Lesson One from Professor Sonia P. Ner: “When you start on your journey towards your goal, be sure to enjoy the journey itself. Don’t focus only on your destination, only on getting what you want. Often enough in life, you might not achieve your goal or arrive at your dreamt-of destination. But if you enjoyed the journey, you already got something for your efforts. That may sound like ‘consuelo de bobo’ (consolation for the stupid), but it’s worse if you don’t enjoy the journey itself because then you get nothing but disappointment; you won’t have any consuelo. You’ll just be the bobo!”
When Sonia Pinto-Ner wrote the last entry of her life on Sept. 24, 2012, she closed the book on 73 years of solid achievement in several fields, assuring her inclusion in any Renaissance Women of the Philippines list.
To begin with and closest to her heart, she was mother to two accomplished sons—Dino and Carlo—and doting grandmother to her adored Maia. Possibly the most entertaining for her (considering how bizarre teenagers can be), she taught Asian History to convent schoolgirls and college boys in various schools in Manila.
No doubt the most intellectually and artistically satisfying for her, she helped create more than four dozen beautifully crafted books on Philippine history and art, working until the day she died as either production manager, researcher, writer or consultant on books that covered such topics as a century of Philippine-American relations; Philippine cartography during the Spanish colonial period; religious vestments and Filipino crafts; stage designs by Filipino National Artist Salvador Bernal; the lives of Manuel and Aurora Quezon; paintings on seashells from the Philippines; and the works of renowned artist Anita Magsaysay-Ho.
This working mother found time to serve as director of Ayala Museum and executive director of Asia Society Philippines.
For years she headed the History Department at Maryknoll College where she was also Dean of Women. She conducted classes for diplomats coming to the Philippines from different countries, acquainting them with Filipino culture.
She found time for hobbies that simultaneously satisfied her enormous need to create and manifested her rich talent for friendship. She sewed some of her own clothes, and bed or table linen that she gave friends; took classes in Chinese painting, jewelry beading, pottery and ceramics; created peach and blue Christmas décor when others still used traditional green and red; assembled a lovely garden in her home and, most significantly for me, made and kept throughout her life dozens of friends who now fill the void she leaves with the consoling memories of her vivid life.
Distinct style
I met Sonia in 1967 when she taught my freshman college Oriental History class at Maryknoll, Quezon City. She was only 28 then; unknown to us, we were beginning a friendship that would last the next 45 years and remain strong even with the Pacific Ocean between us when I moved to Canada in 1990, after which we relied on e-mail and phone calls in between my visits to Manila.
Like most people who saw her for the first time, I was impressed by Sonia’s distinct style. She wore a dress made of traditional Filipino material (piña, rami), fabrics associated with the barong tagalog or terno, rather than hip daily wear.
Characteristically, she added her own touch, turning the classic barong usually worn by men into a mini shirt-dress that she garnished with a row of chartreuse cloth-covered buttons along the cuffs and accessorized with a knit belt in her favorite color, fuchsia, as well as pale-green stockings that ended in tan shoes with chartreuse and fuchsia stripes.
Her sleek ponytail was tied with a silk fuchsia scarf, and she carried a shoulder bag of fuchsia and green weave. In 1967, that kind of innovative individualism was sure to catch the attention of teenagers still trying to formulate their own fashion statements.
The clear memory almost half a century later testifies to the uniqueness of Sonia’s style, choices and creativity.
She deftly combined classic, traditional Filipino cultural elements like the barong with a dash of modernity and features gleaned from other cultures. She did this not only with her clothes, but also in every facet of her life.
Discipline and spontaneity
I learned to appreciate the passion Sonia felt for Philippine and Asian history, culture, the arts and popular crafts. This history buff knew her stuff—details of dates and events in Chinese, Japanese and Philippine history; old masters and new trends in the paintings of Filipino artists; past and future directions taken by Filipino artisans and pop culture.
The fascinating confluence of personal discipline and spontaneity in Sonia enabled her to explore the different fields in which she built enviable careers. Others might be content to accomplish as much as Sonia did in one field of endeavor; she had energy for several journeys during her lifetime.
The seed of our friendship was planted when Sonia expressed her appreciation of—and amusement at—the earnest intensity and fevered desire to learn that marked my student years. Yes, I was that annoying classmate who, from kindergarten on, would geekily raise her hand and say, “Teacher, you forgot to give us our homework.”
While many of my classmates detested me for this kill-joy nerdiness (as did my lazier teachers), Sonia was delighted that some of her students were as intent on learning as she was. By my third year in college when she was no longer my teacher, our friendship had progressed to the point that I was occasionally invited to dinners in her home, the earliest of hundreds of lively meals we’d share over the years.
Totally in tune
After college, I taught a couple of classes in English Literature at Maryknoll, while also working in a newspaper. Sonia and I ate lunch together in the teachers’ lounge or in nearby restaurants while she joked about being “an impoverished tubercular academic.” We jousted over the different views we held on nationalism (she was for it, I not so much), religion (she for, I not), fiction (I deliriously for, she not so much).
But on the subject of history, we were totally in tune, sharing the belief that one must have a solid grasp of it or perish, or at least wander the world a boring “bobo.”
Since Sonia was 10-and-a-half years older than me, she had a head start on The Wisdom of the Years and The Woeful Lessons that Life Begets. She watched my baby steps with amusement, often with a delightful sort of cackle that she broke into when something really amused her. She’d say to me, vigorously cackling, “One reason I keep you as a friend is because you’re so entertaining—the crazy things you do with your life! Fascinating experimentation with insanity, but better you than me.”
This was when I was testing out various expressions of religiosity by, in quick succession, joining the Carmelite nuns, joining the Hare
Krishnas, joining the Zen Buddhists, and finally starting my own one-woman religion during which I designed a habit of white Buddhist blouse, brown Carmelite skirt and orange Hare Krishna sash.
Good Lord, for a few months, I actually went out in public dressed like that. Sonia thought my attire atrocious, of course, but she gamely walked into restaurants with me, cackling under her breath as she promised she’d get me some takeout if I was thrown out of the place.
Wearying of my experiments in religiosity, I returned to sanity and normal garb and concentrated on my lifelong passion for literature. This was the mid-’70s and I had fallen in love with the poetry of the great Greek poet Constantine P. Cavafy after chancing upon his most famous poem “Ithaca” in an issue of Gloria Steinem’s Ms Magazine (after all those Catholic, yogic and Buddhist nuns, I had turned into an energized feminist).
I excitedly showed Sonia the poem. Reading it, she said: “Exactly!”
Cheerleader
When I married fellow writer Richard Vokey in 1984, Sonia was one of our witnesses and a cheerleader for my unconventional wedding arrangements: I chucked the chauffeur-driven wedding limo that traditionally delivered the blushing bride. Instead, I hitched up my Salvador Bernal wedding gown so the lace hem wouldn’t catch on the pedals of my Toyota Corolla, and drove myself to my wedding, why not.
My mother and maiden aunts watched aghast as I parked in front of our astonished guests and changed from my rubber driving shoes to white heels, but Sonia was laughing out loud and giving me the thumbs-up.
She was no doubt relieved I wasn’t wearing my Carmelite-Krishna-Zen outfit, and she heartily approved that I hadn’t invited at least 200 guests to the event the way everybody else in our circle did. There were only 20 people present, including the bride, groom, judge and, of course, Sonia.
She was among my first visitors when my only child, son Dylan, was born. She came to the hospital bearing distinctly Sonia gifts: a pewter bowl filled with Philippine coins to symbolize prosperity for the new babe; a collection of the major Philippine newspapers published the day of my son’s birth to remind him of his place in shared history; and a dozen green crib sheets and pillowcases she’d sewn herself.
The thought and effort she put into those presents—into every present she gave me and all her lucky friends—was another Sonia signature. It spoke of a person who valued her friends so much she wholeheartedly invested every one of her gestures of friendship with extraordinary care, imagination and generosity of spirit.
Both avid travelers, Sonia and I met up in other countries. She visited me in Canada in the early ’90s, expressing awe that I’d finally learned to cook and do housework. Coincidentally, we were in Spain at the same time when she was doing research in Spanish museums and libraries for one of her books, and I was traveling with my husband and son.
Breast cancer
The last decade of her life, Sonia battled breast cancer. Every visit I made to the Philippines, I scheduled at least a full day to spend with her, to just sit in her garden and talk about everything in the world.
On those visits, I stayed with my sister whose home is almost two hours’ drive to Sonia’s house in Alabang. Consoling me on the tiring drive, Sonia said, “Think of it as your epic journey over seven seas and a dozen mountains—that makes it sound romantic and valiant as you sit through Manila traffic.”
She always prepared a sumptuous meal served upon a tablecloth she’d sewn herself, decorated with ferns she planted herself, using herbs she nurtured from seedlings. She preferred not to talk about her illness, giving only matter-of-fact reports on her condition and joking about all the Lindt chocolates, walnuts, pistachios, olives, olive oil, cheese, fresh fruit, fresh seafood and other goodies that friends kept bringing her from all over the Philippines and the world.
“Hay naku, friends will kill me with diabetes and obesity before the cancer does. I should open my own sari-sari store and retire from book publishing and the academe—less work, more fun.”
When she finally retired from this lifetime, Cavafy’s “Ithaca” was read by one of Sonia’s friends as they gathered to see her off, an appropriate farewell to this lifelong traveler.
In the most lyrical translation from Greek by Rae Dalven, Cavafy’s poem begins: “When you start on your journey to Ithaca, then pray that the road is long, full of adventure, full of knowledge…”
Sonia could paraphrase the poem with her Lesson One and say: “When you start on your journey to anywhere, enjoy every moment.” She certainly did.
Independent individuals
My 45-year friendship with Sonia was the most adult friendship I had with anyone I met when I was a teenager and kept as a friend into my dotage. We related with one another as independent individuals, not imposing our (sometimes opposing) views on one another, respectful of each other’s domain while confident we were there for each other.
We never meddled in one another’s business as we happily participated in each other’s lives. While she started out as my teacher, Sonia was too modest to presume to wear the mentor mantle. Self-contained and confident, she didn’t need acolytes.
She gave me her friendship as a fellow traveler, and perhaps her only demand of her friends was that we honor our journey through life as conscientiously and exuberantly as she did.
Sonia’s energy lives on in other dimensions and in her legacy of sons, grandchild, former students, books and friends. I wish I could spend another day with her on my next visit to the Philippines. Life was more fun when she was around, gifts more thoughtfully chosen and their boxes more exquisitely wrapped, home interiors more tastefully designed, dinner tables more imaginatively decorated, accomplishments more graciously shared, ideas more vigorously discussed and, yes, cackles more roguishly cackled.
The thing is: Life is not as finely wrought with Sonia gone. And surely, that is a great, great loss. Thankfully, we have the consuelo of the journey we shared with her all those years, full of adventure, full of knowledge.
