Respect

Image taken from here.

I fought with a college professor once. Which I rarely do actually since I'm usually very mild-mannered and respectful of authority, but sometimes I just can't help it. And I did have a bit of a temper when I was younger.

It started when I went to her office to try to get a copy of a short story I submitted for her class. I was trying to compile a writing portfolio, and unfortunately, my computer broke down, so I had to try to look for copies elsewhere. I set an appointment with her three times, and she failed to show up each time. The fourth and last time, she bit my head off, and told me off for being makulit (annoying). That was the last straw.

I went straight to the library and wrote a letter of pure venom, then attached it to her door. Then I stopped bugging her.

Three months later, I passed by her office on my way to meet another prof. There was a letter attached to her door with my name on it. It looked old, and it was addressed to me. I initially thought she would bite my head off. I opened the letter and read its contents. She was basically apologizing for her behavior.

She definitely earned a lot of respect from me then.

I remember something I wrote on the letter. I'm trying to remember so please forgive the inaccuracy. Anyway, it went something like this: "I understand that you are my teacher, but I've always been told that respect is something you extend to everyone, whoever he might be. Perhaps you weren't listening when they taught that. Whatever your position, it does not excuse your disrespect. I have a right to demand common courtesy from people I regard as my supposed intellectual superiors, even if they are not necessarily my moral ones."

Considering that I actually wrote something like that to her, her reply told me a lot about her character as a person. I guess my point is that people can surprise you sometimes. And not always in a bad way. :-)

Simple versus Complicated

I’ve always been fond of using the word “character” to describe something I like. That chair has “character”, that shirt has “character”, that building has “character”. I’m not sure where I picked that up, but I enjoy describing things or people that way. I guess it’s because, in my head anyway, when something has “character”, it means that it has a story to tell, as opposed to, for example, a chair that is really just a chair, or a shirt that is really just a shirt, or a building that is really just a building.

Which is one of the reasons why I’ve always found the notion of a “simple” life fascinating. How is it possible? Even a person who has practically nothing in life, and who has never left his house, is still a complex individual, if only because of his reasons for having nothing, or for not wanting anything. No one is ever truly simple; we are made up of rationalizations, impetuses, emotions, thoughts and ideas, so much so that to ascribe the word “simple” to any of us is to insult the very nature of our humanity. Even people who do not think are complex, if only we take the time to understand why they do not think in the first place. 

I remember my grandfather, the son of a married man and his mistress, who grew up in one of the poorer towns of Pampanga. He was a farmer, who managed to raise 8 children properly, all with college degrees, and who all work as professionals. He lived a “simple” life, simple in the sense that he is not greedy, or lustful, or ambitious. He just wanted to give his children a better life than he had. So I’ve always thought of him as a simple man, one not prone to self-aggrandizing stories, or ambitious dreams. He preferred the sidelines, always shining the spotlight on everyone else except himself.

And then he told me this one story, during the Japanese-American-Philippine war, when he joined the Hukbalahap movement, which was then a military arm of the Communist Party of the Philippines. He was a rebel soldier, one of many who wanted to fight against the Japanese empire’s invasion of the Philippines in WWII. He never elaborated on his reasons why he went and joined the Huks, only that he did, because, as he said, he felt it was the right thing to do at the time.

And he recalled the time when he was caught by Japanese soldiers, and he and his comrades were arranged neatly in a row so that they could all be killed efficiently. He was kneeling on the ground, with a rifle pointed at his head. He was waiting for what probably seemed like the inevitable when the soldier shot the gun and, of all things, tripped. My grandfather swore he felt a bullet fly next to his head. He thought it was the most amazing thing.

Then chaos ensued. My grandfather realized that another group of Huks came in before the soldier could try shooting at him again. Some more fighting went on. My grandfather kept his head and ran, seeking cover. He was astonished that he managed to make it out of there alive. He could not believe his luck.

And he told me that that is the reason why he considers his life, and my dad, and uncles, and aunts, and his grandsons and his granddaughters’ lives as gifts. He was supposed to have died, and yet he didn’t.

After that story, I could never look at my grandfather the same way again. How can someone I thought was so simple have a story so wonderful and complex? I learned, once again, how people, even the ones you know, can surprise you.

I realized simplicity is an illusion. To be human, necessarily, is to be complicated.

Featured photo taken here.