I was invited to a despedida for a grandnephew who leaves shortly for college abroad. As always, I was the token super senior. We were a small group. The food, all home-cooked, was delicious, as usual.
Conversation was varied. We started with the conventional niceties, discussed current events here and elsewhere. Everyone had an opinion but all agreed that we live in stressful times.
And as wine and canapés were passed around, our language became a bit more colorful, a tad more emphatic.
An early topic was the never resolved conflict for extra gates in Ayala Alabang, a problem that has festered in the village for way too long.
Until a new one was allowed to open, the village had three gates, all with access only to and from Commerce Avenue, which is now our mini-Edsa. Wait until Christmas comes around.
Those opposed are understandably concerned about the value of their real estate. But they need to realize that with about 20,000 residents, this is truly an emergency nightmare.
I hope that their sense of community kicks in soon.
And then the conversation turned gruesome. Someone talked about bloody corpses on the streets. It was hardly the ideal topic before a meal. But we couldn’t ignore the heaviness in our hearts.
I listened intently, and for the first time in quite a while, I felt a little encouraged. I thought I saw genuine concern. The gentleman seated across from me was emotional: “Imagine yourselves as the bereaved parents. Think, what if Kian was your son?”
If I were to describe the tone of our conversation, I would say that it went from typically polite storytelling (kwento) to forgetting all norms and letting loose with a barrage of expletives without apology or restraint. The language went off-color. There was no love lost for the cops.
What I sensed around me was what one writer has described as “seething anger for the outrage that continues unchallenged in our land.”
Define outrage
When used as a noun, “outrage” means an act of wanton cruelty or violence; any gross violation of law or decency. Anything that strongly offends, insults or affronts the feelings. A powerful feeling of resentment or anger, aroused by something perceived as an injury, insult or injustice.
As a verb—to subject to grievous violence or indignity; to anger or offend, to make resentful, or to shock.
All of the above accurately defines our situation today.
At a meeting in a church, someone asked: “Okay, we’re mad as hell. Spilling over with righteous indignation. We even shed tears. But what will we do about it? I think maybe we are too comfortable to make noise, to ask questions, to let our voices be heard, to demand an explanation.”
I feel a strong surge of déjà vu. I think I have heard this argument before. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
It’s time to check our hearts and ask: What is our role in this unfolding tragedy? Do we care? I saw a raw video with a young girl asking: “Anong paki mo?” It hit a nerve. I haven’t slept well since.
We have gotten into the habit of passing judgment, fixing blame and shrugging our shoulders, saying, “there’s nothing I can do about this” and walking away.
I suspect that we have gotten so accustomed to the gore and violence that we can now talk about lives lost in the same breath as the latest gossip.
Don’t forget that the culture of impunity is put into place by the culture of indifference, complacency and fear. Think about it.
Time for a good story
It tells of a 92-year-old man who is moving into an old people’s home. His wife of 70 years has died and he must leave his home.
After waiting in the lobby, he smiles as he is told his room is ready. Using his cane, he walks to the elevator. An attendant walks with him, and describes his small room, his future home, including the curtains.
“I like it very much,” the old man exclaims like a little boy who has just received a puppy.
The attendant is surprised. “But sir, you haven’t even seen your room yet.”
The old man says, “That has nothing to do with it. Happiness is something I choose in advance. Whether or not I like the room does not depend on the furniture or the décor, rather it depends on how I decide to see it. It is already decided in my mind that I like my room.
“It is a decision I make every morning when I wake up.
“I can choose. I can spend my day in bed enumerating all the difficulties that I have with the parts of my body that no longer work very well, or I can get up and give thanks to heaven for those parts that are still in working order.
“Every day is a gift. And as long as I can open my eyes, I will focus on the new day and all the happy memories that I have built up over my life.
“Old age is like a bank account. You withdraw in later life what you have deposited along the way.
“So my advice to you is deposit all the happiness you can in your bank account of memories.
“Remember these simple guidelines for happiness: Free your heart from hate. Free your mind from worry. Live simply. Give more. Expect less.”