration of life, in all its entirety. This was not a religious belief or a theological understanding.  It was an indicative daily lived, anintuition that seemed to inhabit every cell of his flesh and bones, an insightgladly shared in his teachings, mostly in the form of a pastoral ministry inthe United Methodist Church.  This was noPollyanna optimism, no was it devoid of real regrets and deeply feltdisappointments.
 
He would have been at home with Jeremy Rifkin’s definition of “faith” in his book TheEmpathic Civilization:
 
    ...faith (is) the belief that one's life is worth living, and for that reasonalone, it (has) meaning in the larger scheme of things and therefore (needs) tobe lived fully in deep connection with others.
    ...faith...can be purloined and made into a social construct that exactsobedience, feeds on fear of death, is disembodied in its approach, andestablishes rigid boundaries separating the saved from the damned. Institutionalized religions, for the most part, do just that. 
 
Having myself taken the journey of perusing the width andbreath of the Judeo-Tradition, I happily landed on its genuine ecumenical sideand, thereby, afforded the chance to appreciate the rest of the world’sreligions, its metaphysical evolution when it turned religious metaphors tobecome seriously secular, to the wisdom of the scientific revolution that isthe legitimate offspring of the journey of human consciousness itself!
 
My Dad stayed with the religious metaphors of hisupbringing, which I forsook when “open hearts, open minds, open doors” becamecynical shibboleth suited for superficial heart-warming Wesleyanexperience but found wanting in the current realities of my time.
 
Our latest complete family picture of the first generationsiblings (with Mom) was taken on the all-family dinner after Dad’s internment,memorable to me since Dad was interred at the same time I was on my back while fourholes were poked on my belly to deal with an oversupply of gallstones.  More religious relations were aghast when Icharacterized that moment as a tete-a-tete between Dad and I while he wasgetting the shovel and I, getting sliced with a scalpel!
 
In my decade-long visits to the CK P.O., I had a nudgingacquaintance with a retired Mr. Blanco who, I believe, is the father of aformer government functionary named John. The son later went back to active military duty; I made his acquaintancewhile engaged in one of Saipan’s voluntary social services.  With Mr. Blanco’s blue hatted graying maneand autumn canvas jacket, we would nod at each other; I did not ask what was onhis mind, but he was surrogate Dad in mine.
 
It has been awhile seen I last glimpsed Mr. Blanco at theP.O.  In a week, Ching Ming (the dusting of the gravestones) is a time in China whenwe remember and honor the beloveds who have gone before.  More than the “thanks” that profoundly burpsfrom the bowels of my being, for Dad and Mr. Blanco, I live my life because bytheir quiet and ordinary living examples, they managed to convey: You may livelikewise!
 
 
 
 


 Jaime R Vergara


All of yesterday, thanks; all of tomorrow, yes; all of today, let it be!

 
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