In the flurry of heartwarming comments and reviews from both observers and participants in the recently concluded Alveo Ironman 70.3 Davao, a criticism made it through my news feed.
Angst did it again. Very misplaced and out of beat, while the incongruity was simply strong — with the description of Ironman as anti-poor.
It called the people behind it, and practically those who supported, cheered, and welcomed it, as social climbers and dreaming to be rich. It was a ridiculous and failed attempt to bring to attention the plight of lumads and farmers and public perception, response, and acceptance of inconveniences — such as road closures.
I am not about to dignify it with a real reply, but one person fed it to the shredder. It said, “Ok ra man mag-rally sila. Pero, unta mag-rally pud sila on a Sunday. Dili lang unta weekdays. Suportahan gyud nako sila.”
Anyway, I heard Ironman Davao resulted in fully-booked hotels, busy restaurants, and happy cab drivers and transporation companies. It meant economic activities not only in Davao City but also in Davao del Norte, particularly the cities of Tagum, Samal Island, Panabo, and the town of Carmen.
All that while Mindanao is under Martial Law.
Next year, Davao will once again host Ironman. It would be another opportunity for Davao and the Dabawenyos to show off the best of the city and the entire region.
At the same time, it would be another opportunity for haters to just hate and use it to push their agenda and propagate the propaganda of hate.
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Here’s a question — Nganong paboritong lutuon o kaunon sa mga Bisaya matag mahal nga adlaw ang binignit?
Is there a connection between the Passion of the Christ and the well-loved and traditional Visayan dish made of a potpourri of local fruits and tuno?
Speking of tuno — every Holy Week, I would remember my grandmother, Rufina or Penny Girl, who would ‘cook’ lana on Good Fridays. The preparation is tedious and the coconut oil should be up for harvesting at exactly 3pm. With my cousins, we would gather around her table and wait for the ‘lunok’. It has always been a magical moment for me and children in the family.
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So, here’s the confession.
I was a Catholic die hard. Was. Maybe over 15 years of my life I was a practicing, loyal Catholic until I was no longer one — for many reasons.
Back in highschool and college, my Sundays meant hearing mass thrice. I was part of a group of church workers called Litcom or Liturgy Committee.
Our task was to prepare the service. If I wasn’t the Psalmist, I was the soloist or the reader. The members of the committee were all very dedicated, and we were using our talents and time for free.
The elder women members of the committee, I called them all ‘manang”, they were all musically gifted. They played the guitar like a pro. I picked up the skill, but never mastered it at all. I can surely play, but I describe my skill as “tugtog simbahan.”
We were called ‘commentators’, our group, and thinking about it now, I’m confused why we were called such. I mean, we only gave no-brainer introductions to readings and led the congregation to reply amen when it was time to say amen or told them to get up or kneel when it was time to or when the service is already done and it was time to go home — well, sometimes, after the second collection.
We were the shepherds — with a microphone. Ok, the priest was the real shepherd, with a bigger microphone. Wait, no, fine, Jesus was the real, real master, master shepherd, the boss, with the biggest microphone there is. But, commentators? We were not giving comment at all, although I often judged some members of the all-women group CWL in my head, especially when I’d spot them gossiping. Our inside joke: CWL stands for Chismis Way Limit.
Being a church worker was truly exciting. We would join our priests visit the sick and the dying or to his trips to interior Ilocano communties where we would be served the best Ilocano dishes, occasionally including dog meat. The last dog dish I had was lechon.
I made money as a church worker in my parish — yes, made money, somehow — because people would commission me to sing at their weddings. I was even requested to sing at requeim masses. I was getting between P150 and P300 per event. It helped me sort of get by.
As a Catholic during elementary, I could still remember I was once chosen as the ‘Star Angel’ during one Easter Salubong. I did not enjoy it, to be honest. I avoided that spectacle after. Imagine being suspended in the air, at 4 in the morning — below you are figures covered in white, with lit candles and flowers humming something that sounded curiously dreadful.
Tied to a tope, I sang “Oh, Queen of Heaven…Heaven rejoice now…Hallelujah, hallelujah…” Literally, binitin ako ng patiwarik. I feared heights after that.
After college, I divorced my religion. Maybe I got tired of it. There were many unmet expectations and the unhappiness was lingering painfully. I’d say it was me, not Mother Catholic.
Looking back, it felt like it was a doomed love affair.
It was not easy losing, unloving the religion.
