Summer (Essay I)

MY FIRST summer in America is a tree that bore fruits. But like any other tree, its fruits have to undergo processes before it can be picked and served for eating. Before these fruits ripen the tree must first experience the harshness of the season -- the wrenching heat, the roughness of the wind. Thus, my first summer in America was filled with fruitful memories, memories that will not only linger in the little corner of my mind's district but will bear another fruit, or perhaps grow another tree that will feed my memory.
In the afternoon of September 17 I was invited by my sponsor to witness an imposing event -- the 2006 Rochester International Marine Tattoo, an event that features performances of patriotic music, dance, and drill in North America (think about the movie Drumline). Held inside the vast Blue Cross Arena in downtown Rochester, New York I was not only treated to a patriotic musical extravaganza -- as it was also participated in by marching bands and bagpipe teams from Europe and Canada -- but with a respect to the American soldier, a feeling which I have not experienced before. In my own naïve sensibility, as I am a passive witness to such gathering, I thought I would just see a program that will fill my ears with music but even before it started I was compelled to hold my breath as the master of ceremonies requested all soldiers, Marines, airmen, sailors and Coast Guardsmen who came to attend the event to stand up and be recognized. A marching band played in the background and the lights were set to a serene brightness, enough to fill the huge arena and to identify the persons who are going to rise. As the emcee called on the members of the armed forces to arise I cannot help but be mesmerized. There they are, the soldiers of America, composed and regal, like eagles stoic on top of a cliff, watching an audience of three thousand behold their majesty. My eyes feast on the multitude of proud men and women, old and young, some dressed in civilian clothes while others resplendent in their uniforms, being cheered to by their compatriots, congratulated by comrades and hugged by their families. I am but a speck in the multitude, clapping and cheering on, but my feelings regale with the audience. There is a compelling happiness, a sheer joy, to witness such men being given honor. It may not be as formal as the other form of ceremonies, there might not be any politician present, not even the President, but it was honorable enough as the soldiers' presence was inimitable, men and women who had gone to war, suffered wounds and wrenching pains of killing their enemies who are really their brothers, sisters, sons and daughters. A man in front of me stood up, the emcee had called on the soldiers. He was frail, his hair thin. He must be 80 years old. His legs trembled as he balanced himself. Standing two rows below were younger men in civilian clothes, sturdy as a brick wall. Standing five rows away from us was a young woman dressed in military clothes, commanding and proud. She did not clap nor turned around. The old man's wife cheered and looked at her husband with sincere eyes and a smile as brilliant as an atomic bomb explosion. His leg wobbled as he clapped willfully. My sponsor and I tried to catch him but he persisted and we cheered. His wife looked at us and beamed. It is then when I spoke to myself, in that little district where I am most comfortable of, to witness the difference of time and space: the older soldiers had to keep their balance while the younger ones stood stolid. Who is more proud -- that old man who has served his land in the Vietnam War or the young soldier who went to Iraq? Next, the Marines were requested to stand. An old man in his sixties sitting three seats away from me laughed and said, "Will anyone help me stand up?" Nobody offered any help but he managed to lift himself -- some 250 pounds and a 6'2" frame. He did not clap, instead he put his right hand on his chest. We watched him intently, beaming with glee. I am moved by such gesture. His will proved too humongous. I am moved by such men. There I was, a man amongst other men, not even an American, in a country considered to be the most powerful in the world, watching soldiers digest the plurality of the moment, being celebrated upon by their countrymen. The American Soldier, chosen as Man of the Year in 2003 by Time Magazine, is an enigma. He is a structure to reckon with. Other nations see him as an arsenal to restore peace. But in that moment, amid the roar of the multitude, he is a creature of meaning -- his body might be a battle machine but his heart is that of a human being. Under the lights of the auditorium everyone has to dissect him, to probe whether his heart is still with his country or has he given up the fight for freedom. And I, a mortal, wondering if he will continue to serve his country even if his heart has been ripped by the war. With the enormous responsibility to carry out his master's commands, will he still be able to live as proud as he was when he first entered the academy? Will he still live with sanity after witnessing his fellow soldiers die in combat? After the momentous standing ovation subsided we all sat, content with the rapture of the event. Truly, though I attended wonderful events this summer, like watching the Beach Boys at Canadaigua, the Walnut Hill International Driving Competition, visited another nation like Canada, spent glorious time at Six Flags in Darien Lake, nothing had given me a feeling of riotous satisfaction like honoring the American soldiers in the International Marine Tattoo.

(Published in Sun.Star Bacolod Oct. 03, 2006 under my column, The Mango Generation)