Looking For A Long Lost Friend In The Concrete Jungles of Manhattan

Not long ago I recieved a snail mail with a New York postmark from a man named James Jacob. The name was new to me but the penmanship was very familiar. It was a penmanship I can always recognize anywhere in the world for my association with this man started way back 31 years ago when we were still high school freshmen. (The attached photo will prove to that.) How the name evolved from being Jaime Egpan Ondoy to James Jacob must have something to do with his change of allegiance from being a true-bloodied pinoy to a newly-minted American.

My relationship with James in high school was friendly but adversarial because of a healthy competition of being the top in the class. He was a wide reader and very studious while my interests were in something else. He drowned me in World History subject which almost cost me the top honors. Our school remembers him as that student who wrote to then US Ambassador to the Philippines Henry Byroade which resulted to a donation of several crates of books to our school library including a couple of complete sets of Encyclopaedia. We were in sophomore year when I became an Adventist and James was my first VOP student. (My second VOP student was a dynamic curly-haired freshman named Marcelo Sumaya Rara Jr. who hailed from Kabayawa but I reserve him for a future piece.)

We went to MSU together. And since he did not belong to any student organization yet, he was forced by circumstance to go with me join the Adventist group. Nong Johnny spotted him, gave him a bible study and by October he was one of those baptized by Dr. Dick in Tibanga together with Paul Sanchez and Richinor Villano. Due to his diligence in his studies he earned a full scholarship during his last semester of his last year in International Relations.

After graduation he ventured to Manila doing odd jobs here and there until he attained what he aimed for--- a career position in the Department of Foreign Affairs. In one of his rare visits to MSU conducting examinations to foreign service applicants, he gave me an application form which I filled up and sent to the Japanese Embassy on the very last day and forgot all about it. Three months later I received the longest RCPI telegram in my life covering one whole page telling me in a very elaborate language which simply meant I was accepted to visit Japan for one month all expenses paid.

Three days before our departure, I paid him a visit in his office telling him that I was accepted to visit Japan but unfortunately I do not have my passport yet. He accompanied me to the Passport Division which was then housed at the Film Center. My heart sank when I saw that the queue of passport applicants went out of the main entrance, circled the whole building and overflowed into the parking area. We went inside directly and he let me stay in a corner while he went further into the innermost cubicle. Thirty minutes later, he handed to me my brand-new passport bearing the signature of a consul who was also our kababayan. When we went out of the building the queue appeared to have not moved at all. I pity them but, really, life is full of unfairness.

One day while in office, Miss Chito Madrigal, the wife of then Secretary Manuel Collantes saw the artistic talents in him and offered him a job of curator of their family museum in New Ayala-Alabang a few houses away from the residence of a military officer turned politician named Fidel Valdez Ramos. I visited him once and I sensed that he was enjoying his new job.

I lost contact with him after my return from Japan until the time that I received that snail mail from New York. When I visited my home church in Cabadbaran, I saw a lot of improvement and learned from the mother of Marcelo Rara that James is regularly contributing dollars for the church building fund. He has an open invitation for me to visit his place in Park Avenue but until now I do not have the time ("read money") to accept his invitation.

Ah, yes. I write about James today because Pastor Peter Magarang of Taiwan is inquiring about him.

Epilogue

I wrote this piece in 1999 when I was still working at Iligan Light and Power, Inc. in Iligan City, Philippines. Between 2003 and 2005 I worked around the New York-New Jersey area crisscrossing the numbered avenues and streets of Manhattan but could not find a shadow of him. The phone number he gave me was no longer in service and the phone directory was not helpful for there are dozens of entries under the name James Jacob. 

The Price of a Dream (or Longingness)

Away... away... far beyond.

Those dreams. Is it for glory?

Or mere curiosity?

Vanity or necessity?

Amidst the haste and noise…

So the old poem goes

Closeness in spirit becomes

Vast distances in geography.

Fondness in togetherness becomes

Gnawing desire. Anguish.

Twenty-eight years of unfaltering search

Of life’s meaning.

And more meanings.

The loneliest birthday.

Youth slipping away

In the midst of faceless strangers..

Hearts grow fonder,

Love settled to unexplored depths.

In the environment of trust

And utmost concern

Love grows and flourish.

As the computer hums in iteration

Towards infinity…

 

 

         Makati, Metro Manila

                                    June 27, 1983

At The Great Lakes On The First Day Of Summer 2001

The 21st of June officially marks the beginning of the summer season. It was also the day I found myself wandering around one of the most scenic places in the world---The Great Lakes---which form part of the boundaries between the US and Canada. Thanks to Shinar and Manang Vi who financed the entire trip as a treat to Shinar’s sister Pilar and nephew Svend on vacation from Denmark. By default, I became part of the entourage.

I first read about the Great Lakes in a geography book  when I was in high school. It consists of five connected lakes whose names form the acronym HOMES which stands for Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie and Superior. In its totality, it is the biggest inland body of water in the world. According to that book that I read, if you are in the middle of Lake Superior---the biggest among the five---you cannot see any land in every direction.   

We left Sweet Springs, Missouri at around 2:00 PM last Wednesday passing across Illinois and Indiana before stopping over at Roger and Amy’s place in Berrien Springs, Michigan at around 1:00 AM to spend the remaining hours of the evening, take some rest and a short nap. Amy was very patient and accommodating waiting for us at the door when we arrived. By 5:00 AM we resumed our long journey that would take another seven hours more before we reached our destination: Mackinaw City. And grrrr! It’s very cold there. No wonder the Indians chose that name.

While on the way, we received a call from Manang Raytim. (How she knew of the number of Shinar’s brand new cell phone is the wonder of modern technology and sheer human ingenuity.) She passed on us the news that Bebing Aguilo, a MSUan has arrived in Toronto from Singapore. And that she, Tirso and other MSUans there have helped her find a job. I sent my regards to Brother Philip and the rest of the Sayote Gang-Canadian Branch.

We checked in at Best Western situated on the shores of Lake Huron. After lunch we proceeded northward passing by the Mackinac Bridge which connects the northernmost tip of Michigan mainland and the Upper Peninsula effectively drawing the boundary line between Lake Michigan and Lake Huron. With its length of 5 miles, it is the longest bridge in the western hemisphere according to one brochure. It is 950 feet longer than the famous Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, the brochure continued.

We traversed the Upper Peninsula until we reached the city of Sault Ste. Marie which is actually a twin city located on both sides of the US-Canadian border linked to each other by the International Bridge. We visited the Soo Locks, an engineering marvel constructed by the US Army which controls the water exchanges and the shipping passageways between Lake Superior and Lake Huron.

On Friday morning, we rode on a fast ferry that would bring us to our final destination: Mackinac Island. As we set foot on the island it was as if we were transported in time back to the 18th and 19th centuries with all its beautiful and stately buildings in gothic architecture. To preserve its historic ambience motorized vehicles are not allowed on the island. Your options are either to rent a bicycle (some brought bicycles with them), ride on horse-drawn buggies driven by uniformed chauffeurs or simply walk which is more healthful. We chose the more healthful option. (According to one postcard, Mackinac Island has a population of 500 people and 600 horses.)

We met and befriended some Filipino construction workers who responded to our call of Balot! Balot! as if we were vending balot in Quiapo. It was an effective call sign and I suggested to my companions that next time we meet a Pinoy, I will shout “Itlog mo, Noy, orens!”         

Then we went to the Grand Hotel standing tall in the middle of a garden of several acres interspersed with well-manicured trees, a fountain and carpeted with flowers of different colors. As we approached the entrance through a long, elevated driveway, there was a feeling of déjà vu in me as if I had seen the place before. I learned later that this was the setting of that romantic movie Somewhere In Time starring Christopher Reeve and the stunningly beautiful Jane Seymour.

On our way back home, we made another stopover at Roger’s place and stayed there for two more nights. We spent the Sabbath at Pioneer Memorial Church in Andrews University campus and listened to the sermon of Timothy Nixon entitled, More Love. It was one of the best sermons I ever heard.

Portrait Of A Young Rebel

His name was Misach. I could no longer recall how we first met. He just inconspicuously became a member of my wide circle of friends and acquaintances in my hometown of Cabadbaran in the Philippines. The first thing that drew us together was our common interest in the study of the Bible. But our biblical discussions were almost always adversarial for we rarely agree on anything. He was as zealous as the crusaders during the medieval times trying to convince me of the soundness of his denomination’s doctrines while I was as unmovable as the Rock of Gibraltar in my defense of my church’s fundamental beliefs. Nonetheless, our religious differences did not hinder our friendship to blossom and flourish.

It was early 1970’s and we were both in high school. In those days, student activism was ripe in the air and on the streets all over the Philippines. Although our young minds were closed as far as religion was concerned, we were open to new ideas in other areas. One summer, a group of college students from Manila who came home for the summer vacation invited us for a teach-in seminar and both of us attended. Overnight we were converted and transformed into experts in the analysis of what caused the ills of the country. They were easy to remember because there were only three, right? US imperialism, feudalism and bureaucrat capitalism. After the seminar, we organized the municipal committee and they continued to train us how to run the new organization.

Our float during the 1972 Independence Day parade in Bayugan City. Three months later on September 21, Marcos declared Martial Law.

At the end of summer when our trainors were gone, we were assigned to various responsibilities. Eventually I became the general secretary of the municipal organization. Misach rose further to become the official spokesman of the provincial committee. His loyalty was unquestioned, as if his zeal for his religion was completely transferred to the new organization. As for me, I had my own reservations because of the apparent conflict between the organization’s objectives and the biblical principles that I learned and I was still in the process of sorting out those contradictions and inconsistencies within me.

The final revelation came when we were invited to see a movie in one of the theaters in the capital city of our province. It was a special show about the construction of the Nanking Bridge across the Yangtze River in the People’s Republic of China. Somewhere in the film when the close up image of Chairman Mao Zedong appeared smiling and waving at us, everybody in the theater stood up at attention and put their hands on their breasts. I was appalled. The organization that I was serving was actually a communist front. Nationalism was just a facade.

I resigned from the organization and went back to be active in my church. A few months later, President Marcos declared martial law. Many of my former comrades in the organization were arrested, some were tortured. Misach was not among those arrested because he could not be found. He went underground and joined the armed movement. I have not heard of him for a number of years.

One day I went back to my hometown for a brief vacation. By this time, I was already teaching in the state university where I graduated. I went to the town plaza trying to relive memories of my childhood days. Unexpectedly, I saw a familiar figure at a distance. Ah, not so familiar for there were some differences. I went closer. It was Misach. But it was not the same Misach. He was thin and looked emaciated. His hair was long and there were some scars on his face. We sat down together and talked for a long time. I asked him about the scars on his face and neck. Before telling me how he got them, he showed me some more scars on his chest and back. In fact, his entire body was scarred. Then he told me what sounded like a script of an action movie.

The town plaza of Cabadbaran today.

One time they had a clandestine meeting at one of their safe houses near the city of Davao. It was attended by all the regional bigwigs of the underground movement. Suddenly they were raided by the government forces. A grenade exploded in their midst and his body absorbed a substantial amount of shrapnel. Bleeding, he was spirited away and brought to a private clinic of a physician friend. While recuperating, he was being transferred from one hideout to another to elude arrest. Finally the long arm of the law caught up with him. He was arrested and jailed for a long time. Eventually he was conditionally released under the custody of an influential politician. And he was made to promise that he would not again join the anti-government movement.

I never saw him again. The last time I heard about him, he had an altercation with the personal bodyguard of a local politician. The heated exchanges of words transformed into exchanges of gunfires. When the smoke settled down, he was seen sprawled on the ground. Lifeless.