Letter to A Preacher

My Friend, know that I never have judged you for I don’t have written laws of men nor do I compose an audience to the floors and pews of court, for aren’t we the judge to no one but our own selves. And aren’t we all face to face with our trials in every day.

I need not witnesses or people to laud my verity, for isn’t it that our own hearts are enough a compass to direct—to push forth or to recant—our deeds, in this way my silence my refuge and my actions are vindication to my beliefs.

But here let me say the things that I believe in, and here, perhaps you’ll be able to understand the conversation that you sanguinely desist.

The truth cannot set forth to the shores of men who are afraid to listen, to hear his brothers’ stories and life. I hear, you readily reject and undermine the narrative of another based on the semantics one use or the names one resound, while on the other you accept a person, embraced him with ornamental praises and crest of royalty that imbibes a certain caste when that person utters a single syllable of one’s own provincial tongue. By this way, my brother, you throw away the nature of Truth and you rest your proud head upon the comforts of your own blind ignorance.

To A Love Lost

The illiterate voice of pain from your love bygone is trying to limn its ethereal wail through a one final hymn. It forges a litany from a language unbeknownst from my mortal tongue. It tries to depict its lament and the churning passion within, but it finds man’s words short and shallow, for it cannot dive into the abysmal darkness I crept in nor see the warm light bathed by the memories of joy. Although, I find my reason plagued by ignorance and idiocy I carve in words the ghosts that simply won’t let me be, for his ailing is my ailing thrown unto the dusty pits of time. Truly, these are the words kept me coiled to your sea.

Perhaps, one day you’ll pass upon my days again to listen to these litanies that warbled on your ascension. Then, grant mercy and dispel the mourning I bewail. Here, listen to the days you are no more.

“You arrested the violent tempest in my heart when you came. The deathly winds that once scathed and the dark clouds that were once are no more.

“You entered my life like a pebble thrown on the placid lake of mediocrity. You set forth the tides of living and the ripples of the waters unto the flowing river of my dreams.

“O, yes. Dreams. Our days are shared visions of morrows, of hopes, of kindled wishes from our ageless hearts. We spoke as if the world is ours and we, in return, to the earth. How lucid were the canopies. How real was the salt of the sea in the air. How enamored was the music of violin, lute, and piano during the sunset of that place. How comforting was your hand in the morose days. How serenity bore upon my heart when your voice an angel ingrained, and the smile that you contained in every waking nourished my spirit for the better.

“All of these are life’s gifts, and is most real. For amidst the distance, I could stare at the mirrors of your eyes, and I could feel our souls’ embrace.

“You carried a divine melody that gently whispers to my ears, like a cold breeze in the unbearable desert, which I too often, verge. I held your hand and we could cross the scorching dunes it consists.

“But how am I to picture you when you are gone? How could I keep pace to the ambling of my thoughts when it is like unbound pages of a book blown by gusts of indifference, scattered frantically to horizons that memories can’t seek, and imagination will forever err to describe.

“The pictures kept enshrined appear to me like divine ghosts, pure, pristine, yet forever afar from my fading gaze. It wakes me to dark moments of dawn and dusk where all the colors are stripped away. Thus, the open hours of morning are wishing hours to dreamland, and sleep a forbidden fruit I guiltily savor to the restless banishment of loneliness’ pain.

“The pain, the sweet pain, seems like a vicious poison in my veins coursing to the core of my heart—to finally consume the final pieces of joy and mirth. It will one day demolish and pillage the shrine and altar of my love to the ripping jaws of oblivion.

“But perhaps at the place of burnt images births a flower of wisdom. Yes. Even pain does teach that is, if the source is immaculately founded. Although, nothing is heard except for the cries and reeling memoirs as of now, a madman I crest upon the many, and a fool digging a grain of sand upon a grave. But isn’t it a love lost is still love, and love should always be honored, paved tribute to, even at the cost of endless pain and tears. And hence, a tribute, a litany, a longing all meshed into one where these words are borne to.

“Though mortals may misconstrue the language of hearts, for it limits the mystery to a definition of scholastic articulation, cornering it to reason when it is beyond it. Yet what resort have I got when I only have my voice and pen, for all of that which is dear are gone and frothed to the ethers. So let these be said of your love though, at the end, these words you may find short and shallow.”

Encountering a Different Kind of Cat

Cats are independent creatures—they feed on your plate, cuddle with you on the sofa, then go about their way: playing solitarily, cavorting with cats, hunting mice with total absence of human aid—that can only be half-domesticated. They are like tamed stallions from the wild whose instincts are kept at bay. They are neither at the mercy of no one, except of course, from the Almighty.

Winning their trust requires sincerity and determination that is the only time they allow themselves to be domesticated. But amidst of this there is an element in them that mirrors the untainted wild, which until now mystifies me; no wonder cats have been the symbol of the occult and the rogue that is adjacent to human contact.

One cat stays with us; he could come and go as he pleases, and one day may not simply return so I prefer the term “stay” than “have”. Like most kittens that we, my sister Bea and I, picked and salvaged from the torrential streets of Cavite—our oldest tenant and friend Claudius a.k.a. Cloud is one of them too—was found feeble, masticated by hunger, and whose cries echoes the looming voice of death. Here, in the same manner, I set to meet yet but another.

I was on my way to meet a friend to return the gargantuan statistics book to a friend around 4pm. When the bus was passing along Carredo st. I felt an urge to go down and walk my way through the busy streets of Manila. When the bus halted to abide the behest of the red light, I got up end leaped off. I ambled my way.

On the street, I pass kiosks and stores, combing my hair in front of the reflection of car mirrors that are parked in an astonishing jigsaw manner (I wonder how they will manage to get their car out). I saw students standing in queue as they busied themselves photocopying volumes of textbook materials, perhaps wondering how they could fit it all in their Prada and Louis Vuitton imitations. Others are jostling to and fro. All of which is enough a proof that I am once again a part of the picturesque Manila life. Then out of nowhere a man spoke to me.

Now, in Manila, people wouldn’t usually talk to you, not even a classmate who asked for answers during an exam. People who do either know you and takes a particular affinity towards you or they are either people who needs something from you: street dwellers asking for alms, merchants who wanted to sell, and worse of all, but perhaps most common in surveys, there are thieves and hustlers who will rip you off.

I looked at the man’s dusty face: he is far from being an acquaintance. Although his clothes are tattered and his appearance resembled flagellations of poverty, his aura felt too fierce and egotistical to be a beggar. Although his words are rehearsed, he is cloaked with cunning and his tongue fed by morsels of curses, he is not a preacher. Although he sells and talks grandiose materiality he is empty handed himself. Then, this man is, there could be no other, a thief!

I was about to brush him off with indifference and probably even a daunting glance to do away with him, but even Adam and Eve’s faith stuttered at the fruit of the serpent. For me it was a real fruit, it was Apple—a Mac computer. Aside from the Mac laptop he said he has other gadgets: Asus, Blackberries and a PSP. But all of these items sells for a fortune even for a guy like him he will charge at least a thousand, and a thousand is a price I frugally afford myself. Then, with a well-thought of plan, the man added, “One item, any item, for 850.00 Pesos.”

There are reasons playing in my head during that time, dialectic forces alluding to specific advantages. I remember the cartoons that we used to watch—I think it was Looney Tunes—were an angel and a devil pops out of nowhere debating just right before an important antic, the character in between torn, confused, and undecided.

Three things that I have to consider: first, the items were loots out of some bar in Las Pinas—the goods are stolen, however all of which were loaned for quick money somewhere near the vicinity; the man needed eight hundred and fifty pesos to bail out the items. Second, the items would be sold eventually and I needed a computer more so a laptop—I am borrowing one from my father and the one that I mutually share with my sisters is already at the brink of retiring; I am buying one myself soon and if I could save money then the better. So, if it would be sold to someone I asked why it should not be sold to me. Lastly, this is a gamble! And in gambling you either win or lose.

The man led me across the streets of Manila in a hurry, these are streets that I barely knew existed nor would I pry to go into. When we reached the store that he said he wagered the items to he asked me to stay inside a Mini Stop outlet. He said he cannot afford “people” suspect me as a snitch after all he said I had just entered a drug-dealing community, and I could lose my life in an instant; he cannot defend me if that so happens. I looked around me, and for sure, I would have attested that people were secretly gawking at me. And their presence reeked of malignant intent like dogs that stopped barking and ready to pounce. Fear engulfed me.

Killings on the street are a common affair if you read tabloids. What is appalling and saddening is that it became too common that people could simply shrug it off from their minds. It may even seem to appear like fictional subterfuge made for sales. And I don’t want to end up at the front page of a paper beside the picture of a naked young girl, atop from the nonsensical updates of actors and actresses as if extramarital escapades and courtships are beyond mortal dealings. The horror is true and that the curtain which death holds might unveil with any misstep. But right were my fear gripped me, I began to hear a voice that I kept subdued in this exploit—my heart spoke.

It told me, amidst of the cacophony of terror in my head, to get out of the place and reiterated not to stay for another minute. The man came back this time without the items asking for the rest of the money; he needs the full amount to retrieve the items. Then with some point of light that shoved the clouds out of my head I gave the 500-Peso bill and said, “alam kong kailangan mo ng pera, ngayon kung bumalik ka man o hindi dala ang gamit na sinabi mo sana makatulong ‘tong pera ko pantawid mo.” I know you need the money, now whether you return or not with the item you promised may this money help you to get by. He mumbled few words of assurance but this time I understood his ploy. He will not return.

After the man left I waited for a minute, a promise that I assured him before. Then, I left the store and strolled to where my friend was. I was shaking my head with smile and awe. I should have been furious. I should have got even with the guy, but this event taught me a lot.

 A lesson from the streets: if one gives consent to thieves and takes from their devious doings then one is no different from the hands that stole the banquet. And once one has assented to its caves one needs to pay the price for its exit but it is, nevertheless, a price to be paid—no one gets out without the price. More so, I consented because I wanted to get the purchase without paying its full price, it was the strands of avarice and sloth. 


The greed of man is present to everyone living, the only difference is that some men kept its seeds arid—left to dead, its waters drizzled over to the seeds of virtue instead. And I needed to cultivate those of virtues’ with more vigilance. I remember a quotation, “…Warriors of the Light never accept what is unacceptable.” as Paulo Coehlo stated. And to reject what is supposed to be requires strength and sobriety, which I need to work on. 

"Meeting people are never by coincidence.", a colleague of mine once said to me. I believe this was so too. Having met this man allowed me to be aware of the elements that warbles in me: the yin and yang. Even more it gave light to the things I need to improve on. And that it led me to listen fearlessly to the voice of my heart, which no straightness of logic could ever compete to its wisdom.

Yesterday, I met a man tattered, scarred, and old beyond his age. Perhaps he brought the laptop at the store or perhaps he didn’t. There is no way of telling. I am not passing down judgment to thieves nor harbor them. I do not blame him for what he has done. For in exchange of my ample savings a lesson has pierced my awareness. I should thank him if I meet him. But he said he doesn’t know me, or do I of him, after the deal is done. Maybe to remember his name is enough a tribute, what was it again? He said call him, for that was he is famous for on the streets, his name is Pusa or the Cat.

A Road to Christmas

The highway seems like a vast ocean of cars, absent is the graceful waves it naturally possess; it is a stagnant unmoving ocean. I peeked outside and saw that I am stuck in an impossible traffic condition—the Christmas traffic. From Ford to Sarao, from trucks to SUVs, from jeepneys to two-door sports cars, it doesn’t matter what engine you have under the hood, every automobile runs a mile per hour estimate; in this condition everyone is equal. So, to detach myself from this frustrating traffic, I slept. 
I woke up with a smile, but quickly that changed to a furrow on my brows and an irked grin. I am still in the traffic, and the vehicle moved but a short distance. My humor returned when I saw most of the passengers grunting and cursing, hoping an empathic remark, silently hoping to be acknowledged by the others. Conversations changed the mood. Everybody was sharing their stories. I kept silent. Instead, I pulled out Dante’s Inferno and read.
It was 9 o’ clock when I arrived at the mall—my shortcut going from place to place—where people looked like bees and ants in the crowd. I would never, and under no circumstances, would have gone out to shop or even travel at this time of the year. I would peacefully remain in the comfort of my blue-wall room, read a book, watched a film, and slept. If it wasn’t for the schedule I was given, if it wasn’t for my work, this is exactly what I would do.
As I walk around the mall passing stores and kiosks, I felt odd. It is hard to describe the feeling, but the scenery seems to be perforated by frenzy, a spending frenzy that is. Although we have 13th month pay, bonuses, gift giving, and aguinaldos (kids and adults alike) there is a scarcity that hounds the season. There seems to be not enough in spite of the festivities around.
At work, this illusory scarcity has also made an impression, since we would be working on Christmas Eve—all establishments are closed except of course, with 7-Eleven (when do they close anyway? I forgot that joke/fact)—a decent meal should be prepared. But as the discussion took place, it became too dragging; we were unable to decide what to bring. My colleague insists or is somewhat alluding for a more extravagant meal. I thought: how much are we going to eat anyway?
The pigging-out at parties, getting drunk to oblivion, automated exchange gifts, Christmas leftovers, pilgrimage to the malls, buying things that we thought we need but don’t, even the simbang gabi or midnight mass seems to be losing its real essence for it was shadowed by the prospects of dating and goofing around. At this time of the year, the power of consumerism seems too hypnotic, it beckons people to spend, to empty the once full brim as if they could understand the meaning of the season by so doing.    
I am not however, saying that this is wrong for isn’t it that social morals is decided by the many, but what I am implying is that Christmas for some (or the many) has become too artificial. It looked like a fiesta whose effigies became more important than the saint the celebration is about; the skin of the fruit became more revered and enjoyed than the fruit and seed. Then, what is Christmas anyway?
It was not until I was stuck in another dreaded Christmas traffic would I catch or recapture the gist most appropriate in my queries. In the jeep, again I took out Dante’s first book of his Divine Comedy and read. As it was before, I ignored the kindling conversations of the passengers. Their conversation grew more animated after a time, my concentration seems to be out on the book and more to the discussion; I eavesdrop, feigning reading. They were discussing what to give their loved ones this time of the year. An unexpected answer came from an aged dark skinned man—who might be a laborer or a carpenter based on his tired masculine look and calloused hands—spoke. He said, with a hint of hesitation tinged with timidity, “wala akong regalo e.” I don’t have any gifts. He paused then raising the package he got perhaps from his employer, “pero meron kaming tinapay, keso, pancit, salad (fruit), at ham…at kwento.” But we have bread, cheese, noodles, salad, and ham…and stories. Then he smiled with his broad lips taut across his face showing his crooked teeth, with the sparkle in his eyes looking at the other people he is talking to.   
I didn’t hear the next words they uttered. I was filled with awe, more so engulfed by it. How simple that is. Here we are concerned at the trivialities of the season: parties, people to meet, gifts to give, and the grand meal at the table. But here is a man whose anticipation is so common yet sounded so unique and special. Perhaps, his profession pays him so little, perhaps he received but a high school degree yet he understood the season more than the rest of us.
Christmas is truly a time of giving, of sharing—in the Bible God gave, shared his only son, the infant in the manger, the savior, Jesus Christ the ultimate gift. We often misconstrued it for extravagance but isn’t it the time of simple joys, of reunions, of songs, of laughter, and of a birth of new hopes. It is supposed to be more solemn, more soul-full. These are the things that we often forget during Christmas. 
I know that this frenzy will come again next season, even I would be obliged, even mandated by people to spend and participate. On the other hand, come next year, because of this road that I took during yuletide traffic, I would be reminded of those things which are really important. Thus, I believe the verity of these tenets is what provides this time of the year its real meaning, which the hypnotic gravity of consumerism can never provide us with during our lifetime.

Candle Balls and the Ghost of the Good Things

There were really no Halloween traditions in the Philippines, “the” Halloween, none that I could remember of. No trick-or-treats; no candies doled out, like money given in Christmas carols. We don’t dress like creatures of the night: vampires, mummies, witches, ghosts, and what have you. There were no parties assembled at schools and offices, all dancing to the holiday anthem: Thriller by the king of pop, Michael Jackson.

Our Filipino way of commemorating is different. We go to overcrowded cemeteries with our family. Pray—rosary, novena, or a silent litany kept in our hearts—at the tomb of our departed loved ones. Maybe, attend a mass solely dedicated for the souls of the dead. If the year have been generous enough, some even left food at the tomb, although I don’t really know how it would be digested by the very person it was served to.

For most people our way, the Filipino way, if it would be described in one word, would be spelled B-O-R-I-N-G. The luster of the western festivities seem so appealing from children to socialites; the latter sees the occasion as a perfect excuse to get drunk and snooze the rest of the weekend. However, I find our local commemoration possessing a certain indiscernible solemnity (amidst of chaos often associated in the cemeteries); It emanates a tradition, poetic even, after years of repetition. But most of all, it reminds me of my childhood venerated, and missed.

Every 1^st or 2^nd of November, two families, my cousins’ and ours’ packed for the trip to the graveyard. I would have sworn it was for three days worth of provisions, although we will not sleep nor be gone for more than a day—that is how big our families were! But I guess we were born contortionists because we all fitted inside our Toyota L300 van. Imagine two big families, 15 people fitted in one vehicle. My dad and mom, my aunt and uncle, my grand mother, my great grandmother, my two cousins then, my sisters and I, as well as other houshold members all jostling of whatever space we were given.

Now, having that many adults isn’t an assurance that the trip would be reinforced by adult restrictions and reprimands, in short devoid of fun. In fact, the trip to the graveyard is a treasure chest of excitement, mischief, and adventure.

The children would always sneak pass from the eyes of the adults to roam the cemetery. We run around and explored the place. A renowned pride was observed whenever we placed our foot on uncharted regions, given that we don’t get lost less it would be teasing afterwards. But getting lost allows us to discover the eerie crypts, and extravagant mausoleums in which we either concluded as haunted or beautiful. We were cartographers of the graveyard.

The adults once hearing our not too scary stories join in the group. Their narration of what seems to be a bequeathed legends, in spite of hearing it a multitude of times— especially when they want us to sleep but can’t—displays a mesmeric effect of horror and amazement for us that our eyes widened, our ears sharply audient, and imaginations reeling the scenes.

At dusk, as the darkness spread all across the skies, we clung close to one another because the blackness of the night seems to veil something sinister lurking, ready to pounce anytime. The doubts that we have of the tales of the grown-ups suddenly were dispelled; those characters were more real than carved pumpkins, vampires, and zombies. We visit two cemeteries each emanate their own urban legends that we kept reminded of.

We visit Loyola Memorial Park in Sucat first, where my grandfather is buried. Then, Libingan ng mga Bayani which is the resting place of our great grandfather, Lola Ba, his wife, always recounted war stories and how they survived the atrocities of the Japanese regime; If there were stories to topple the ghoulish excerpts this is it. We regard our Lolo Salvador as a proud banner of our heroic ancestry. Come to think of it, it is not only her that told us this kind of stories, because once the prayers were finished every adult told their own ancestral past, or those that they could be proud of.

These stories, the cryptic tales, and the experiences have been enduring memories for me. The camaraderie between two families. The stories that was shared with the suspension of judgment. The trips together. The warm ebullient air when we all meet. The laughter with my cousins. These memories haunt me whenever November comes. These are ghosts of the good things.

Now, these events like caskets that were buried six feet under hint that these will never come to pass again. They were buried by a far heavier soil, and devoured, consumed by an unrelenting worm: family feuds between mothers; the younglings caught in these silent wars, who never knew the jocund days; marital conflicts between my uncle and aunt; freeloading of my desolate uncle who somewhat surrendered his fate to drinking, haplessness, and derision; the selling of the L300 van; the selling of ancestral houses in Pacita that led us farther away from each other; financial crisis; the death of my two grandmothers: Lola Ba, and Lola Zon, who in my opinion never saw the light of day because of these crisis—I just wish and hope they died smiling and now is singing with the angels in heaven.

But as Jesus reanimated the dead, Lazarus I too hoped that these memories wouldn’t be buried forever, that there would be a time that we would again visit the cemeteries together, and maybe assume the role of a storyteller, scaring the wits out of our nephews.

As for now, perhaps the only remnants of these memories, like the tombstones with names and messages engraved, are the candle balls that we collected during those times. And like tombstones’ sole duty, it tells me, both in ghastly horror and playful mirth, “do not forget!” 

A Kid in the World of Spongebobs

Mornings are busier than the afternoon. Well, in our house at least. Here, people paced from place to place just so that they could beat the clock and make it through their respective schedules. Frantic searches for lost school items are often a scene. Tupperwares left on the round dining table, the owner temporary oblivious at the moment, come recess or lunch they’ll sure wish they took their time. But it’s a different day yay Nieves and my mom were more didactic, more softly spoken about the lessons of my nephew even preparing a special breakfast. This could only mean one nostalgic thing—examination day!

The test taker is Joshua. He’s on kinder now. Having taught him in few of his assignments I know what he’s examination would be like: naming of shapes; naming of colors; the ecosystem. True to my hunch all of these topics were covered. The first part was identification by encircling the answer, and matching type. Yay Nieves—the narrator of the story who fetched Josh on that day—told us that the kid answered the items swiftly with great air of confidence.

The second part was drawing. At home Josh drew a lot (not to mention even on walls) that made me allude that this test would be over in a jiffy. As what he did on the first part of the exam Joshua quickly finished the task. He was free to go earlier. However, the teacher noticed something odd and disturbing about the kid’s drawing that it pushed her to prod for an explanation.

They were asked to draw a picture of their families (a typical task for pre-school kids). While the rest of the kids drew a semblance of their families Josh’s papers were more “bizarre” (for the teacher). When she asked the child what the kid drew Josh replied “si Spongebob po at and kanyang pamilya…” The teacher pointed to another set of characters that were different from the Spongbobs and asked about it. “Ang kapitbahay po nila si Patrick at ang kanyang pamilya.” Josh proudly replied. The teacher hiding her laughter bit her lips nodded and waved goodbye to her student.

At home we all burst into a wild chuckling. We asked yay Nieves to repeat the story whenever there were new arrivals. Each and every time we howled full of mirth with that anecdotal. Josh watched us with his smile while his skin blushed. Yet behind those jokes I somewhat believed that it was not out of misunderstanding nor was it due to the kid’s inability to comprehend did he made such drawing. Josh is a smart kid though he can’t read yet (he could recognize and write alphabets) his intelligence doesn’t come with education—I just can’t put my fingers to it—but it emanates deep inside the core of his being.

Often we find him busy in front of the TV watching his favorite cartoons. But when he speaks out his mind he usually astonishes me with his questions even more his answers. I remembered once when I was so down trodden by the enigmatic formulary of statistics and he spoke, “o hayaan mo nalang muna yan, maya mo na sagutan” he said with great air of concern, “relax ka muna tito baka matulad ka kay Squidward.” Succinctly I was pulled out of the Labyrinthine worries that I have. I felt he was the elder and I am the kid. I flashed a smile of relief and patted his head.

Perhaps, I was a Squidward in their eyes when I seem to direct my attention at paper works, assignment, good etiquette, and social formality. To them that is simply boring. Sometimes we are Mr. Krabbs concerned with money, work, and yes, more money. Or maybe we are Plankton in his egotistical and conceited daydreaming submitting the world into his tyranny, and of course, getting that secret Krabby patty formula. While it is funny and comical on TV it may not be so humorous at real life.

Although, this things are unavoidable because we need to pay bills and abide the social standards these kids (my three nephews) led by Joshua, the eldest, are giving me something of benefit for me. Once in a while I give them lessons: alphabet, reading, counting, and some other things. While them, they teach me to see the world as a child sees them, though I confess I might see it while my eyes were squinting.

Returning to his work, while he drew something that will not be graded in excellence, I find his work authentic and rich with imagination. He was brave enough to show the world who he is regardless of whether people might laugh at him or grade him lowly. And how many times have I caught myself draping myself with an edifice of etiquette for approval or in fear of failure. For a child it is okay to trip and fall there is always tomorrow anyways, wounds heal. They enjoy themselves every moment by being simply the kid that they are.

In Bikini Bottom anything is possible. For isn’t it Spongebob himself, along with Patrick Star, who created wonders out of a box armed only with imagination and believing themselves. Josh has this innately. After all, he is living in the time of Spongebob and other heroes. In their way anything could be done. Impossible didn’t exist. Yes, amidst of their blunders and histrionics they were their own, well, genius.

Whenever I am with the kids I sure do remind myself who the student is and who is the teacher; who teaches and who learns. For children are teachers too without even reading or writing. And while I find it hard to live without worries I know that I could be able to understand the enigmas of their tutelage after all I am once, too, in their world—a child.  

Facing the Petty Tyrants in our Lives: Don Juan’s Encounter

In some point in our lives we encounter a person who tests us beyond limits of our endurance. We view it often as a curse for meeting such person. We avoid. We run away at the very sound of his/her thumping shoes. The very thought of it simply evokes an eruption of negativity.

It is normal I guess to take flight most especially if we are in the disadvantage. Even the emotions of repulsion, fear, gloom, helplessness are justifiable and appropriate for the psyche. It allows us to cope at the danger and even to avoid it.

However, as I read on with Carlos Castaneda’s The Fire from Within I came across a story of Don Juan and a time when he met one of the most violent and vicious individual that delivered him to hell and back (both literally and metaphorically). They were called, in the Toltec’s words, petty tyrants. They are the people who wrought suffering to others without guilt or remorse.

Even though the story happened decades ago before and during Don Juan’s apprenticeship as a sorcerer these petty tyrants, as we could see, exist even today with different faces and statures in our society. As they exist so there would be victims under their dreadful clutches. On the other hand, how Don Juan dealt with the fiend of an individual was astonishing that made me rethink of my own dealings with my so called “villains” in everyday life. It would be a great pleasure to share the story.

Don Juan worked at a sugar mill as a laborer when he was barely twenty. He was not only strong but also well-built for his early age. One day a rich domineering woman in her fifties came by. The woman looked at Don Juan and spoke to the foreman. She left immediately afterwards. Then the foreman called on him and said that for a price he could have a job in the boss’s house. Being, then, a lowly Indian who lives from hand-to-mouth this felt like a grace from the divine as he agreed to pay large amount in installments.

When he got to the mansion he was asked by a huge ugly somber man questions. And he grinned maliciously when Don Juan said he doesn’t have any family. He promised that the pay is sumptuous and he could save some money for he would be eating and sleeping at the mansion. The man then laughed sinisterly, so diabolic that Don Juan was terrorized and run out of the house for he knew he had to escape. But the man out paced him and cocked a gun and rammed it on his stomach. “You are to work yourself to the bone!”

There were men hovering around with machetes making the place look almost like a fortress. Everyday Don Juan was given the most dangerous and toiling tasks without break, and worse he was bullied to no end. “You’ll work here until you die…and when you die another Indian will replace you as you replaced one!” the petty tyrant exalted. He was threatened that if he run away he would be sent to jail for an attempted murder of the Lady as the foreman will falsify everything. He had the leverage in court trial anyway. As he survived a day all it meant the next morning after opening his eyes is that he needed to undergo in the same inferno. It was hell!

What served as the final wick to it all was when Don Juan asked for a time off to pay the other foreman but he was denied and was told that he was already in greater debt for having worked in the mansion. Don Juan knew these traps. He then understood that the two foremen were in cahoots. Their strategy was to work the laborers to their deaths and split their earnings.

This thought made Don Juan exploded with anger and ran inside the kitchen then to the outside screaming. Everyone was surprised but as he went by the road he was shot by the foreman and left to dead.

His benefactor found him and healed him. Upon hearing the story Don Juan’s benefactor urged him to go back at the mansion and face him again. It’s a rare opportunity to be with a petty tyrant he said.

Three years later, armed with the strategies and teachings he got from his benefactor, Don Juan returned to the sugar mill where he worked before. Nobody noticed him for no one gives a fig about laborers there, especially an Indian laborer. Again the same woman came, looked at Don Juan—who was even stronger than before—and talked to the foreman. He told him that he could get a job at the mansion for a price. But Don Juan refused to pay this time. No one ever rejected such proposition before so the man was taken aback. He threatened to fire Don Juan from his job but retorted that he knew where the Lady lived and would come see her to report about the foreman’s actions, and about the job. In the end, the foreman gave in and paid.

Upon arriving at the mansion Don Juan ran and looked for the Lady, and when he did he dropped on his knees and thanked her for her kindness. The two foremen were livid upon the sight. As it was before, the petty tyrant was an ogre of a man and gave Don Juan the most dangerous jobs especially at the stables where the horses and wild stallions are. The petty tyrant again bullied Don Juan to no end.

As part of the strategy, he has managed to note the weaknesses of the tyrant: he loves his job completely which he doesn’t want to endanger; he is a family man whose shack is near the mansion; the most fatal, he is nauseated by the scent of the horses’ stable. His strongest point would be his adamantine violence.

Meanwhile, Don Juan’s shield from the petty tyrant was the Lady who got him the job. He kneeled and thanked her every time he saw her. He even asked for the medallion of the lady’s patron saint so that he could pray for her health and well-being.

The petty tyrant was shocked when the Lady gave Don Juan the medallion. Even more, when Don Juan assembled all the servants to pray at night his temper become intensified. He decided to kill the vexatious Indian. Sensing this, Don Juan never slept in bed he climbed the roof and saw the murder in the eyes of the man while he twice searched for him. Don Juan’s countermeasure: he arranged all the servants to pray the rosary, which the Lady of the house praised him for and believed he has the elements of piousness. The tables were about to turn.

One day, Don Juan, in front of all the servants, and at the view of the Lady, insulted the petty tyrant. He called him a coward for mortally being afraid of the boss’s wife. The man was so infuriated, but the Indian had already run and was kneeling at the Lady, Don Juan knew that he won’t dare kill him at the sight of the lady nor use a gun due to its noise. Moments later, he was called at the back of the house by the foreman’s friends asking him to do something. He acquiesced but he knew their ploy.

Instead of going to them he ran into the stables in hopes that the horses would make a ruckus sending the owners curious enough to go outside. The petty tyrant white with rage ran after Don Juan. He jumped inside the stable of the wildest stallion. Having blinded by rage, the petty tyrant forgot about the stables stench and the stallions ready to end the fool. However, while he was armed by a knife, Don Juan was hiding at his planks that he made for protection from the brute strength of the beasts something the tyrant never knew about. So with just one kick from the stallion the petty tyrant fell.

The strategy that Don Juan employed was the four attributes of warriorship: control is to be in command of the self, aware at the moment while in fulfillment of the idiotic behests; discipline is focusing on his tasks intended, gathering all the information needed—the weaknesses and quirks of behavior of the petty tyrant; forbearance was the simple joyful holding back to what is due to be given; timing is the essence or quality that regulates what is held back. “Control, discipline, and forbearance are like a dam behind which everything is pooled. Timing is the gate in the dam.”

The literature further adds that what transpires in the chanced encounter was the shattering of self-importance. “Any man who has an iota of pride is ripped apart by being made to feel worthless.” Don Juan said. Truly worthlessness exist upon the presence of pride and vice versa, therefore our own causes of misery. If that self-importance is torn apart we felt victimized, often or not seeking vengeance but Don Juan doesn’t have any a virtue honed in his apprenticeship.

What is more astonishing is that Don Juan in spite of the barbarism of the petty tyrant, even though his tears might be falling, while his blood and sweat dripped at the soil, while he shivered in the stench and dangers of the stables, he didn’t hated the petty tyrant nor did he plotted against him, there he was smiling inside—he was happy!

Here, I realized the Buddhist premise, “your enemy is your greatest teacher.” They could teach you something that you weren’t able to learn, they will help you to go far beyond yourself. Like a glass rigid with self-importance placed at the furnace fires, molded into something new.  It all starts at taking a different perception, taking a different stand.

These encounters are either a curse or a blessing. It all depends on the choice that we make, either we choose to be victims or become impeccable warriors. The first leads to misery while the latter to knowledge. And nobody can run away from these we are automatically pushed to decide—we become either one—we will have to inevitably pick upon finding ourselves face to face with the fiend and beast—the petty tyrant.