Her Name is Shiela and I Don't Know Her

Jesse Cabanacan

Two days ago a kindhearted fellow Barugon-on, Jenny Dispo Bautista, posted a request in one of the discussion boards of the Barugon-on group in Facebook. She asked me and the creator of the group, Boyte (Elmer) De Veyra, if she could post an appeal for help for one of our own. Of course, we told her. I also asked her to do the same in the Salog Himanglos group. Immediately, Jenny started a discussion board in the Barugon-on group. “Let’s Save A Life” was the topic title Jenny gave it.

Her name is Shiela, and I don’t know her. Shiela Ariza, 35 years old, mother of two, daughter of one Mr. Tomas Ariza of barangay Tutog-an. That rustic place by the Himanglos across the famous hanging bridge from barangay Calingcaguing. She has cervical cancer. That much I know.

Jenny started the discussion with “an appeal to you all to help a fellow Barugon-on who is now fighting for her dear life and is in need of major operation….She is now confined in a charity hospital in Paranaque City (Our Lady of Peace Hospital) and is just waiting for enough funds to finance her operation. The estimate (sic) cost of her operation is 50,000 pesos. With this amount, we are giving hope to a person who has much to live for. Christmas is fast approaching, and there’s no better way of celebrating it than bringing hope to Shiela. Bless you all for your kindness.”

Within 24 hours of her posting, three kindhearted Barugon-ons from the Chicago area responded with their contributions. The following day another one offered help. I do not know for sure whether or not we can consider this an overwhelming response.

According to the National Cervical Cancer Coalition, women in developing countries account for about 85 percent of both the yearly cases of cervical cancer and the yearly deaths from cervical cancer. Each year, approximately 473,000 women worldwide are diagnosed with cervical cancer. Each year, about 253,500 women die of cervical cancer. These are the desensitizing statistics. “A million deaths is a statistic. A single death is a tragedy.”

This year, 473,000 women were diagnosed with the deadly cervical cancer, plus Shiela Ariza. For some people I may or may not know, the numbers look like this:

473,000 and a daughter, Shiela.

473,000 and a mother of two, Shiela.

473,000 and a sister, Shiela.

473,000 and a cousin, Shiela.

473,000 and a niece, Shiela.

473,000 and a dear friend, Shiela.

And it could look like this: 253,500 deaths this year, and Shiela.

You get my drift.

Her name is Shiela and she lies in her hospital bed scared and wondering whether or not she can get her life-saving operation before it is too late. Too late for her two children to ever see the smile on her face again. But because of people like Jenny Dispo Bautista and many more who will rush to offer help, there just might be hope for her. For her children.

“Pay it forward” is not just a cliché. For Shiela specially, it comes real. She can never repay anyone and may not even be able to pay forward. But it doesn’t matter because there are lots of people who can and will pay forward. So Shiela can someday hold a grandchild in her arms. Nothing could be sweeter than that.

Her name is Shiela, she is fighting for dear life and I don’t know her. But I am happy. Many others are happy not because she could end up a tragedy. Happy at the chance to give her hope. To give her children hope. Nothing could be bigger than that!

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Note:
If you are interested in helping Shiela Ariza please go to the Barugon-on group “Let’s Save a Life” discussion topic for details on how you can send your donation.

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UPDATE:

On December 27, 2009, Shiela passed away happy that she was given the chance to spend Christmas with her family. To those who helped and prayed for Shiela, her family extend their sincere appreciation and heartfelt gratitude.

Teacher Most Sublime

Jesse Cabanacan

I did not know much about her and most of what I know now about anything I may not have learned from her, but as sure as the sun rises in the east, she made it easier for me to understand and learn.

I remember the very first day I met her in grade school. Being then of young mind and utterly lacking of discernment I failed to grasp that what was in front of me was the very definition of class and sophistication. But now my recollection of that first sight of her in grade school is completely devoid of any doubt. There she was so immaculate, as I now reminisce that encounter so vividly in my memory. And she had the grace, poise and elegance of the Queen of England!

She was my first grade teacher, and that was the only thing I knew about her then.

I do not remember much about my first day in grade school but I do recall walking for the first time along the path that I would follow for the next six years. It was a leisurely walk from the house I grew up in along Candaza Street heading west towards Real, now Penaranda Street. Today the smell of copra[1] still evokes memories of childhood felicity, for it was at this junction where I would pass along beds of copra drying under the intense heat of the sun, right on the road in front of the warehouse leased by our revered local Chinese copra trader. So it was also that this intersection marked the unofficial westerly boundary of our neighborhood playground, where at times we would pick up slices of copra as substitute snack food, quickly to satisfy any hunger pangs while at play. But I digress.

I did not know much about her but I was to find out rather quickly that the appearance which so electrified and awed me came with a creative mind and a passionate desire for helping young minds learn. In her classroom, decorum was the order of the day, the better to induce the mind to its proper focus and promote an environment conducive to learning. To learn the ABCs, children must first be trained to conduct themselves, a simple yet effective premise she imparted unwritten and unspoken.

The path that took me to school for the six years of grade school, I would walk twice in the morning and twice in the afternoon. There was the mid-day walk back home for lunch and then back to school after lunch, when the extreme tropical heat was at its peak. Today, most kids dare not walk but instead take the sikad-sikad[2] to school, a sign of progress or a misguided sense of priorities. I have neither the courage nor the pre-eminence to be judgmental.

Though I did not know much about her my curious little mind deduced that she was firm but fair. It was not her nature to embarrass any of her misbehaving pupils in front of the class. First the unruly one would be at the receiving end of “the stare.” When that didn’t work he would be pulled aside and admonished in a tone neither loud nor demeaning, such a rebuke done in a manner that a first grader would understand as to why the specific misbehavior was considered intolerable. But the stare, menacing yet not disparaging, worked most of the time, its laser-like precision cutting short any tomfoolery in progress. I know whereof I speak for not just once was I the subject of both corrective remedies.

After the left turn on Real Street from Candaza, my slow walk to school would take me to the plaza[3] adjoining Real and Mabini streets. I would bear right onto the diagonal path that cut through the plaza to the intersection of San Francisco and Mabini streets. I would then proceed along Mabini all the way to Arellano, where I would make a left turn towards Veyra Street, now Delgado Avenue, from where the school would be in sight. I would take the same direction in reverse on the way back home. I will remember this route through senility but what is most memorable is the short cut along the diagonal path through the plaza.

I still did not know much about her but she was one who saw the good in you and believed that you could do better. She inspired you towards perfection but recognized your limitation as well. And it is only now that I realize how she believed that before you could exploit your strengths you must first understand your weaknesses, truly one of the traits that made her teaching so effective. She had the distinctive ability to describe things from faraway places all over the world with such eloquence it made you feel you were at the very same place being described and made you believe she had been there, though she had not. She worked your imagination, and for the young mind there could be nothing better for its enhancement.

What made that short walk through the plaza most memorable was the work of my fertile imagination. Though I was always aware of the potential risk to bodily harm posed by the grazing horses, I always found comfort at the thought that my maternal grandparents lived just across the street from it. My grandfather, short of formal education but full of worldly wisdom, was a formidable source of strength for me. But that is for another topic for another day. The plaza was hallowed ground for legend has it that it used to be a cemetery in the early days of our town. Bereft of any markers one was left to imagine who could have been buried there and when. It was this walk that at times I beckoned the spirit of unknown ancestors to help me and guide me through the day. And it was on these walks that I would imagine things I would do someday, perhaps riding a horse like a knight in shining armor. But again I digress.

Though I did not know much about her, I know she taught me many things, from the mundane to the most meaningful. She taught me the King’s English as it should be written and spoken. It was from her that I first received formal instruction in my second language. Whether by sheer luck or stroke of fate, she was also my English teacher in sixth grade. Like an expert carpenter, she taught me how a sentence, from simple to complex, was constructed, every part and its utility and purpose clearly explained. I learned how to dissect every part and section of a complete sentence like a medical student dissecting a frog. And I’ll let you be the judge, for modesty precludes me, as to how effective she was.

After almost 20 years of dedicating her life to molding, cultivating and educating young minds, I suppose she decided it was time to redirect her efforts towards a better life for herself and seek greener pasture. So it was that at the age of 41 she left the small town she so loved and an enviable profession she was so good at to migrate to the United States. I was in high school by then but still a great loss she was to my grade school, Barugo Central Elementary School. She worked and settled in the windy city of Chicago, Illinois, where she eventually retired.

Almost every year from the mid-1980s through the mid-1990s, I attended the annual convention in Chicago of the American College of Healthcare Executives, a professional organization I used to be affiliated with as a Diplomate when I was still active in the military healthcare arena. It was not until sometime in the mid-1990s when I finally found enough courage to call and tell her that I was in town for the week. She graciously invited me for dinner and was kind enough to pick me up from my hotel. I still remember the chicken and pork adobo[4] she prepared for the occasion but, no, that was not the highlight of the evening. It felt so surreal, for here I was having dinner with, well you just have to trust me, the Queen! Reality check has it that I have a better chance of either winning the lottery or being hit by lightning than being invited to Buckingham Palace in this lifetime for tea with Queen Elizabeth. But I can tell you that in her modest abode that very evening it felt like I was in Buckingham Palace chitchatting with the Queen about my family and career. I was in teacher heaven!

There are people around you who greatly affect your life such as your parents, siblings and close friends. And you know a whole lot about them. Some people you may not get to know much about, yet they have a very profound impact on your life. She was one of those people. She played a major role in that chapter of my formative years that carried all the way to what I am today. Outside of my parents, immediate family and close friends, she had the most influence in my life. I am what I am today because she stood for what she was.

She was my teacher[5] in first grade.

Genoveva A. Ayuste.

There are a few things I know about her now. Members of her immediate family tell me that she was born January 3, 1930. I learned from them how she cared so much for her nieces and nephews, and how they miss her. Not surprisingly, she was to them an extraordinary person.

On December 17, 2003, two weeks shy of her 74th birthday, she succumbed to breast cancer.

Ms. Genoveva A. Ayuste, teacher most sublime.

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Notes:

[1] Copra is “the dried sections of the meaty inner lining of the coconut palm. It is the principal commercial product derived from the coconut palm, and is used primarily as a source of coconut oil.”

[2] Sikad-sikad is the local name for the pedicab or pedal powered vehicle. In the Waray-Waray or Leynete-Samarnon dialect, “sikad” means kick.

[3] In Barugo, Leyte, the vacant lot occupying almost the entire block along Penaranda (formerly Real) Street, between Candaza and Mabini streets, is known as the plaza. This open space, covered in carabao grass, served as the training ground for high school students of Leyte Institute conducting drills for the required military training in the high school curriculum. Most other times, it served as the grazing ground for local horses, cows and goats. Legend has it that it used to be the town cemetery in the early days of Barugo.

[4] In Filipino cuisine, according to Ambeth Ocampo in his article “Looking Back: ‘Adobo’ in Many Forms,” (PDI, 2/24/09) adobo refers to a common and very popular cooking process indigenous to the Philippines. Typically, pork or chicken, or a combination of both, is slowly cooked in soy sauce, vinegar, crushed garlic, bay leaves and black peppercorns.

[5] My other teachers in grade school, all good and competent, were: Mrs. Maria M. Astorga, Mrs. Agatona Estil, Mrs. Esperanza Escober, Mrs. Francisca Caneda, Mr. Natividad Gobenciong, Mrs. Aurora Escober, Mr. Abdon Acuin, Ms. Francisca Caneda, and Mrs. Anita Celestino.

The River Flows Upstream

Jesse Cabanacan

I fell in love with her at a very young age. It was so intense I chose her over childhood fame, even risked life and limb. Skipping classes was an afternoon delight because that was the only time we could have for each other. My teacher warned me that unless I stopped seeing her, not only was my place in the honor roll at risk, but worse I could end up with a failing grade.

Because I so loved her I did not stop. I almost drowned in her love, literally. I was in third grade and she truly was my first love. But love is not all there is and ours was never meant to be, not in the traditional boy and girl sense anyway. It could never have been, could never be, well, not just for me anyway. There were others, too, I found out later on. I always believed that all along she knew that someday I’d have to leave her for reasons that both of us subtly understood. And somehow I thought that she would always welcome me back with open arms.

It has been at least three decades since I last felt her soothing touch and caressed her then pristine body. I am ashamed, for not even once in my frequent trips back home did I get the same feeling as before. I am ashamed because it just seemed like I cared no more. But I am enraged and ashamed because in the time I was gone she had been, akin to rape, recklessly ravaged and turned into murky waters by the same people she showered with, nay bathed in, love. The only kind she knew, nurturing love.

Yes, she was my first love.

My river. My town. My birthplace. Himanglos River. Barugo. You see, to me, the river is the town is the river is the town. Same concept as the Holy Trinity, faith is your understanding. My Salog Himanglos, yes she is, was, will be, always!

Then six years ago she wrote me a letter. And I’d like to share excerpts of it, which go like this:

“You probably don’t realize how much you’ve taken me for granted. Like others did, and to this day many still do, you left me so as to satisfy your youthful quest and to pursue your dream of the future. Decades later and an ocean apart, you’re not sure you have accomplished either one. Because you can still feel the youth and adventure in your heart and you think, unattainably, that you will always chase the future only with a dream!

Pray tell, when you talk about me, how do you do justice to the place that nurtured you? A place now far removed from where you are. Or am I really? I am sure you can figure it out, but let me help you remember me by. Think with your heart, not with your mind, for there is nothing inconsequential about me, the place where you were born and raised.

In between you kept looking back, thinking that you were always here. All these years you felt as if you never left. In middle age, however, you’ve come to realize how selfish it has been of you to think that way. Selfish, yes, because it really is the other way around. I may not always be in your thoughts but I know I’m always in your heart. You may have left me, but I never left you.

I am this little town of a river. Or this river of a little town. Most never get it; they think I am this river by the town or this town by the river. You know I am both and that truly I am one.

And so let me help you remember me by.

Let your heart usher in the memories of the past, feel the realities of the present, and hope for the future; from early innocence to the reckless abandon of your youth, to the impetuosity and seeming invincibility of your adolescence, feel the joys and agonies of living the simple life of this little, lovely town.

I will help you remember me by.

The day you decided it was time to go, it didn’t matter where to. Because at that cocky stage in your life leaving was more important than to where you were going, as you thought ever so smartly. No different a premise than love conquers all, I suppose. Well, later on you realized you may not have been that smart at all. Because you grew up and learned about direction and a vision for the future. And now you ask yourself, “Have I been to the future?” So tell me, have you? And did you, do you, will you like it?

But let me help you remember me by.

You always had this funny feeling every time you came for a visit. You thought the streets became narrower before your very eyes. Physically impossible, thought you so. Your analytical mind refused to believe it but could not disprove it!

Let your heart nourish your mind and it will help you remember me by.

You can be smarter with your heart and realize that you were looking at what was then from where you are now. No, the streets are not narrower. It only seemed that way because, as you grew older wishing to be wiser, your perspective became wider. Don’t be fooled, the water seems to go downstream but it really flows upstream.

I do not know that you will ever understand but I’m not sure that it matters most. In that sense I can tell you that, yes, you have been to the future in the past and I know you liked it. And you’ll like the next future even better!

In your journey, I was with you always. And will be. For you are forever special to me, and I know I have a very special place in your heart. There is no then, and now is only fleeting.

I may be old now but to be old again is young. Come to me. I am always.”

Since receiving the letter from her I have been compiling a list of things I remember. In the coming months ahead, I will narrate the things I remember about me and especially about her. Memories stored in the deep recesses of my heart about how it was and what it was like growing up in the little town by the Himanglos and the river by the town of Barugo in Leyte province. If your heart so desires, you may also help me remember her by.

That is the very least we can do.