ATE MYLA POSITED that my recent preoccupation is Fr. Adrian Lazo, our young, energetic, inspirational, recently-installed parish priest. She meant that in a good way, in response to my calling her attention (to three words that she mispronounced during her Allocutio), rather belatedly, as in three days after our meeting last Saturday. That comment stretched to friendly, funny banter, until the better of us got serious up til our parting shots, which were serious (solemn, if you may) and most probably gave us restful sleep that night.
Why shouldn’t I be preoccupied with a man of the cloth who, barely new to the parish community, has drawn almost half of the community population to his earnest, winsome ways. Because young, the elderly love to tease him as their son; the young kid him as looking more like a sacristan; and the majority, who flock to him after every consummation of his Mass, simply grow on him. Why shouldn’t I be touched when, in one instance of my coaching his grammar gone askew, he responded with: Kayo ang reason kung bakit araw-araw akong bumabangon. Why, indeed, wouldn’t I be inspired by his homilies in church, during sick visits, and even in his allocutios? The man, clearly, was born to detach himself from his doting, protective ewe, and hew closely to his flock, wherever they may be. In this blessed instance, the Holy Spirit Parish, in general and, in particular, the Legion of Mary.
Especially, it is difficult to detach him from the memory of my late father, Prospero. When I was in high school, because of my being touted as an ‘Inglisero,’ our English teacher entered me as a contender in the school’s oratorical contest. I was given Alfred Lord Tennyson’s ‘Break, Break, Break’ to memorize as a contest piece. When I told my father about it, he asked me to recite the poem. He thought I was good but the poem too short to showcase my skill. So gave me ‘Marc Anthony’s Eulogy’ instead. I did not want to displease my dad; I worried about my teacher later.
On contest day, the first contestant delivered ‘O Captain, My Captain.’ He was good. I was next. And felt I’d be better than him. I did not have the butterflies when I delivered my very first public speech at the CWL bazaar. They were nowhere when I sent up on stage and rendered Marc Anthony. Then the third orator was called. He had the same speech as mine. A strange thing happened.
He was speaking in a queer tongue. What I would learn later as a British accent. And he pronounced ‘Caesar’ in British. Unlike how I did it, in my father’s sorrily regional manner. The heretofore-unencountered name was foreign to my god and his complacency took it for granted. While I sweated marbles, butterflied swarmed in my belly. That was all I could recall of that woeful incident.
In class the next day, I was prepared for the worst. I understood – and braced myself for – my English teacher’s rage. That I took the liberty of changing my contest piece without a by-her-leave was unacceptable, she fumed. The worst part was that she kept mimicking my pronunciation of the C word – Caysar! To the glee of all my classmates. And my total humiliation.
I did not begrudge my god that humbling part of my high school life. On the contrary, I thanked my father for the lesson I learned from his mistake and my trusting too much he could do no wrong. I became critical of speakers and words and no longer believed what I hear and read unless validated by a dictionary.
It became my crusade to coach people I know and like and love when they stumble upon words seemingly alien to them and are not too keen of how they (mis)pronounce them. Most of them appreciate what I do, like Fr. Adrian, who swears he wakes up the morning for me. This personal campaign became my token of remembering my Dad and thanking him for a very valuable learning and, by extension, my offer of support for the innocent, unaware, unmentored minds of English-wannabe speakers.
I picked Pads because of his youth, and sponge-like absorptive keenness to appreciate – and learn from – mentoring. Because there is nothing I could learn from my father anymore. And there is everything I can give to this eager, humble soul. While I listen and learn from his homilies every time he is up at the ambo. Even ad nauseam. Or infinitum.
Amen.
