Saturday, March 10, 2007 'After all, there is no gene for fate' By Dr. Jose Nilo G. Binongo
(Part 1)
LIFE can be tough when one is born with physical traits that have not been in vogue in the history of humankind. It becomes even tougher when, for the rest of one's life, one is stuck with a set of undesired congenital marks. But should one lose hope? Should one allow one's genetic makeup determine the future?
Growing up, I realized that, to be socially 'in', I should stop sitting in my favorite corner of the library all day long. I thought participating in sports might earn me more popularity points than being adroit at fiddling with the card catalogue.
But alas, in my attempt to fit in as an athlete, I came to realize I had the stature of a pygmy and the grace of a dodo - my posture and body movement were devoid of dexterity, assurance, and style.
Well then, if I wasn't built for sports, perhaps a leadership role might suit me better. So I considered running for student council president in my final year in high school. But my closest of friends dissuaded me. They confided that my chance of winning was as good as my height. I agreed; in many people's minds, one's ability to lead is a function of one's stature.
So I ended up as class beadle - a position I held since my elementary years in Macasandig - where height was not a job requirement for monitoring classroom misdemeanors from my seat.
But if there was something positive that came out of this predicament, I learned early on the importance of focusing on academics. In this arena, I could compensate for my physical shortcomings. As it turned out, I wasn't wrong in my self-assessment.
After graduating from Xavier High School, I went to Ateneo de Manila as an academic scholar. This was my first time away from home, living in a place where the day-to-day language was different from my own. In my first few weeks in the Philippine capital, it was impressed upon me that Cebuano, as a language, doesn't have the same level of sophistication as that of Tagalog. My friends in the dormitory were amused at my corruption of the Tagalog vowels.
I would effortlessly change the `e's to `i's, and the `o's to `u's. Whenever I said `aku' instead of `ako' or `lalaki' instead of `lalake', my friends from southern Philippines were quick to point out, "Ka-Bisaya ba gyod nimo!" (You're so hopelessly Bisaya!)
To this very day, I've never fully understood why it is such a bad thing to be Bisaya, as we deprecatingly call ourselves. Just like my short standing, I didn't choose to be born, to be raised, or to be thrown into a community of heavily accented Cebuano speakers.
But did my Visayan-speaking friends realize that they were really discriminating against their own kind? Were they aware that they implicitly accepted our inferiority as people speaking a less refined language? Cebuano is not a dialect. Linguists have repeatedly told us that Cebuano is a bona fide language on its own.
As languages, both Cebuano and Tagalog have a written form, and, to my knowledge, many literary works of quality have been written in both languages.
Moreover, if we accept that Philippine languages belong to the Malayo-Polynesian family, then, surely, `aku' or `lalaki' is more faithful to the original pronunciation.
Malaysians and Indonesians alike say `aku', not `ako', when referring to the first person singular; similarly, Malaysians say `lelaki' (or `laki laki' in Indonesian) when they refer to the male sex. As I went on and on, I realized my explanation was falling on deaf ears.
Steve, a good friend from Davao, gently patted my back and suggested that I shouldn't worry about matters of no importance.
After graduating from Ateneo, I went to Tokyo to take up graduate studies at Sophia University (another Jesuit institution) as a research scholar of the Japanese Ministry of Education. The Japanese didn't care whether I was uprooted from the deepest recesses of my country or what regional language I spoke. It was good enough that they knew I was from the Philippines, and that I could speak respectable Nihongo.
Unfortunately, they did discriminate in other ways. Women from the Philippines were stereotyped as entertainers (a euphemism for women in the sex trade) and Filipino men as undocumented construction workers whose jobs could be succinctly described by the three k's: `kiken', `kitsui', `kitanai' (which I translate as the three d's: dangerous, difficult and dirty).
I was discriminated against not because I spoke Cebuano, but because I come from a country that sends illegal workers to Japan. Quite understandably, some Filipinos in Japan were not forthright about their country of origin, fearing unwanted social repercussions.
I, on the other hand, had to launch a personal campaign, asking Filipinos with legal status to make their nationality known to their Japanese acquaintances.
This, to me, was an important step towards tackling the discrimination problem.
Of course, in Japan I didn't grow taller than a young cherry blossom tree, and my height remained an item for picking. One day, I was frantically searching for the blackboard eraser in my pre-calculus class at a high school in Fukuoka (a metropolitan area in southwestern Japan).
After finding it, I learned that a student had deliberately kept it hidden on top of the board. I had made it clear to all my students that, as teacher, I was very open to constructive criticism (which I defined as "things that I can change"), and that I was intolerant of destructive feedback (defined as "things I cannot possibly change").
By hiding the eraser 6.5 feet above the floor, the students were making a statement about my height! Just before I could unleash my impending anger, one of the students, Seung Woon, explained that the class was having a tough time catching up with my board work.
In an instant, what I had perceived as destructive feedback wilted into something constructive. I calmed down, smiled gingerly, and patiently waited for my students to finish copying what I had scribbled on the board. (To be concluded)
(Dr. Jose Nilo G. Binongo is a Cagayan de Oro born academician at Emory University in Atlanta, USA, who studied in Japan and was recognized as Rollins School of Public Health Professor of the Year in 2006)
