Thursday, May 10, 2012

Rizal and children

Rizal and children

By: 

When my students go through Jose Rizal’s expenses in Europe, they note that his biggest and most regular expenses were for the purchase of books and postage stamps. This is not surprising because we all know that he liked to read and study, and to write home a lot because he was homesick in Madrid. Students also note that he bought 1/10 of a lottery ticket every week. When I ask what he did with a ball of yarn, students reply that Rizal probably had a pet cat, and that he used the yarn to darn the holes in his socks or to tie up the maid for kinky sex.
We see ourselves in historical records and I often allow the students to make their own crazy conclusions before drawing them back to the primary source and what it actually says. Other teachers will not allow silly comments in class but I do, hoping that new insight will sometimes be found in a side remark.
Rizal’s letters are seldom read because we are so focused on his novels and poetry in a classroom. Yet it is in and through these letters that we see Rizal plain and gain insight into his works. It may be a trivial matter, but Rizal’s letters to family members are the most endearing. Remember 7-11: that Rizal was the seventh child of 11 born to Francisco Mercado and Teodora Alonso. He was the second of two boys in a home dominated, literally, by women.
Rizal’s sisters were as prolific as their parents, so he was often told about new additions to the family. In a letter dated Nov. 23, 1883, Teodora Alonso related: “Now I’m going to mention to you, one by one, my new debts to the Lord. On June 6, 1882, Lucía delivered a baby boy who was named José. On 15 Sept. 1882, Neneng gave birth to a boy who was named Alfredo. On 14 June 1883, Sisa gave birth to a girl who was given the name María Consolación; on 3 Sept. 1883, Olimpia gave birth to a boy who was named Aristeo; on 24 Nov. 1883, Lucía gave birth to a girl. On the 26[th] of this month, Neneng gave birth to a girl also. Both girls are not yet baptized but they will be on Sunday. Here many die of childbirth but they went through it safely.”
One of the memorable characters of “Noli Me Tangere” is “Sisa” a name taken from the nickname of Rizal’s favorite sister Narcisa. On Feb. 27, 1886, she wrote: “I suppose you don’t know yet that I’m now the mother of six children. In this letter you will see the names of the three older ones written by themselves, and of the last ones, the older was Isabel, the deceased one, and the two, one girl and one boy, are called Consolación and Leoncio López, who is as fat as a melon. The children of Sra. Neneng are three: They are called Alfredo, Adela, and Abelardo. Olimpia’s shortly will be three, like Sra. Neneng’s. The two who are not here are called Aristeo and Cesario; the older one called Aristeo, what a lively boy he is! His godfather is Sr. Paciano. He will be a useful boy when he gets older. At the age of two, he already knows a great deal. He is the only consolation of our parents, I tell you, because when you see this child, even if you are angry, you will be obliged to laugh, he is so funny.”
One can only imagine what joy Rizal, homesick in Europe, got from letters. Neneng, for example, described Alfredo Porfirio or “Freding” in a letter dated Dec. 14, 1882, as having “a well-shaped body, … stout, round-faced, having a sharp nose, small chin and eyes, flat head, bald on the left side. When we go to Manila, we shall have his picture and mine taken and will send them to you.”
Lucia Herbosa, in a letter on Nov. 13, 1882, described a son born to her in that year that they named Jose: “I amuse myself with José’s ear, which is like yours. I tell you that it is really like yours, but I pray that the likeness does not stop there, but that he may have your disposition, your goodness, and diligence in good works.” In July 1886 Lucia’s husband wrote Rizal about their daughter Delfina who was suffering from “a little inflammation of [her] eye, which is the cause of her absence from school. What a pity she did not become a boy! She is bright and very studious. Her mother is always telling her not to read because her inflammation might worsen, but she is so hardheaded.”
Imagine a child insisting on reading! Delfina was to figure in Philippine history 12 years later, in 1898, when she assisted Marcela Agoncillo in Hong Kong in the sewing and embroidering of the first Philippine flag.
Education was important for Rizal’s nephews and nieces. His brother Paciano, on July 18, 1886, requested him: “Furnish me with information of the best schools there. We have many nephews, most of them promising. It is a pity that these ones should fall into the hands of teachers who teach unwillingly and do so only for show. It is true that they inculcate in children very sane principles, such as fear and humility, the first being the beginning of wisdom and the second of apostolic and civic virtue, but it is also true that fear and humility lead to dullness.”
It is not enough to see Rizal as a doting uncle; one should also appreciate that the Rizal family put a premium on the education of their little ones. It was no better way of investing in the future, for children were the bella esperanza de la patria mia (the fair hope of the motherland).

The Death of Jose Rizal


The Death of Jose Rizal: Ambeth Ocampo’s version


Editor’s note: The following is the article written by today’s most famous Filipino historian Ambeth R. Ocampo on Jose Rizal’s death. Simply entitled, “The Death of Jose Rizal,” this historical piece by the current head of the National Historical Institute (of the Philippines) could be deemed refreshing and controversial, as it offers several unpopular and unorthodox accounts of what (presumably) transpired on the day of Rizal’s execution. For one thing, it virtually proclaims that Rizal refused to kiss the crucifix before he was executed, thereby negating the claim of other historians (like Zaide) that the national hero even asked for this Catholic sacramental. Happy reading!

"THE OBSERVANT WILL NOTICE metal footprints on the pavement running from Fort Santiago to the Luneta in seafront Manila. They resemble dancing patterns, but actually trace the last steps of Jose Rizal as he walked from his prison cell to the site of his execution on December 30, 1896. The Rizal Centennial Commission claims that the footprints are based on Rizal’s actual shoe size. When people ask why the steps are so small, the quick reply is: “If you are walking to your death, would you hurry?”
            The slow walk to Bagumbayan field (as Rizal Park or the Luneta was once called) began at 6:30 a.m. on a cool, clear morning. Rizal was dressed in a black coat and trousers and a white shirt and waistcoat. He was tied elbow to elbow, but held up his head in a chistera or bowler hat. A bugler signaled his passage, while the roll of drums muffled in black cloth gave cadence to his gait.
            From Fort Santiago he took a right turn, and walked along the Paseo Maria Cristina (now Bonifacio Drive), which gave him a view lifting the darkness over Manila Bay on the right, and a last glimpse of Intramuros, shadowed by the missing sun, on his left. He walked between two Jesuits, Father Estanislao March and Father Jose Villaclara. They too were in black – the trademark black hats, tunics, and heavy coats that made the young Rizal and his Ateneo schoolmates refer to them aspaniki (bats, or colloquially perhaps, batmen). Behind Rizal walked the brother of his former bodyguard, Lieutenant Luis Taviel de Andrade, who had vainly defended him in a farce masquerading as a trial.
            The streets were lined with people who wanted to see the condemned man, since Rizal was many things to different people: “leader of the revolution,” physician, novelist, poet, sculptor, heretic, subversive. Rizal was a person one could not be neutral about. Like him or hate him, he was a celebrity.
            Although he was walking to his death, eyewitnesses describe Rizal as serene – a bit pale, not because of fear of his fate, but because he had not had any breakfast. All he had been given were three hard-boiled eggs, which he took to a corner of his prison cell, saying, “This is for the rats; let them have a fiesta, too.” Then he left his cell.
            Rizal is said to have nodded left and right to acknowledge familiar faces in crowd. From time to time he smiled, and is said to have made a few jokes, and laughed at these himself because the Jesuits flanking him remained somber. Others noticed his eyes dart quickly from left to right, and some believed that members of his family or the Katipuneros would make a last-ditch effort to save him from death. Was Rizal waiting for help that never came? And perhaps for an opportunity to spurn that help? Had he expected to see his family by the roadside? We will never know more than the fact that he was walking to his destiny.
            In the clear morning Rizal could probably see as far as Susong Dalaga, and appreciate the silhouette of a naked woman on the mountain range across from Manila Bay. “What a beautiful morning!” he said, “On mornings like this I used to take walks here with my sweetheart.” Before reaching Bagumbayan, he glanced at Intramuros, sighed, and seeing the spires of the church of San Ignacio, said: “Is that the Ateneo? I spent many happy years there.” The Jesuits’ response is not recorded.
            Someone had the foresight to take a photograph of the execution. The scene looked like a box, lined, three or four people deep, on three sides. The empty fourth side faced the bay, and the executioners’ line of fire. Eight Filipino soldiers armed with Remingtons formed the firing squad. Behind them stood the drummers and another line of Spanish soldiers with Mausers, ready to shoot the Filipinos if they refused to shoot, or purposely missed their target.
            When everyone was in place, there was a slight delay because Rizal refused the customary blindfold, and asked to face the firing squad. The Spanish captain who had guided Rizal to the site insisted that he be shot in the back as ordered, because he was a traitor to Spain. Rizal declared that he had never been a traitor to the country of his birth or to Spain. After some coaxing, Rizal finally turned his back, but again refused the blindfold, and furthermore refused to kneel.
            After all this haggling he made one last request: that the executioners spare his head, and shoot him in the back towards the heart. When the captain agreed, Rizal clasped the hand of Lieutenant Taviel de Andrade and thanked him once more for the vain effort of defending him before the military court that sentenced him to death.
            Meanwhile, a curious Spanish military doctor felt Rizal’s pulse, and was surprised to find it regular and normal. The Jesuits were the last to leave the condemned man. They raised the crucifix to his face and lips, but he turned his head away and silently prepared to meet death.
            The captain raised his saber in the air, ordered his men to get ready, and barked the order: “Preparen!” This was followed by the order to aim the rifles: “Apunten!” In the split second before the saber was brought down with the order to fir – “Fuego!” – Rizal shouted the last two words of the crucified Christ: “Consummatum est!” (It is done).
            The shots rang out, the bullets hit their mark, and Rizal executed that carefully choreographed twist that he had practiced years before, which made him fall faced up on the ground. People held their breath as soldiers came up to the corpse and gave Rizal the tiro de gracia, one last merciful shot in the head at close range to make sure he was really dead.
            A small dog, the military mascot, ran around the corpse whining, and the crowd moved in for a closer look, but were kept at bay by the soldiers who stood in the first row of spectators.
            After a short silence, someone shouted: “Long live Spain! Death to the traitor!” The crowd did not respond. An officer approached the person who had shouted, and berated him. To fill in the gap, the military band played theMarcha de Cadiz.
            It was 7:03 a.m. The show was over."


The Death of Jose Rizal: Ambeth Ocampo’s version” @www.OurHappySchool.com