A Focolare Story
The pace of my writing is just awfully slow — it takes me ten minutes to conceive a personally acceptable group of words, another ten for the professional embellishment, but mostly painful hours of staring into this colorless, imaginary void. I think it’s this irresistibly chilled bottle of Red Horse beer that’s giving me this surging amplification for my creative spirit to inch forward at the very least. And I had every right to frowst onto the softness of my bed — it’s a form of cathartic release from the weight of school and work, but most of all, it’s a Friday.
But I hate how there is this disturbance that continues to swell as the minutes also continue to leak from the clock. The blend of denial and longing brews such a sophisticated emotion because its unpredictability of attack feasts on events that are so mundane. You wake up, you get preoccupied with work, you see a random object somewhere and suddenly an emptiness resurfaces out of nowhere leaving you pigeonholed almost always for the rest of the day. And I feel this, my eyes half-bulged and sunken just fixed on the fading blurred image of the bulb.
I take the first sip. It’s the kicker sip, the conversation starter, or whatever moniker you give it. The small mouthful of Red Horse was something I would consider already the way to a successful start. It was proper — well at least for me — having a teaser taste to condition the tongue from that flinching robust bitterness of the beer, and I’ve always been so vulnerable to that despite my well-adorned drinking history.
Beer can also furtively make you tell little strips of truth…
Fine. It’s not just any Friday. I’ve been counting the days and it’s been more than a month since I’ve met the Focolare family. This was a rather harder confession than I thought, but how couldn’t this be? My mind and the entire universe are in cahoots into colluding my present moments as their subliminal theatrical playground. And this was my problem, it wasn’t so easy for me to forget things even the most infinitesimal of details — even the faded footprints in the plaza where we stood as we enjoyed the community Zumba or that specific spot at the boulevard where we dipped ourselves in bittersweet conversations with empty bottles of Red Horse on our table and being serenaded by wisps of sea breeze as the night turned crisper. Or maybe I sometimes recall too much.
But then again how can I ever forget? There’s Facebook, duh.
I do a careful little sip. And look whose posts showed up on my feed. It’s from tito Manny, Takii, ate Vee, and Gab,
I mean of course, it’s really not that hard of a prediction especially having garnered the title: Social Media Capital of the World. Philippine Star reports that the social media usage of an average Filipino reaches up to 3 hours and 57 minutes topping the list followed by Brazil and Indonesia with 3 hours and 39 minutes, 3 hours and 27 minutes respectively. Would this count as addiction? I suppose, an hour feels already like overexposure, as if there is a sensory outburst. But would this also count as an anticipated enculturation? Friedreich Hegel wouldn’t be so surprised. It’s not a too complicated formula, we are simply a social species and social media gives us the opportunity to amplify this urge of connect.
* * *
The aforementioned posts were a potpourri of pictures on the e-kindle outreach program organized by the College of Education (COEd) of Eastern Samar State University (ESSU) in partnership with the Focolare Movement. This was a three-day event comprised of literacy and feeding programs on selected schools: Canjaway Elementary School, Punta Maria Elementary High School, Cati-an Elementary School, and Maypangdan Elementary School with one school per day respectively — except the latter two which were squeezed on the third day.
I will be honest, not in my life have I been wonderfully paused by the connection two groups of people, who are utterly strangers of each other, could make. I usually arrive early before the programs start, I wait at a distance faced to the gate. I was interested in capturing that virgin moment of two strangers meeting — well, I didn’t have a camera, but I did have my eyes. I never really failed to see the magic that happened every time the French and the Belgians, the Hollanders, the two Icelanders — ate Alg and Nina — would enter the gates of the school and the children would welcome them in this heartwarming chorus of band music, cheers, and mostly hugs. I could tell all the sparking feeling of joy and excitement were without blemish, the authenticity of their actions:
I see Aziz doing piggybacks with his befriended pupil from his assigned class, He swings the kid up and down and all around.
I admire the Belgian lads’ persistence on teaching the youngsters the basics of affixes, despite all the other ones already burst into play — the features of all their faces turned sharp and appeared strongly tempted.
Annemarie changes her Facebook profile picture with her and her favored pupil seated on the slide. I remember Annemarie kept herself hidden from the natural ire of the sun, which I thought was a heterodox display against the proven stereotype of Europeans’ lustful desire to bathe in the sunlight. As a skeptic, I had to ask why she didn’t want the free tan, she cheerfully replied: “Of course I love tan, but even if I try so hard, I still turn red!” There was really a stretch of red that mantled both her arms. The safest reply was only a smile.
* * *
Words from ate Kaye struck me as I watched an interview of her with the Voice of the Word (DYVW) anchors Rev. Fr. Andiy Egargo and Ms. Eden Cidro. She talked about how the Focolare mission was to concretize the gospel and Aziz’s heartbreaking testimony on the pangs of war in Iraq. Also in the snap interviews I did with some of the Focolare people — Michel, Soraya, Marlies, Matteo, JB, Marie-Amadine, Jasmine, Etienne, Eliot, Emmanuel, Clara V., Aurore, Celine, and Annick — all of them seemed to draw conclusions of the whole experience being brimmed with a joyful blessedness with the children and how Borongan had such exquisite beach spots, probably because it sates all the necessary components of the Western vacation fantasy: the white-blanched sandy expanse that’s lush of coconut trees and the skittered shades of blue of the stretching sea.
But as of this writing, it was JB’s comment that still lingered today: “The joy of life despite not having much but only the necessary…” which can be better delineated through its binary opposite — from the words of actor Jim Carrey, “I wish everybody would become rich and famous and will have everything they ever dreamed of, so they will know it’s not the answer.” Not too many can remove the blindfold, others may notice but when it’s already too late.
It’s just amazing having experienced the Focolare way. I’ve recently discovered that the Focolare’s etymology is Italian which means hearth. Honestly at first, it was just hilarious how there are these people who want to reach out even, almost confessionally, not having the most perfect English. And adding insult to injury, the children they’re reaching out with aren’t the most fluent too. I mean just the thought of it — no one in these schools can speak French nor Flemish, and the language comprehension of elementary students still needs more work. But can you believe it? There wasn’t really any perceivable gap. I get it now in the deeper sense, this was already the language of kindness working its magic — the kind of language that renounces whatever national affiliation you had. You may be French, Filipino, or Belgian — it didn’t really matter because it’s a language that does not need translation to get to heart of what we want to express. And this was perhaps the Focolare movement, that as long as we continue to do good we are always gathered in this hearth of kindness and hope as a family even though we’re dispersed at the opposite ends of the world…
I hurriedly chugged my half-filled Red Horse, snatched a long pause.
* * *
Almost everyone did their share of thanksgiving and longing, testified in my flooded Facebook feed of short sentimental posts, little conversations, and changing of profile pics — I almost could not pinpoint whose was whose, out of emotional heftiness or maybe the inebriation.
But I do remember this: there were moments that the camera failed to capture:
At the rocky beach of Canjaway, ate Vee, Hannah, Takii, Yuna. Marvie and I were having a good chat with Annick. After some topic, Annick blurts out:
“Yo this is one of the best papayas I’ve ever tasted!”
“Papayas do taste good, were they served earlier?” I commented
“Yeah they really do, I just drank in on one earlier ago.”
I looked at Takii and ate Vee with a discreetly raised eyebrow. “A papaya?”
“Yeah you know the others were like ‘wait a papaya?’ and I was like yeah this green one it’s a papaya and it’s yummy, trust me I’ve seen this everywhere in Africa.” Annick unflinchingly remarks and instantly points at a distance “Look at him, that’s what I’m talking about, the papaya.”
That was when we found out she was talking about the coconut.
I remember how hard it was to approach them. The hectic schedule, the culture shock, the screen of awkwardness — these were all there. But thanks to Aurore and Celine who were highly approachable, befriending ran smoothly in the drinking sessions and the karaoke. Soraya, Marie-Amandine, and Clara V. were naturals when it comes to holding the mic.
I had them eat the infamous balut. The lucky contestants were Etienne, Eliot, Philippe, and Fabien. This was something that wasn’t too difficult to judge, Etienne and Philippe tied first place — Philippe ate it effortlessly, even planning to keep the putrid shell. Etienne was very composed and appreciative, he munched the balut slowly as if studying the peculiarity of its taste, the unconventionality while commenting with only three words: “T’was okay, good.” Those sounded like very familiar words that meant I might want to eat this again. Eliot and Fabien’s faces looked like crumpled paper. I also don’t get why Eliot was gargling it from one side of his mouth to another, as if his digestive system was screaming “Abort mission! I repeat, abort mission!” But he ultimately swallowed. Fabien’s balut enjoyed a two-second stay in his mouth and then more than a month behind that ornamental plant he threw up on at Flaming Grill, which I also promised Fabien I wouldn’t tell it. I did ask them if they would eat it again, I got a straight-up no. And I don’t blame them, looking at the duck embryo still oozing of what seemed to be its blackened fluids, it was a fair answer.
There is also this memory of Foco and Simon walking the streets of Borongan with large bottles of Red Horse clipped in their fingers. Yes, at first glance, they looked like the bosses of Borongan.
I also had a halo-halo break with siblings Marie-Amandine and Gabriel, Pierre, Aurore, and Takii. We had an exchange of thoughts about their impressions of the halo-halo — weird, delicious, and too sweet. In my mind, I felt the need to oppose, or at least justify. But I’ve learned to remind myself: Matt, no. It’s France you’re going up against. Behave.
How could I also forget Gigi, it’s been years since I’ve heard that operatic range with stunning composure. Listening to her sing was also the resurrection of my love for theatrical arts. She’ll be a star someday.
And also Gab did want to send his regards to Shekinaiah, who gave him a warm letter of sincere gratitude for the extra care on her food allergies.
I recall the memory of tito Manny jokingly complaining: “Kaye? Seriously, 78 of them? That’s a security nightmare!” What came to mind was the challenge of making 78 good friends too. The culprit has always been Time, but thank God there’s Facebook. All of us could go along some unspoken deal — we post about whatever is happening in Borongan to keep the memory fresh and immortalized, and in turn we get to see a glimpse of what life is like in Europe that would fulfill our ambitious, Western dreams.
The one memory that seemed different than the rest was when the 78 left. I remember walking with measured steps homeward in the dead of post-midnight. Raining. I was looking back at the whole experience and suddenly my imagination flashes the last drops of Red Horse rushing out of the rim of the bottle, slowly running down my arm, with the tears that never learned to break free. I feel this mixing with all the rapture, grief, hope, hopelessness, exhaustion, fun, yearning — all of these and the pelting rain growing heavy and dripping from my fingertips. I know I can’t write all of what happened, so I’m just telling God everything.
