Monday, January 09, 2006
The beginning
In precisely two weeks, on January 22, 2006, I will enter my grandfather's town in the Philippines: Bauan, in the province of Batangas.
I am trying my very best not to imagine what this will be like, or how I will feel to be there, standing on earth he walked upon, or swimming in waters he fished as a boy.
Instead I want to be guided by my instincts, the way Pio had to do when he stepped through the gates at Cavite Naval Station in early 1910, walked up the gangplank to the USS Mohican and into the US Navy, then stepped onto American soil several weeks later.
Within him he carried the memories of his childhood and family from Bauan, as well as the seeds for a family of his own to come. Once he sailed from Philippine waters, Pio, nor any of his relatives, ever returned.
I am returning him.
And as I do, I believe he will be with me, as he was one evening in 1989 in a darkened movie house. There I was, watching "Field of Dreams, " having a sudden, intense feeling that Pio was speaking to me. There he was, conveying not just that I should find a way to tell his story, but that writing will be my contribution to life on earth.
This was unbelievable, and unexpected. I had dabbled in writing for years, once considered it as a profession, enjoyed it, had some modest talent for it. My grandfather had died in 1974. I went to his funeral, feeling no overwhelming sadness, except that he died in a grocery store parking lot, alone. I hadn't been particularly close to Pio, nor he to me. His strong presence in the movie theatre was not a case of suppressed grief.
For hours after the film, I couldn't speak, except to say to my husband that I was overcome, with something. I cried as soon as I was alone, overwrought not with missing Pio, but with a strange energy akin to a sense of destiny. It felt dark, almost foreboding, the way one might feel on the eve of a difficult climb up a high mountain, or a sail through uncharted waters.
A mission to tell Pio's story and to be a writer was passed to me that night. I sense Pio's story contains a great sorrow, since often I can be moved to tears when I see or hear or read things about my grandfather, his generation of ward attendants and navy stewards, and the atrocities and prejudices committed against Filipinos.
And I believe his story has lacked closure, because I have had difficulty being tidy and organized in this project, a hard time working steadily towards its completion. The resistance is palpable, as if someone or something is battling against me telling the story.
Whatever the forces for and against, for 17 years on and off, I have made it my mission to know my grandfather's story in the Philippines and the Navy, and to tell about it from the beginning. The beginning is Bauan.
I am trying my very best not to imagine what this will be like, or how I will feel to be there, standing on earth he walked upon, or swimming in waters he fished as a boy.
Instead I want to be guided by my instincts, the way Pio had to do when he stepped through the gates at Cavite Naval Station in early 1910, walked up the gangplank to the USS Mohican and into the US Navy, then stepped onto American soil several weeks later.
Within him he carried the memories of his childhood and family from Bauan, as well as the seeds for a family of his own to come. Once he sailed from Philippine waters, Pio, nor any of his relatives, ever returned.
I am returning him.
And as I do, I believe he will be with me, as he was one evening in 1989 in a darkened movie house. There I was, watching "Field of Dreams, " having a sudden, intense feeling that Pio was speaking to me. There he was, conveying not just that I should find a way to tell his story, but that writing will be my contribution to life on earth.
This was unbelievable, and unexpected. I had dabbled in writing for years, once considered it as a profession, enjoyed it, had some modest talent for it. My grandfather had died in 1974. I went to his funeral, feeling no overwhelming sadness, except that he died in a grocery store parking lot, alone. I hadn't been particularly close to Pio, nor he to me. His strong presence in the movie theatre was not a case of suppressed grief.
For hours after the film, I couldn't speak, except to say to my husband that I was overcome, with something. I cried as soon as I was alone, overwrought not with missing Pio, but with a strange energy akin to a sense of destiny. It felt dark, almost foreboding, the way one might feel on the eve of a difficult climb up a high mountain, or a sail through uncharted waters.
A mission to tell Pio's story and to be a writer was passed to me that night. I sense Pio's story contains a great sorrow, since often I can be moved to tears when I see or hear or read things about my grandfather, his generation of ward attendants and navy stewards, and the atrocities and prejudices committed against Filipinos.
And I believe his story has lacked closure, because I have had difficulty being tidy and organized in this project, a hard time working steadily towards its completion. The resistance is palpable, as if someone or something is battling against me telling the story.
Whatever the forces for and against, for 17 years on and off, I have made it my mission to know my grandfather's story in the Philippines and the Navy, and to tell about it from the beginning. The beginning is Bauan.
# posted by Patricia Pasick @ 4:59 AM 
