Forty years are a long time on Earth whilst, in eternity, they do not even amount to a trickle in a succession of permanence. Of what, and how long, permanence is, could not be ascertained in words, nor in concepts, albeit one knows that “permanence” knows no bounds. And, yet, as boundless as permanence is, one could craft a narration that allows boundless permanence to possess, or rather, be governed, by metes and bounds.
Our friends, once throbbing persons who sat, laughed, and cried with, or for, us, become a memory etched in permanence as soon as they exit this Earthly life. It’s as if their temporal presence is lent a permanence as luminous as they are diaphanous once the after-life claims them from us.
Such is the case of some of my Ateneo friends, one of whom even antedated my formal entry as an Ateneo student in 1980. These friends of mine had shapes, faces, and even a personal presence that defined them, quite unmistakably, albeit, since they are now “citizens of the Great Beyond”, they are entrenched in my memory as if they have suddenly become an Idea, which, given their distinctive predilections toward the mundane, are either discrete in their individualities, or continuous in their common bond with the rest of teeming humanity.
Was it Soren Kierkegaard, the Danish Philosopher (cum Protestant “Theologian”) who titled one of his works, thus, “Either/Or”, a homage to the eternal choice between temporal(ity) and eternity, once mere concepts that tried, vainly, to explain “what life is”, only to end up in utter “Fear and Trembling” as if realizing that this Earthly life will, one day, pine for eternal salvation?
My friends, now name-less as persons-inhabiting-an-Idea, were real, that is to say, with sweaty bodies after a hard-fought IAC game, or garbed in a neatly-pressed pair of Wrangler jeans, or, as was commonly expected of them as Ateneo students, armed with their toothy smiles that revealed their pinkish gums (when called upon, unprepared, of course, to recite in class) – – – they who fought, vainly, to remain planted in this present life, or, to go peacefully toward the Great Beyond when suddenly re-called from this Earth, all in one sitting, with nary a thought about the differences in mortal life with their individualities intact, on the one hand, and eternity which, probably, melded their individualities into a collective whole, never to exist, ever, as a person, on the other hand.
The late Kenneth Ferrer was as real as anyone could hope for.
He and I were block mates in English whilst we struck a lifelong friendship even after we were herded on to our respective “majors”. He was the nephew of former Ateneo Law School Dean Simeon Ferrer.
We used to sit, and ruminate, on the stone benches that lined the walkway between Kostka Hall and the (old) Rizal Library, about life, albeit one of our spirited (and lengthy) discussions focused on how the hapless Nauruans were duped into selling-off their natural resources (consisting mainly of bird manure, that is to say, bird shit, colloquially) to the Western colonizers from Australia, New Zealand, and Great Britain. These colonizers managed the Nauruans’ wealth whilst as an enduring proof of their slavish existence (vis-à-vis the West) their nation’s “bird shit” whose rich Phosphate element became the stuff for fertilizers marketed by Monsanto, among others, was concretely poured into the Pacific Star building at the corner of Gil J, Puyat Avenue and Makati Avenue in posh Makati City.
“All that bird shit accomplished was to prove the unmitigated greed of the West whilst exposing the naked innocence of the Nauruans”, quipped Ken, his bepimpled cheeks suddenly stretched ever so tautly to expose a crease on his face that threatened an onrushing laughter.
“Well, it’s one thing to have an abundance of bird shit, whilst it’s an entirely different thing to sell-off this bird refuse and, thus, afford to look like a prosperous Western ward.”, I spoke in defence of the blessed ignoramuses that were the Nauruans.
“Who would have thought that one was hobnobbing with a bird shit dealer from Nauru at the lobby of The Pen while gingerly sipping tea from a set of Qing Dynasty cup and saucer?”, Ken wryly reparteed.
“All in life is appearances, as if the real and the substantive are well-hidden, or rather, actively hidden from everyone”, I remembered delivering my rejoinder empathically, hoping that we could shift to a more mundane topic.
“But, Padre, appearances do matter. Take the case of ‘X’, for example. He never, for once, looked the part of an Atenean and, yet he is “true blue”. He might never have belonged to the exulted First Class of Section A in Ateneo High School and, yet, he IS the epitome of a true blue Atenean: selfless, kind, intelligent, and, of course, has the pedigree and the look of an Indio”, Ken giggled as he put Finis to our conversation.
Amidst this searing conversation punctuated with guffaws and feet-stomping, came, or rather, sashayed, as if astride his lame war horse, another friend, this time a habitue of the Bench(es) that lined the front perimeter of our College Cafeteria. He was Joey Bautista, probably an addendum to the famous Bench Boys of the Ateneo (which counted the likes of the late Leo Daez and even, of late, Poch Gayoso, plus the elite GQ set).
Joey (Jose Oscarito Bautista in real life) and I met as idealistic Junior High School students way back in 1979 during the 12th iteration of the Ateneo Junior Summer Seminar, a gathering of some eighty (of some say the best, whatever this term meant, then) 3rd Year High School students from all over the country.
Joey was from Tondo, Manila, the same district that produced Gat Andres Bonifacio, founder of the Freemasonic KKK that spearheaded the revolution of the Filipinos against Spain in 1896. Joey represented Manila Science High School, together with one Judy Ocaya, a petite lass with a pair of bulging round eyes framed by her ever-distinctive pony tail. Judy looked “scientific” even as Joey looked the missing fourth member of Tito, Vic, and Joey.
Joey and I met while on a break from what turned out to be the Ateneo College Entrance Examinations for High School Seniors at the lobby of Gonzales Hall.
“Joey Bautista po”, his right-hand extended searching for my right hand to clench in a handshake.
“OK dito sa Ateneo, maraming ‘chicks’. Sa’min sa Manila Science, mukhang lalaki ang mga babae at may bigote pa – – – pero may utak”, Joey beamed his Magic Johnson-esque smile.
I could only nod in agreement, given that I missed an entire sub-section of a “right-minus-wrong” segment of the English Examination as I was clearly mesmerised by the presence of a lady examinee from Saint Bridget’s High School (QC), an entirely radically new experience for me since I was raised in an all-boys school.
The next time we met, Joey and I were classmates in Section A of the 12th Ateneo Junior Summer Seminar, quite a new-fangled experience, then, since I never had girl classmates to sit beside me, an Indio-from-Batangas, whilst Joey was navigating the class as if he were an experienced card dealer from ‘Vegas.
“Mga Pare, ito ang ‘dream girl’ ko”, Joey beamed as he held up a bare-breasted poster of a devilishly-smiling Suzanne Sommers (of Three’s Company fame), tattered, decrepit, and horrendously sticky as it was being the much-preened front cover of a past issue of TV Times. We were lining up to take a drink from the water fountain at the 2nd Floor lobby of Gonzaga Hall, opposite the (then) Department of Biology where brown jars filled with centuries-old alcohol and some unidentified murky (and, quite probably, malodorous) liquid contained preserved lizards and other dead amphibian specimens in various stages of muted (yet highly surprised) expressions for Bio-Majors to dissect (and puke over).
“Mr. Bautista, would you like to present your (English) composition before the class, today? You can highlight your composition with Suzanne Sommers’ generous chest as props”, our guest English lecturer butted in.
Without missing a beat, Joey capped that eventful morn with a resounding “Yess, Ma’am. Gladly”, followed by a wink and a parting shot to us as if we were witnessing someone being led to the guillotine, “Inggles yon, mga pare ko – – – ipagdasal ‘nyo na ‘lang ako!”
Given my “exile” at Bellarmine Hall where the Political Science Department was housed (probably as an afterthought or as a virtual addendum to the Ateneo School of Arts and Sciences), far from the main College housed at either Kostka, Gonzales, or Gonzaga halls, Joey Bautista and I were never perennial classmates, save for an elective class in Business Management under the late Prof. Enrico Angtuaco (husband to Prof. Placer of our Biology Department and, later, my Finance Professor at the Asian Institute of Management in 1999).
Joey was probably as gifted as Ernest Bohol in the emceeing genre, albeit he chose to become the batch “Kuya”, a veritable ear that listened to (and heard) one’s troubled existence (with or without the inspiring presence of Suzanne Sommers and her robust chest).
As businesslike as my discussions were with the late Ken Ferrer, it was rather the opposite experience with Joey Bautista, a carefree and kind batch mate who never uttered “NO” to anyone who had need of someone to lend him (her) an ear, except, of course, if one needed cash.
Yonder, as the sun set over Xavierville, whilst the Carrier AC hummed in supreme agony to cool Fr. Robert Suchan, SJ’s fiefdom that was the old Rizal Library, one could espy the already-gaunt figure of Greggy Orara clutching his ever-reliable brown “Apache case” walking briskly to tutor a swarthy lad from Esteban Abada Elementary School.
Gregorio “Greggy” Orara was from 4-B of the Ateneo High School. He, together with Arnold Clement Abundo, represented Ateneo High School at the 12th iteration of the Ateneo Junior Summer Seminar. If Joey Bautista was the epitome of a happy-go-lucky young man, Greggy Orara was rather of serious mien, finishing the assigned advanced Math homework ahead of time even as he never participated in our section’s “after-school activities”. He and Pedro Nebres (of Philippine Science High School) became the pair of nerds that defined Section A of our Ateneo Junior Summer Seminar batch.
“Kamusta na, Greegy?, I absent-mindedly asked the rhetorical question which moonlighted as a serious greeting amongst friends.
“Mabuti naman, Ranil. May ‘turo ako ngayon sa isang ‘taga Esteban Abada. May utak ito at, malay mo, makapasa sa Ateneo, eh ‘di masaya ako!”, beamed Greggy, while flashing a pair of his distinctive Bugs Bunny front teeth.
“Eh, kung gan’on, may bunga pala ang pagpapagal mo sa pagtuturo ng mga bata’ng kailangan ng gabay (sa buhay)”, I tried, vainly, to sound interested whilst walking faster (than fast) to finish-off our tete-a-tete.
“Sandali ‘lang, Ranil. Nais mo bang magturo sa mga kapus-palad ? Para’ng tulong-dunong mo na rin – – – kung may panahon ka ‘lang naman‘“, shot Greggy.
That was the last meaningful and long(ish) conversation I had with the late Greggy Orara. I took his suggestion as seriously as any Atenean worth his promise did: I ended up teaching at the Ateneo SOM for 21 years, teaching not unfortunate children as much as brilliant (and well-off) guys and gals from the Ateneo High School, ICA, Assumption, Stella Maris, Maryknoll, St. Theresa’s College, and Xavier School, among others.
To cap this journey back in time, I had to, literally, walk back to Bellarmine Hall after Ken (Ferrer) and Joey (Bautista), themselves, left, to attend to their affairs “after dusk”. (And, NO, their activities had nothing to do with school work).
Alone, yet never absent from my thoughts, I met Aris Ferrer at the guarded parking lot of Bellarmine Hall where we were scheduled to finish our group paper for Fr. Vitaliano J. Gorospe, SJ’s Theology 141 class.
Anyone who had a weak grounding in his (or her) traditional Roman Catholic faith ought not to have signed-up for Fr. George’s Liberation Theology class. Not only was Fr. George an exemplary teacher as much as “ x x x he was the epitome of a famed Existentialist x x x ”, in the mould of a Jean Paul Sartre, Nikolai Gogol, or even an Albert Camus.
Looking back, I have this sinking feeling that “all ‘Nouveau’ Jesuits (all of whom taught me, at one time or another, all the way up to Graduate School of Philosophy at the Ateneo) had (actually) lost their Roman Catholic faith and started their very own humanistic (and Existentialist) ersatz religion following the likes of Teilhard de Chardin, George Tyrell, Alfred Loisy, and all others who actively participated in drafting the Papal encyclical, Rerum Novarum, signed and issued under the name of (probably) one of the last true Roman Catholic Popes of the post-Medieval era, Leo XIII (1878-1903).
Fr. George, he with the distinctive inverted bowl haircut of Moe (i.e., of The Three Stooges fame) never failed to note that “ x x x religion must not be an opiate (to, and, of) the people x x x ”, quoting the Jew, Karl Marx, but must, rather, uplift them, especially the ‘W-O-P-S’ (i.e., “widows, orphans, prisoners, and strangers”) even as he promoted the “Basic Christian Communit(ies)” which his fellow Jesuits, Jon Sobrino and Juan Luis Segundo, established as the supporting substructure of their Liberation Theology.
“Len (my nickname), kailangang tapusin ang mag slides para kay Gorô. Si Richard Uysiuseng (sa Cervini) ‘payag na gamitin ang Nikon camera ‘nya, pero kailangan natin ng tulong ni Mang Cesar (sa Rizal Library Basement) kung saan may Tripod”, Aris beamed with his usual bravado whilst deeply inhaling the cool(er) Yuletide air.
“’Tara, Aris, puntahan natin si Richard. Ipaparada ko ang Celeste sa parking lot ng Cervini para madali tayo. Gumagabi na at baka kumain na ‘yon sa Pampangueña. Tawagan mo si Felipe (Ramiro, Jr., a Political Science major as well who was a group member) upang dalhin niya ang Bolyum 10 ng Filipiniana sa Basement ng Rizal Library”, I spoke in virtual staccato given the need for haste.
Emmanuel Ariston Ferrer y Veloira, or Aris (“Sira Rerref” amongst his close friends), for short, was never a good-looking guy. He had the cranial structure of a Cro-Magnon man who, at least, was the peremptory proto-Homo Sapiens (that is, if one believed in Charles Darwin’s evolutionary balderdash on how ‘man’ came to be-come), and, yet, Aris was the last iteration of how a true friend ‘ought to be’, often sacrificing his very own personal interests for those of his friends (and even foes alike).
One time I locked my car keys inside my car whilst the engine was idling. It was a Saturday and we were supposed to have one of those languid lunches at Cervini after fulfilling my CMT duties at the Ateneo Gym Complex.
“Aris, ‘bantayan mo muna ang awto ko. Kailangang umuwi ako upang kunin ang duplicate key. Bahala ka na sa makina. Kapag nag-overheat, siguro kailangang basagin mo na ang salamin sa likod ng driver upang patayin ang makina. Hintay ka ‘lang sa tabi ng awto – – – bibilisan ko at babalik ako ‘agad“, I frantically walked under the searing heat of the noonday sun whilst hoping to catch a UP Ikot ride to conduct me as expeditiously as humanly possible to secure the other key at home.
When I arrived back, Aris was beside my car, parked under a tree whose leafy canopy made a roof to cool the car, albeit an hour-and-a-half later, the canopy was, at least, as receded as Pugo’s bald dome.
“Len, OK ang kotse mo, ‘di nag-overheat! ‘Dala mo ang spare key?, Aris gleefully queried even as he appeared gaunt and forlorn after standing under the noonday sun beside my (still) idling car.
“Pare, salamat ng napakarami. Oo, ‘dala ko ang spare key. ‘Tara sa Shakey’s, ‘libre ko ang tanghalian natin. Bunch of Lunch, OK sa ‘yo?, I declared not without an ounce of gratitude over the loyalty of Aris.
One time, as we were pulling out of my (regular) parking slot at Bellarmine Hall, Aris espied an almost dried-up vial of Calvin Klein men’s perfume at my car’s front dash.
“Len, ginagamit mo pa ba ‘to?”, Aris pleaded as he cast an eyeful towards the Calvin Klein vial.
“’Ris, kung gusto mo, sa ‘yo na ‘lang – – – kaya ‘lang baka maging napakabango mo kapag ginamit mo”, I gave my consent as wholeheartedly as only a brother could.
“Siyanga? Akin na ‘lang ‘to? Buti ka pa, naalala mo ‘ko”, Aris was slavish in his profuse gratitude to me.
“Wala ‘yon. Basta ikaw, Aris!”
It was Carmela Abbas who called to relay to me the sad news of Aris Ferrer’s (untimely) demise. I was already a Lawyer then albeit I was doing Investment Banking for BPI Capital,.
“Ranil, our friend Aris is dead”, Melay Abbas cried over the phone just as I was leaving XP Loinaz’s conference room at the 19th Floor of the old (and venerable) BPI HO Building.
“Kailan pa? Paano nangyari ‘yon?”, I queried Melay albeit I knew, then, that death comes like the proverbial thief in the night. Death was as sudden as it was an expected (friend).
“’Di ko alam. Basta bilisan ninyo nina Felipe (Ramiro) at Emil (Teng). Ako ‘lang ang andito para kay Aris”, Melay sounded so disconsolate from the other end of the line.
Aris appeared bigger, and better-looking, as he laid in state. After the usual greetings and condolences to the bereaved family of Aris Ferrer, one was left with the emptiness of the Void.
Nothing seemed to matter at that time. Neither was my career a valuable refuge amidst the loss of a true friend who was taken “at the prime of his life”.
Were Ken (Ferrer), Joey (Bautista), Greggy (Orara), and Aris (Ferrer) mere passing-Ideas about one’s priorities in this life, or, were they real (objective) persons who really existed at one time on this Earth, whilst all of them became virtual brothers to me (and to everyone else) in the batch?
Does our Existence matter, if ever, at all, or do we become but a memory to those whom we (have) left behind?
If existence is but fleeting, where does permanence and eternity lie?
Was Gorô (or Fr. Gorospe, SJ) truthful in his assertion that “ x x x what matters is what one touches, sees, and hears x x x ”, or was the Angelic Doctor correct in arguing for the “ x x x permanence of the human soul, transcending the mundane and, thus, all manner of existence? x x x. ”
As we all ascend our Senior years, let not the mundane concerns of this Existence bother us, as rather, let the permanence of Eternity become our sole beacon of Hope in Christ.