As I like to say in yet another flaky attempt to be linguistically original, “Kongratz y Cudoz!” to our friend the premier poet Cirilo F. Bautista — not that he needs more of it just because he was finally honored officially as National Artist for Literature.
Took some time, too, as he was officially declared such in 2014, then had to wait for nearly two years, along with others, before being invited over to the Palace for presidential recognition.
Someone’s muscle memory misbehaves occasionally, we can and should understand that. History is replete with scenes of omission and commission, as I will try to explain or prove, circuitously, in what will be a rambling acceptance of the fact that there are days that await us and days that come tumbling down, or crashing up, with multiple highlights.
My own memory of a similar event in a Malacañang hall dates back to 1999, when Edith L. Tiempo received the same honors from then president Joseph Ejercito Estrada. How can we forget: “Mom” and Erap together on that dais, smiling as they shook hands.
It was mid-morning, and beside me was another poet from Dumaguete, Ernesto Superal Yee, who pointed at the contraction “Kgg.” that preceded the president’s name in the printed program, and asked what it meant. “Kagising-gising” seemed to be the proper reply.
This millennium, I missed the ceremony last Thursday, to which I had an invitation that said guests had to be there by 11:30 a.m., even if the program would commence at 1 p.m. I assumed that some form of lunch would be served during the wait.
No, that didn’t happen, reported Kaibigang Jimmy Abad later that day. A pity I couldn’t be with him to show our support for Toti while we would both be in Filipiniana attire, the way Toti himself, Jim and I manifested our brotherly support for fellow-poet Ricky de Ungria when he was installed as UP Mindanao Chancellor in Davao City in 2001.
An investiture, it was called. A good word: “A ceremony at which honors or rank are formally conferred on a particular person.” Years later, Ricky would author yet another poetry book, titled m’mry wire. And as poet-from-Sulu Anthony Tan reminded us on FB recently, the way that book was designed, one had to read it backwards, that is, in the traditional oriental way, right to left. On occasion, such is the observance of hopscotch history.
Back to the present, regretfully for our literary bro Toti’s sake, I had to miss out on April 14’s investiture at the Palace. And it wasn’t because there were two potentially historic NBA games being played that morning and noontime.
No. I failed to catch them live on TV, too, except for Kobe’s first quarter of his last game, when he missed his first five shots but proceeded to make his next four or five. All thanks to muscle memory, no doubt.
’Twas later in the day that my CP reported by way of the NBA and ESPN apps that Kobe had gone out in grand historic style, recording 60 glorious points in a win, including 15 consecutive in the last few minutes of the fourth to overhaul a Jazz lead all by himself. He also recorded a high of 50 field goal attempts, typically “bwakaw” some would say, but hey, he did convert 22 of those for a hefty 44 percent rate.
Way to go, KB. A typical Hollywood ending it was, too, after 20 years of superlative basketball played steadfastly for one team, the storied Los Angeles Lakers.
Meanwhile, April 14 was destined to have more heroes besides Cirilo F. Bautista and Kobe Bryant. There was the phenomenal Steph Curry, an alien or android all right, take your pick. There he was on another hardcourt, sinking 10 of 19 trey attempts for 46 points to guarantee that the defending champs Golden State Warriors would break a 20-year record held by Jordan’s 1995-96 Chicago Bulls for most number of wins in a regular season.
Seventy-three to shade MJ & Co.’s 72, which I personally tracked down in the first few months of 1996, ultimately headlining the historic 72nd in the newspaper I edited at the time, The Evening Paper.
Ah, all those numbers. Like, in Malacañang last Thursday, thence at CCP for the follow-up Parangal, only three living National Artists were actually in attendance. Kongratz y Cudoz! too to Alice Reyes, National Artist for Dance, and Ramon Santos, National Artist for Music. Of the nine who were thus honored in belated fashion, six were in posthumous mode (three from the 2009 batch), thus represented by kin.
But back to b-ball: 20 years it took to break the Bulls’ record, and 20 years became the lifespan of Bryant’s professional career. Addendum: for Steph’s 46 and Kobe’s 60, respectively, all those points came by way of muscle memory, so that California celebrated the twin achievements in one day.
But 20-20 wasn’t exactly the vision that certain pooh-bahs exercised when that sorry decision was made to shift our academic calendar and make it cover our sweltering summer months. 52.3 degrees Celsius was what Cabanatuan residents suffered last Tuesday, so it was a good thing that the students and teachers there didn’t have to troop to school to sweat it out, the way the academe of four dubiously intrepid institutions have now been complaining of.
Seriously, how can students be expected to study, and learn, when they have to sweat it out in classrooms and campuses for all of April and May, even as their thoughts turn wistful towards traditional family or barkada bonding time in some beach or mountain? Or going back to the old hometown for the annual, and maybe help out in the old folks’ farm?
For privileged institutions like Ateneo de Manila University, energy costs will rise even with air-conditioning often proving no match for the sultry weather outside. While in UP Mindanao, complaints are heard that since there’s a power crisis in Davao, they don’t even enjoy electric fans in classrooms.
As has been repeatedly pointed out, this shift to the Western academic calendar was tried out during President Diosdado Macapagal’s time over half-a-century ago, upon the instigation of then Education secretary Alejandro “Anding” Roces (who would become a National Artist in the daughter-president’s time). But it was quickly rebuffed and all schools had to go back to June-to-March.
Which is how it should be, in deference to our seasons. Our summer months aren’t July and August as in temperate countries. And if other ASEAN countries prefer to pretend that they’re of the West, let ’em. Proponents of the calendar shift used to reason out that typhoons and floods occurred more often in July and August, but that’s not true. They did so in the ’ber months, and with climate change upon us, actually do so any time of the year, except in April and May when the terrible heat takes over.
Now the rationale given for the shift is ASEAN integration. Now, really, what percent of our student population would benefit from that? How many Ateneans and Peyups grads will benefit from jumping on to graduate studies in Singapore or Bangkok, and/or vice versa? As against all those who will suffer through the summer heat in classrooms and campuses? Imagine if all schools of all levels all over the country were to join in. Would students in Cabanatuan even make it to school in 52.3-degree weather?
Our collective muscle memory says we have our summer vacation in April and May. No sense in contesting that. Just as no one can contest poet Marne Kilates’ continuing prolific mode, especially now that we hear he’s putting out yet another poetry collection sometime this year. The title? “The Memory Machine & Other Poems.”
While later in May, as has been announced by UP Press director Neil Garcia, a new collection of selected poems by Cirilo F. Bautista will be part of a mass book launch in Diliman. It’ll be the product of this National Artist’s muscular memory through the decades, which he has rewired into masterful poetry.
Oh, I’ll remember April 14, 2016, when Bautista joined Bryant and Curry in separate but indubitable triumphs of poetic justice — as memorable occasions of investiture.