Submitted by Vox Bikol on
I wanted to begin this essay with lines from Will Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. You know the line from Mark Antony, which goes “The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones?” I wanted to twist the lines and shift the places of “evil” and “good” so that it would say “The good that men do lives after them; The evil is oft interred with their bones.” There was a reason for these quotes: a general has killed himself and everyone, practically started groveling on the ground of guilt. Rationality flew off the nation’s windows. The men and women from national television camped outside the home of the general. The usual interview went on. Friends were asked; wife and sons were asked. Was he a good father? Was he a good friend? Was he a good grandfather? What did they expect? That in the pit of grief, the loved ones left behind would be objective and critical of the man who so loved them and was dead now?
I wanted to go on quoting and my eyes were trained on John Donne’s Meditation XVII. Remember this? "All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated...As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon, calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come: so this bell calls us all: but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness....No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."
No man is an island entire of itself. Would a suicide ever think of himself as never part of an island? That what he does and what he did really become part of us?
The bell tolled for that General but it also tolled for me. But that was last week and already people are asking what happens now.
The week passed and, after the hero’s burial of the General, upon us descended this cruel day called “Valentine’s Day.” I am actually neutral about this day. I take it as one more triumph of the capitalist enterprise or spirit. On that day, the value of roses and other flowers went higher even than the love these blooms are supposed to proffer and represent. But that was not my problem. What instigated my full distrust of Valentine’s Day came from a sermon in one of the major churches in the city.
The young priest started by talking about the meaning of Valentine’s and how people would have special dinner later. He made jokes about how the day was about the heart, no less, and not the kidney. For if Valentine’s day celebration and the feelings of love resided in the kidney, once Cupid released his powerful darts and they hit the kidney, then we will have “isaw.” That was how graphic the words of the priest. Anyway, he continued: but love on this day is not really about romantic love. I sit up and relieved that he saved himself from that pedestrian metaphor. He finally ended his homily by stressing that one person, Jesus, showed the meaning of love. He was the greatest lover (popular but witty) who showed us the true meaning of love: a love of God and love of neighbor. Wonderful.
Then came the final blessing: the priest asked all couples – husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends – to come forward so he could bless them. I took it to be a special blessing some people will never get from him that day. Soon, there was a rush to the front of the altar. Left behind at the pews were men and women and children who did not qualify as being part of that noun that connected one person to another. It was actually embarrassing to a point. The lovely girl behind me was fidgeting and she was looking at the back perhaps for her husband or boyfriend who decided not to sit beside her, and was not eager to walk up to her and march to the altar.
It took awhile for me to see that the priest had unduly watered down the greatest lesson he articulated before how the day was not about romantic love or about the usual lover’s memorialization of a day. He succumbed to a facile and tacky reading of the day. He has become the victim of this day called Valentine’s Day.
On two counts therefore my planned quotations to introduce this piece would not work: I was not keen about the General’s suicide and I was not loving the day called Valentine’s Day. I am a patron of the edict that each day is Valentine’s Day. Whoa! That is from the song “My Funny Valentine.”
But I had another essay, far more superior than the wishy-washy way we approach suicide or death and by far more embracing than a funny reading of a supposed day for lovers. This was this essay about the lowly and vanishing “sangkaka.”
One Sunday, I walked to the Centro and around the Supermarket (there is nothing super in the place) I caught sight of a familiar product. We in Naga call this “Sangkaka” but in Southern and Northern Luzon, it is “Panutsa.” Interestingly enough, in Thailand, there is a product that is described as “coconut custard” and it’s called “Sankhaya”. The closest to this is the Tagalog “matamis na bao” where the sticky molasses is mixed with coconut milk. With the molasses from sugarcane processed, cooked and hardened we get the “Sangkaka.” One can cook it in coconut milk and with the sugar melting like love into the “niyog,” one should not resist the temptation of putting in “pili nut” to create a concoction that is as original as the original sin. For a simpler recipe, one can simply cut the “sangkaka” into chunks and use them as sugar alternative. Or, do it the way of my Lolo Pedio, get the chunk and treat it as if it’s a cousin of the most expensive Godiva chocolate truffles. Let the chunk melt with alacrity; acknowledge the struggle for it is sweet first; notice how the chunk starts to melt with the readiness of Christian forgiveness. Before you know it, the chunk has disappeared. Gone is the cane. Gone are the struggles of the lowly plantation workers. Left behind is a memory of a product that is slowly vanishing in its traditional stand.
One can find now “Sangkaka” in the two main malls in the city. It is not promoted. There are no flyers to announce its presence. Unlike the toothpaste and shampoo products zealously guarded by a sales team, the “Sangkaka” looks lonesome on the shelf. Serendipity works its charm in its display, for one can find always dried “natong” leaves beside the “Sangkaka.”
I do not know whether I should be rejoicing that the “Sangkaka” is now “malled.” But I would continue writing and investigating its provenance and temperament the same way I would devote time to Chilean and South African wine. After all, to write about the lowly “Sangkaka” is infinitely more rewarding and gratifying than struggling with the death of a General and the overrating of a day called Valentine’s Day.
This universe abounds with poetry but even the poems of the day-to-day we can kill with our over-reading.