A journey back to your heritage
always invokes a modicum of soul
searching because the question of what brought you here, at this stage in life
at this particular point in time, both demands and allows the unadulterated
honesty associated with the benefits of hindsight. When you look at childhood
from your prism as an adult it lends a measure of satisfaction that
notwithstanding the notorious sarcastic laments of George Bernard Shaw, youth
after all had neither been exactly, nor entirely wasted on the young.
The material represents a due
diligence attempt to chronicle, via a series of seemingly random and incidental
episodes narrated in the first-person, the evolutionary journey of my
consciousness from the edge of the wilds of Mindanao* (Philippines) to the
rough and tumble of the streets of Manhattan (New York City), with all the
tedious yet not the least thrilling detours in-between. Random in the sense that I had to single out
and focus on specific and discrete pivotal decision points which ushered in a
definitely recognizable qualitative change in my perception of my unique
attributes as an individual, on leaving such decision bifurcations.
It behooves to emphasize that any
attempt to present or examine a slice of reality along the dimension of time,
the present—the here and now—is the only valid starting point, i.e., coordinate
zero on the time-axis. This stems from
the requirement that the end points of the time-axis, i.e., the beginning and
end of time, have to assume the value of infinity as coordinates. For this very reason it has become inevitable
that life can only be properly viewed retrospectively. The locutions “before the beginning of time,”
and “beyond the end of time,” denote points of reality which become tangible
only with poetic license in the fertile and prolific realm of the imagination.
This argument alone, ipso facto,
justified my taking the “Rubicon” piece as the starting point of the
narratives. The here and now being the
most fleeting point in all moments contained in that time continuum we call
eternity, it became inevitable that the events as segments of memory have to be
viewed in time frames of ample duration to fully elucidate the context within
which the mindset undergirding any decision had evolved. The Rubicon episode defined the conscious
abandonment of the ego identity directly derived from my formal education and
training, in favor of what was construed to be the higher pursuit of nobler
ideals.
In a broader context the three
parts of the book represent three distinct non-sequential evolutionary phases
of my consciousness. The Narratives
represent the aspirational age of ambition, when the drive to transcend any
given set of circumstances reigned supreme.
The Poetry I deem to represent the seemingly unquenchable deliberative
age of simultaneous inspiration, enlightenment, and illusion. It was at this stage that you pushed the
envelope of the imagination in quest for a reason to go on, to latch on to a
sustainable justification for being.
The Essays represent the age of
rational resignation, or better yet, resigned rationalization, when you give in
to the impulsive reflex to explain away the developments which you know affect
your physical and spiritual well-being but they unfold far beyond your sphere
of influence. You are effectively out of
the arena. Your mission is no longer to
do or die but simply to reason why, as an inconsequential observer of, to
paraphrase Robert F. Kennedy, both the “things that are” then ask why, and the
“things that are not” then ask why not?
The impetus to write has been
derived from a multitude of sources with varying degrees and dimensions of
motivational impulses ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous. On the most pedestrian level, has been the
fact beyond dispute that the journey has been arduously long, and storiedly
colorful, with a treasure trove of memories screaming to be told, for the
simple reason that they are too effusive and effervescent to remain buried in
the bowels of oblivion, at home amongst the unknown and the unknowable.
It all started in the desolate
isolation of the evacuation camps of World War II, where I was born. Thence, trudging barefoot on at times
literally improvised and ad hoc pathways through the underbrush, the journey
proceeded through thick and thin, to bear witness to the magnificence of what
the human mind is capable of conceiving and achieving. The gamut of wonders encompassed supersonic
transport, particle accelerators, man’s round-trip journey to the moon,
instantaneous internet communications, and Skype technology video
teleconferencing, to name a select few.
In the recent couple of years,
many a few times when I left home without my cell phone I felt helpless and
deprived, like a fish out of the water.
Considering that I did not experience the chance to use a telephone
until the tender age of eighteen, it is one more eloquent testament to the
human mind’s seemingly limitless ability to adopt, absorb, assimilate and adapt
to and flourish with the ever accelerating developments in technology and stay
comfortably acclimatized and snugly enculturated therein.
On the more mundane, egotistical
level, it was propelled by the belated poignant realization, that in this, what
I consider to be the twilight of my years, I have not done much to leave behind
for posterity: not even children of my own to contribute to the perpetuation of
my genetic DNA. Ever the believer that
human events occur for a reason, I am resigned to concede that the absence of a
bloodline progeny is prima facie evidence that my genes were not worth
perpetuating, in the broader scheme of things.
It probably could be construed as the equitable and just rewards for the
abandonment of my professional commitments.
On an inferential level, regardless
of the official version of suicide as allegedly arrived at on the ensuing
inquest surrounding the demise of my brother-in-law, the late Manuel Bravante,
I am convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was liquidated as a
retribution for my unceremoniously abandoning the IPT program, if for no other
reason than that he was available and I was not. In a very modest way, I offer the book as a
token of my esteem, apologies, and gratitude to Manny, as I knew him, that he
took the blows for me, and paid the ultimate measure of his devotion to
principles and personal loyalty. At
least I heard more than enough anecdotal circumstantial evidence to arrive at
such a grim conclusion.
Admittedly, I do not have
concrete evidence to prove a causal connection.
In the movie “Ronin,” there is
a line by Robert de Niro which seems most appropriate to my conclusion. To wit, “if there ever is any doubt, there
never is any doubt.” It has been said of
old that vengeance is a dish best served cold.
What more could be a colder serving than liquidating a newly minted
proud father by throwing him off the roof of a multiple-storey building while
taking final examinations in graduate school?
It was rather well known during my tenure in MSU Marawi that he and I
were of kindred spirits and attitudes, respecting university politicking.
Furthermore, inherent to the
controversial nature of my departure in 1974, there have been various versions
of the narrative attempting to explain the method to the madness and wherefores
of that event; none of them accurate and all of them necessarily derived from
baseless conjectures fomenting wild speculations. With the publication of this book the
definitive gospel narrative of that event shall have been available to the
inquisitive public. Any further
speculation on the matter should thenceforth be dismissed as no more than an
attempt to deride and maliciously impugn the integrity of my judgment.
Finally, my endeavors would be
less than forthcoming if I did not acknowledge the incidental inspiration which
triggered to open the floodgates of narratives included in this work. I was a couple of chapters into Henryk Sienkiewicz’s In Desert and Wilderness, when I was awestruck and fascinated by
the unique beauty he imbued his story with the perspective of a child telling
an adult’s viewpoint. While I have been
scheming to tell my story for a long time, that rare Sienkiewicz moment
propelled me to write the “Jellyfish” narrative in chapter 6. I posted the piece in one of my blog sites
followed by the “Fallout” piece in the same chapter.
To my pleasant surprise, the blog post elicited some encouraging
comments from, among others, Ziba (Bastani), Sam (Prasad), and Larry
(Goldstein), in that order of email arrival.
To all three, I want to record herein my immeasurable gratitude for the
encouragement. Both Sam and Larry I have
known and worked with for a number of years as an IT consultant. I credited Larry with the singular misfortune
to have saved me, in the winter of 1993 when I suffered a massive stroke, from
becoming at best, a vegetable or at worst, a delectable if unwilling victual to
fat and unappreciative nasty little earthworms.
Ziba, I have known since graduate school in my days in Kyoto
University. She is probably the only
person who had seen every bit of the narratives as they unfolded. Not as a witness to the unfolding of the
events being narrated but as the one reader who was inundated with every
version of the narratives as its state of incompleteness emerged from the
cocoon in the cobwebs of my mind to distinct words and phrases grasping for a
breath of life into a coherent fabric of a story. Theirs along with cheering on
the sidelines from four of my lovely and lovable nieces: Chell, Yak, Gay, and
Joy had made my dreams of telling the story, a reality ready for prime time.
I salute all of you:
May your glories multiply
As the stars up in the sky.
The rare
occasioned somber sky
May not but serve to amplify
The
happiness of days gone by,
And
laurels of unyielding prime,
And promises
of days that lie
Uncharted
in the blue abyss
And
daunting vagaries of Time!
Additionally, it behooves to pay a special
tribute to Mana, my only older sister
(Lalai to the rest of the clan older
than her), not only for her valuable contributions, respecting accuracy of
recollection, in my effort to put together the narratives but also, and more
importantly, for her priceless assistance while I was living the life narrated
herein. Without her help, no part of my
life would have been worthy of telling in any manner, shape or form.
The saintly patience with which Krystyna, my
lovely and lovingly devoted wife, endured the seemingly endless clicking of the
keyboard even as she struggled to catch some sleep so she could go to work to
support me and see the project to fruition deserves to be mentioned for the
record. That the book is ready for the
press is proof positive that her admonitions remained unheeded. To her, goes my endless gratitude.
To the rest of the family: Robert, Renata,
Marek, and Nikki who deplore my writing style as inherently unreadable for
being too erudite, but whose filial affectionate devotion only waxed more
generous with the passage of time despite my perennial absence at family
huddles because of the book, I commend you to the gods of prosperity and thank
my lucky stars that I am part of your family, the House of Kaczmarski in St.
James. In my defense let me remind you
that you can only reveal to the world the essence of what you are. The insinuations of what you are not, the
rest of the universe will eagerly supply sans your behest, nay against your
ardent wishes.
Undoubtedly, some who were familiar with the
events narrated herein and inclined to look deeper enough into the substance of
the narratives are bound to find crimes of omission which may be hidden in the
gaps and void interstices of the story.
To them I pledge my intent to flesh those out into a coherent legible
whole. Whether or not they will
eventually see the light of day in print only time will tell. It all depends on the free emotional and
intellectual energy at my disposal, not to mention the material wherewithal
necessary to midwife their incarnation into prime time existence.
Ergo, if there is any financier out there ready
willing and eager to underwrite the project, I implore you to contact my
publisher post haste so we can get to work. I enjoin you therefore to look
over whatever is offered here with guarded leisure. There might be more to
follow. This might be the last of its
breed. The most important thing is, may
you have half as much fun reading it as I have had both living and
writing about it.
With a song in my heart: regards
& carpe diem,
Constancio S. Asumen. Jr.
Chapter
End Notes: The
notes are itemized below in the order that they were referred to in the
preceding text. They have been included
herein to facilitate the curious readers’ penchant to verify any and all
information that has been only tangentially mentioned in the text. {*I
refer to the Philippine Mindanao, the second largest island member of the
Philippine archipelago with geographical coordinates of 9° 37' 36" North,
123° 22' 53" East, where the province of Surigao del Norte is
located. This should not be confused
with the Honduran Mindanao, situated in El Negrito, Yoro, Honduras, whose
geographical coordinates are 15° 27' 0" North, 87° 41' 0" West. It was such a total surprise to discover that
there allegedly is another place in the sun, other than my native island, that
is named Mindanao. But after learning in
the internet that there reportedly is a village in Ghana named Asumen [(with
geographic coordinates 5° 35' (5.583333°) North latitude, 0° 36' (0.6°) West
longitude, elevation 71 meters (233 feet)], nothing much ought to be surprising
to discover, as far as I am concerned. I
sincerely hope that this village is not the cumulative result of my younger
brother’s unbridled escapades in the youthful exuberant days of his
philandering ways.}
