Two Women
Wednesday, November 28, 2007I am a multi-tasker by nature, and even in reading my books I prefer to read more than one at a time. At present, I am reading the biographies of two women who seem to be polar opposites: Madeleine Körbel Albright, who was once Secretary of State of the United States—the highest any women has ever gone in American politics; and Paz Marquez-Benitez, the first author of a Filipino short story written in English—a woman who was also very much ahead of her time, as well as of her male contemporaries.
It is interesting to see that although both women were from different cultures and eras, and had altogether different realities, their lives share some themes and lessons that make us realize the value of any human life, no matter how insignificant it may seem at first. They are not my idols-apparent—I have always claimed to idolize the late Princess Diana and Audrey Hepburn for being women of style, substance, and strength—but they have lived lives that I now only dream of living (and fusing). Albright is a woman who has risen from humble Jewish-Czech beginnings to the savage, male-dominated world of (American) politics; while Benitez chose to live a more quiet and genteel life as a writer, educator, wife, and mother, but reflected a young nation’s dreams and visions of hope in her written work.
As a young woman whose heart is in both politics and art, social transformation and cultural consciousness, I find in both women lives lived well, and worth sharing.
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I have not gone far in reading both biographies (Albright’s is entitled Seasons of her Life, written by Time correspondent Ann Blackman; Benitez’s is Paz Marquez Benitez: One Woman’s Life, Letters, and Writings, written by her daughter, Virginia Benitez Licuanan), but both women’s stories show how inextricably linked the seemingly mundane events of our lives can be with the history of young nations in turmoil. In reading their histories, and those of their ancestors, I have come to realize that no war, no crisis, no event of national significance is ever too far removed from the food on our table or the clothes on our back to be deemed inconsequential to daily living.
Madeleine (Madlenka) Körbelová’s father, Josef Körbel (I have learned that females add an “ová” to their surnames), was a diplomat in the young democratic Czechoslovakia at the time Madeleine was born, in 1937. He was popular and well-liked, and sat in the good graces of Beneš administration. He and his wife, Mandula—who was a very good chronicler—lived an almost-enviable life of political sorties, parties, and friends in high places, until the day Hitler decided that Czechoslovakia was his for the taking. Because Körbel was too closely identified with then-president Beneš and was Jewish—although the family did not really practice the religion—he and his young family had to be exiled to Britain.
Paz Marquez, on the other hand, was born in 1894, years before the Revolution which jostled us from Spain’s clutches onto the hands of the Americans. The place which their family called home was Tayabas (now Quezon), then a “hot bed” of the revolution, where serenity was unheard of, and where families had to master the games of habulan and taguan in order to survive. In her memoirs, she writes of moments of anticipation and dread at the thought of being caught by the Spaniards, and of friends and loved ones lost either because of the war itself, or as a side-effect of all the upheaval and illness that are frequently associated with such events.
Both Madeleine and Paz’s families were caught in the midst of wars that rocked their fragile nations, their intimate, personal tragedies and diary entries the reflections of cold and faceless accounts in our news archives and history textbooks.
* * * * *
In a sense, and to echo a lesson I learned in Philosophy class, what is personal is universal, and what is universal is personal. What were then private scribblings in notebooks and loose sheets of paper by then private individuals of no national consequence are now peepholes into a different culture, a different era, a different world. The Czechoslovakia of Madlenka Körbelová’s youth has now been dissolved, and the Quezons and Osmeñas who once graced the Benitez dining hall are now only imprints on almost-worthless currency. And yet, for a time, they were real, they were held dear.
Even Albright and Benitez seem far removed from us now, until we read their stories and find ourselves transported to their world, to the core of their day-to-day existence, understanding (for a brief moment) what it was like to have lived in their worlds.
* * * * *
It makes me wonder about the true weight and value of seemingly insignificant decisions that I have made, or have yet to make. What will my high-slitted, tight-skirted presence at EDSA Dos mean 20 years from now, when my children are in high school, and when they would have read about the second People Power that once again installed a woman president? How will life be for my family in 2020, and how will I explain to them the choices that I would have made with each election from now until then? Will I be able to afford to send my children to my beloved Ateneo? Or will the desire for true social involvement and change tear me from this comfortable life, to pursue other goals on another path? What will my diary entries and Spoonful issues mean for another generation who may (or may not) read them?
How will my thoughts, beliefs, decisions, and actions shape my little world, and how will little life this fit into the grander—universal—scheme of things?
How will yours?
(Written: March 11, 2004)
More Sights and Lessons from the Rooftop
Tuesday, October 2, 2007Happy new year, everyone!
I should have written this a week ago, exactly on New Year’s Day, but I was too busy enjoying my self-imposed vacation that I decided to hold off on any work-related activities (including writing this Spoonful). I finally went back to work with a vengeance on Monday, but my PC died on me, perhaps heralding the beginning of an unpredictable and challenging year.
I don’t mind surprises, and I don’t mind challenges, either. My experiences the past half-year have taught me to embrace them. And I’d like to believe my gut when it tells me that 2004 may be my most exciting year yet! (Or, maybe, that’s just me putting on double rose-colored lenses.)
* * * * *
New Year’s Eve was a simple, solitary affair. I spent the hours leading up to 2004 cooking a simple pasta dish, after which Paul and I spent over an hour watching the fireworks from our favorite hideaway by the bay.
Up there on that rooftop, everything seemed bright, lovely, and—I’ll use the term again—enchanting. The streets were ablaze with lights of different colors (those by the airport runway were the most fascinating of them all), and they were virtually empty, save for a few whizzing cars here and there. Light show after light show erupted across the metropolis’ skies, and we amused ourselves by guessing which fireworks originated from what place—and what events were being held there. Of course, the Makati area seemed to be the liveliest of them all, although what seemed to be Alabang or Las Piñas—or even Cavite—surprised us with their own showers.
Imagine the fireworks display over New York Harbor on the 4th of July. That’s probably the only show which I know will rival what I have seen that night. It was as if the lights were performing a symphony of their own, with different colors, styles, “textures” (I can’t find any other way to describe it), and rhythms blending harmoniously to form a cohesive piece. It was the best fireworks display that I have ever seen in my life, and I thank all those homes and establishments who have spent tens of thousands of pesos on fireworks for giving me a truly memorable evening.
* * * * *
But the best part… oh, the best part, my dear friends, was not the fireworks display that greeted the new year, but the morning sun that ushered in a bright new day!
After taking a pre-dawn drive to greet some friends, we rushed back to the rooftop in time for some early morning sunshine. You would not believe how white everything was! The sky, instead of being tinted blue, and orange, and lavender—as the early morning skies usually were—was a study in monochromatic white and silver. Everything was just so bright that the sky looked more pristine and… heavenly than usual. We could hardly look up anymore, and we spent a good number of minutes gaping in awe. It was a morning unlike any other, and it was the perfect way to greet what could be a perfectly good year.
* * * * *
As we sat at the edge of the ledge, looking, as Paul said, “like two little schoolchildren atop a little hill,” we saw two birds circling the building, soaring up, then dipping down, then curving this way and that. Paul wondered if they were a pair, because although they seemed to be moving along wildly different paths, they were still flying in the same direction.
We observed the little creatures for a while, who seemed to be enjoying that little side trip of theirs, until Paul concluded, “They’re a pair, alright.” Then we went back to face the glaring sun in peaceful silence.
* * * * *
That scene, especially in the context of our New Year celebration, made me think about life and relationships. All too often, we expect our partners to be traveling along the same road with us, walking beside us to hold our hands, behind us to catch us if we fall, or in front of us to lead the way. It seems to me that we haven’t yet accepted that partners can lead completely separate lives and walk distinctly separate paths, but still look towards the same direction, share a single vision, and therefore maintain a loving and supportive relationship.
Moreover, when we think of “paths”, we imagine narrow stone walkways, marked trails, or anything with boundaries—instead of a wide open space where we can choose whichever way to go. What really struck me, more than seeing the pair of birds go off separately then fly again in unison, was the figure of the path they flew on.
Imagine curved lines that run parallel for a while, then intersect and form a figure 8, then go off in wild directions, then somehow run parallel again. Our childhood, educational system, and corporate cultures don’t seem to encourage that kind of route. Somehow, everyone is conditioned to run a linear course, to do things one-by-one, step-by-step, instead of being allowed to experiment and find a path that fits.
Worse, we expect our partners to travel on exactly the same path where we are, leaving the poor fellow to awkwardly find his place on that road.
* * * * *
I’ve always compared myself to a bird. Nelly Furtado’s song “I’m Like A Bird” became my anthem at one point in my life, and that metaphor stuck to me even more after that surreal morning. Like a bird, I want to fly off in different directions, surveying and enjoying the view along the way, and perhaps learning about life in those parts of the sky. I want to bask in the brightness of the morning sun, and I want to feel the glow of life as I flap my wings and go up, then down, the round and round my little world.
And, like the birds that we saw on New Year morning, I want to fly with a partner who can go off on his own way, but still come back to share the view and the rest of the journey with me. Is it that little schoolboy with whom I shared the view atop a little hill? Only time can tell. Happy 2004, everyone.
(Written: A Spoonful of Sugar, 8 January 2004)
