OF SPRINGTIME REUNIONS

By Marivir R. Montebon

Close friends and I have blocked the third weekend of May since a year ago to be able to make it to the 2011 Graduation Rites of the US Military Academy in West Point, New York.

The reason is obviously personal. The youngest son of ex-college sweethearts, now gorgeous couple of almost 30 years (I have lost count), Oscar Ibrahim and Zurita Hernando, was to be the first Moro Filipino-American to graduate from the USMA.

Father Oscar, or Bong to us and the entire clan, beams with pride as he talks about his West pointer son, Uzcar Hussein Ibrahim, while mom Zurita just a matter-of-factly tells us about Uzi’s major hurdles in school and in brief assignments outside its portals.

And so after four rigid, character-testing years of training, Uzi finally graduates. The date? May 21, 2011, earmarked to be the day when the world ends. To my mind, who cares if the world ends on this day? I am with my daughter and friends. We were of course so much more excited to meet up in West Point and laughed off the silly doomsday prophecy.

Prior to this much anticipated reunion of friends from Chicago, Missouri, Hawaii, and the Caribbean, there was to be another reunion that I unexpectedly became a part of. Life indeed is full of surprises and ironies and drama, I had to fly to the Philippines early May to fulfill the wish of my grandmother, to bring back her remains to her hometown. Genara Rubi, passed away at the age 92 on April 26, 2011, a week after I visited her in the hospital in Stockton.

It was to be my first homecoming, a rather sentimental one, for almost four years of being away. I flew in to California to attend my grandmother’s Church service before embarking on the long flight to Cebu and then finally to her hometown in Larena, Siquijor.

The journey was emotional and exhausting, that in all the four flights I made (from New York to Charlotte, then San Francisco, Hong Kong, and finally Cebu), I immediately fell asleep as the planes taxied before taking off. My seatmate, also a Cebuana who had to go home to pay the final respects for her mother, was amazed at how I slept like a baby in that long, cramped, cold flight.

It was great to see my father again, and to finally interact with my nephew CJ who was three months old when I left and to enjoy the antics of Jazzy, his one-year-old baby sister, who I found is like me, so camera-ready, flashing a smile each time we pose for pictures.

And so it happened, the thing which I dread doing in reality, collecting the remains of my grandmother from the airport and transporting it to the ferry boat to Siquijor. As a journalist, one of the things that I didn’t want to cover was anything about picking up the remains of the dead from war or any tragedy to be part of my story.

But life is ironic indeed. I was the one who had to personally do that for my grandmother. How my heart sank seeing the white box which contained her body being conveyed by the forklift at the airport and at the pier. We never choose how we die. In whatever manner, death humbles us.

Upon reaching the port of Larena at midnight, we were met by poignant faces of my folks. My aunt, who hasn’t seen my grandmother for nine years, was wailing upon the sight of the white casket. Everything that I had pictured in my mind to happen has unfolded.

And so the nine nights of wake has began in the old house where I spent wonderful childhood summers. Family and friends pour in the house anytime of the day to pay respects to my grandmother.

Lola was gone for a long time to live in the US since 1987.  Her journey was typical in the island where many locals have become petitioned sons and daughters of naturalized US citizens. Siquijor has a long-drawn history of Filipino diaspora since the time of early sacadas in Hawaii and California in the 1900s.

Grandma was a well-known dressmaker and like everyone else, was also a farmer and a fisher. Being the eldest grandchild, I had the best of everything from Lola Nara. She sewed dresses for me, every week, and took me to the beach and the farm as she gathered firewood or fruits or shellfish with my late grandfather.

The love and protection I had from my grandparents was completely assuring. That was the kind of love any child should have to be able to love back and be fundamentally happy and confident. I knew I was lucky. And I couldn’t be so grateful to my old folks.

I wrote this message of gratitude in my eulogy for her.

My short visit was marred by crazy reunions of cousins and friends, and the delightful savoring of foods that I miss. I couldn’t help but scream with gusto as I first tasted the sweet mangoes of Cebu! And the bibingka of Mandaue! And the puto and tsokolate! And the sticky humba! And the caramelized banana cue! The malunggay soup with fresh fish was a constant on our lunch table. Gosh, I truly missed home.

Before going back to the US, my cousins and I did a road tour around Siquijor, stopping at every church in the towns (there are only six) of Siquijor, San Juan, Lazi, Maria, Enrique Villanueva, and Larena. It was another journey of laughter and reminiscing good old days of climbing trees and eating pastries originating from my grandmother and perfected by our aunts.

The last two days in Cebu was a frenzied meeting with college buddies for dinner and karaoke, and some three hour snack with bosom friend Annette, a 20-minute swim at the Portofino Resort, a five hour chat with ever dearest Stella, and a lunch treat by an old family friend we fondly call Tita Lina.

How is that for a first homecoming?

My heart sank again when we said our goodbyes, especially to my cousins. But these days, it isn’t so bad anymore, because we can readily say, see you on Facebook!

The day after I got back in New York on May 18th was my reunion with college friends who were to attend the graduation of Westpointer Uzi. I was so busy, I don’t remember having been jetlagged.

The first to arrive New York were the Ezras from Chicago. I haven’t seen Kitty since 2003 when they visited Cebu together with husband Tom and daughter Isabelle. My daughter Nikki went ahead with them to West Point as I waited for the Missouri contingent, Debbie and daughter Kayra the following day.

With my party complete, we went to West Point through the first trip to Poughkeepsie at six in the morning. Debbie hurriedly but gracefully caught our train on her Jimmy Choos. We boarded two minutes before departure.

The graduation rites began on a fine sunny Saturday. The Michie Stadium was filled to the brim.  Admiral Michael G. Mullen, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, gave the graduation address to the 1000 new 2nd lieutenants of the US military.

Aside from Uzi, the Filipino graduates included Gian Mark Domingo Agni from Ewa Beach, Hawaii and Ronald Razon Medina Jr. from Piscataway, New Jersey.

These young gentlemen were later accorded a sumptuous lunch celebration at the residence of Gen. Bryan Goda, who along with his Filipino wife, Gloria, had been their gracious sponsor for the grueling four year course.

After the commissioning ceremony, which was initiated by Gen. Goda, the graduates tried to hold back their tears as they delivered their thank you speeches, with voices almost broken as they express their gratitude to their parents and loved ones.

I feel pride and anxiety for our new soldiers as they face the new challenges of the treacherous battlefields of their new assignments.  Power is always nourished by the blood and selfless dedication of a nation’s people.

I particularly remember Uzi’s older sister, Aisha who beams with pride talking about her brother. “I will always feel scared for Uzi, as he has always been my baby brother,” she once confided.

My college buddies and I occupied the expansive porch overlooking the Hudson River. Lunch was a lovely time catching up on each other’s lives. How have we been since college days, since we were the young student leaders marching the streets denouncing Marcos and organizing the students?

A lot have happened and changed since we were in our feisty years.  Dr. Aming has married college friend Lina, founded a family of three children in the Caribbean, and pursued their careers as medical doctor and physical therapist.

As for Debbie, she has carved a career in Psychology and remarried, and reunited with her two daughters.

Kitty remains the bubbly, ever loyal wife to college sweetheart Loloy who is a respected physical therapist in Chicago. Their daughter Isabelle is a constant source of pride, being a young student leader and stage singer/actress in her high school.

Of course, we know the successful business of Bong and Zurita who have set up a huge physical therapy clinic in West Virginia, aside from raising three beautiful, equally successful children.

Are we a case of amnesia from the deep-seated truths of immense poverty and human rights excesses in our country?  No. Life has an uncanny way of teaching each of us the truth, of how to live to be happy but not blind and unmindful, to arm ourselves with honesty and dedication in our lines of calling, etcetera, etcetera…each one has a reflective line to tell.

Downstream, in the midst of our laughter while taking pictures and cheerful chat, the mighty Hudson continues to flow majestically, giving life to all of New York.

***********************************************************************************

(Marivir Montebon is the managing editor of the Migrant Heritage Chronicle, a Washington, DC-based community paper for immigrants)