Copyright © 2019 Victoria Hoffarth
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To my father who crafted me a pair of wings
and taught me how to fly
To my mother who showed me how to leap with
both feet tied firmly on the ground
To Klaus who provided me with the tools
To Paul who has borne the consequences
Turtles carry their homes on their backs, travelling thousands of miles each year. But eventually, guided by the magnetic fields of the earth, they are programmed to return to the place of their birth.
Contents
Preface
Introduction
Part One
Personal Setting
1.The Child Is Father Of The Man
2.Fly Away Home: Expatriation And Repatriation
Photo Captions
Part Two
Philippine Cultural Values and Norms
3.Power And Patronage
4.Philippine Business And Politics
Photo Captions
Part Three
Choices and Identity
5.Who Am I? Nationality, Gender, And Identity
6.Where Is Heaven? A Spiritual Quest
7.Happiness Is Not Just A Feeling
Photo Captions
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Glossary Of Tagalog And Ilonggo Terms
Bibliography
Notes
Preface
My interest in writing started when I was quite young. At that time, I thought I could write about my personal experiences. Those were what I knew, after all. I remember asking for advice from my teacher and was told, “How could you write a memoir? What will you write about? Who would be interested in ordinary lives such as ours? Only people who have been in the public eye or who have had unusual experiences write memoirs.” In fact, this truism was repeated only recently by a literary agent who gave me his opinion when I mentioned that I was writing my memoir. He advised me to put my draft inside the drawer and go write a novel.
Nonetheless, when I went to a major bookstore in London to ask if they had any how-tos on memoir writing, the salesman commented, “Memoirs are so self-indulgent. . .” and, in a back-handed insult to women, “every housewife wants to write her memoir”. I now understand what he meant as I have indulged myself in a couple of anecdotes that I had decided did not exactly fit my narrative framework, yet which, I sincerely hope, will be of interest to the readers. I am assuming that, in a memoir, this would be permissible.
From those who considered writing memoirs absolutely fine, came various dictums: you have to arouse the reader’s curiosity. Your opening lines are some of the most important in your book so be very careful about them. They should make your reader want to keep on reading. I was instructed about craftsmanship and structure—chronological sequencing is so boring, think about flashbacks and flash-forwards. Build up your story with unforgettable settings and interesting characters, and most important of all: show, don’t tell—no expositories please, only stories!
As a consequence, all these comments froze me in my tracks, and for years I kept toying with the idea but never really made a serious attempt at starting. How could you sit down and compose your first lines knowing they would be some of the most important in your book? It didn’t heIp that I was also busy with my family and career. However, I continued to keep notes, attend writing classes and writers’ events, including the Hay-on-Wye writers’ festival in Wales, UK where authors spoke about their own experiences. I have to admit, I felt totally discouraged. How do you respond to someone who says, “I can’t help but write”. All these years I couldn’t help but NOT write!
At one of these events, I had a brief encounter with the writer John Forsythe. I asked him how he started. “Dump all those writing classes,” he said bluntly. When he was a teenager, he decided he wanted to write. So he just sat down and wrote. He started copying and imitating the manner in which his favourite authors expressed themselves, and only developed his own personal style much later.
Teenager indeed! I was by then decades older than a teenager, and no longer had the time to develop my craft. How about the folk artist Grandma Moses, I reminded myself. She only started painting when she was seventy-eight! Battles raged in my mind. Instead of a memoir, how about writing a personal narrative or a personal essay, I asked myself. They sounded less ambitious and perhaps more acceptable for “nobodies” like me. In short, I was stuck!
Then, I happened to chat with a lawyer-friend who told me he was just finishing writing his memoir. This, he said, would be the legacy he wanted to leave his children. I told myself—Why not? Why did I have to write for publication? Why not leave something behind in the attic, perhaps never to be read. But then again, possibly, in the future my reflections might be of use to someone? It would be a means of addressing my thoughts on friends and family, my community, country, indeed the whole state of the world! Why not leave something for my son Paul? Most people, Filipinos included, think of inheritance in terms of material wealth. But there is an even more important legacy: the wealth of documentation about a world gone by. I realised I wanted to leave Paul and his children descriptions of events that might give them some awareness of how their lives can be influenced by the context of the past. I wanted to pass on the wisdom I had accumulated over the years, not just through the narration of my life story, but more importantly, by including my observations of the world around me and how my evaluations of these environmental forces have shaped the philosophies by which I live.
My legacy should be there for the taking. I hope that, in the event that a member of some future generation glances at it, they could have just a bit of an idea of what my world was like—way back in the 1950s in Negros and in Manila in the 1960s; in New York of the 1970s; then trying to make my way back to the Philippines in the1980s, working hard but not quite working smart at the business school where I taught. London came in the 1990s, spending some time in Germany; and back to Manila again in 2004, trying to fit in: the proverbial square peg in a round hole.
In a sense, this book is also therapy for me as the process is just as important. I once read a novel called Zeno’s Conscience. Zeno started by wanting to give up smoking. He was asked by his psychoanalyst to write down his life’s story as a form of therapy, in order to make sense of his own history. I believe I have a bit of that motivation as well. As a true introvert in the Jungian sense of the word, I live inside my head. Thoughts jumble and tumble, inside
and out, up and down. Experiences of years ago can suddenly resurface in early morning flashes and—Eureka!—I realise what they mean to me! The process of writing this memoir has given me the opportunity to explore them.
Now that I am over seventy, this is as good a time as any to make sense out of my life, to carefully draw its contours, so to speak, before it is finally done. These contours have been quite uneven, sometimes very thin and narrow as I withdrew into myself; other times lined with bold strokes of productivity and growth; or fat and pregnant, breaching its confines as I reached out to others. One day, l will leave it to the stars to finally paint the shape of my life: a speck of dust in the vast universe of time.
Manila
15th September 2018
Introduction
Each of us has our own stories to tell.
Our stories are what make us immortal.
Beowulf
I once heard of a housewife who, whenever she cooked a steak, always cut it into two parts. Pressed for the reason, she replied, “That’s how my mother did it.” When her mother next came for a visit, the housewife was prodded to ask why she (the mother) had cooked the steak that way. Her mother’s reply was, “Oh that? The pan I used was too small.”
Like the mother, I don’t want to have to come back in order to tell my story. Instead, after I have departed, I want to live on through the stories that I tell. It is said that our stories are the footprints we leave behind as we try to reach out to immortality. These footprints are the memories imbedded in our minds: tales of experiences, some sad, others happy, some meaningful, others quite insignificant. Most importantly, these are our thoughts and ideas as we respond to life’s situations. As for me, I do not want to leave these footprints on the sand, to be washed away when high tide comes. I do not want to go to my grave without having played the music in my heart.
In the eyes of history, most of us are nobodies. We will not be written about after we have passed. We mostly lead ordinary lives. Yet, most of us wouldn’t consider our lives to be failures. We survive in the hearts of our loved ones, in the little acts of kindness for which others remember us.
Yet, the world hasn’t given enough acknowledgement and credit to “nobodies”. Books, films, and CNN often tell us of politicians and statesmen who may shake the world with their every word, of scientists who win Nobel Prizes, of artists whose latest paintings sell for millions of dollars, even of celebrities with thousands of followers on Twitter. These are the “great” peoples, their stories are like the tales of kings and queens of old. Seldom do we get a peek at the lives of ordinary people leading ordinary lives. With the exception of generalised social histories, we don’t often hear about the individual lives of the peasants, the artisans, or the merchants. We read about generals in battle, but not of what happens to their lieutenants or the foot soldiers. Famous inventors are fêted, but what about their competent assistants and helpers? These people with their “little” lives are the ones who keep the world moving forward, surviving into the future. We are our own history, and our collective history will change the course of civilisation.
Again, far too many books which do tell of ordinary people often concern themselves with extraordinary tales of adventure, of great loves, or the horrors of personal pain and suffering. They talk about Machiavellian characters, or of heroism that is larger than life. But most of our lives are about petty failures and little successes. Likewise, we are generally careless rather than evil. When we are kind, it is random acts of charity rather than total selflessness. In short, our lives are mostly fair to middling.
This book aims to tell my story. My experiences are not exceptional, but also not necessarily uninteresting or uninstructive. I am a member of a sub-set of people who inhabit the earth, and although this subset is a small minority given the population of seven billion, my story is nonetheless representative of the experiences of this small group. To use a ballpark figure, amongst the more than one hundred million Filipinos, say, even just one per cent would constitute one million, and a further one per cent of that one million is ten thousand. Could there possibly be at least 10,000 Filipinos who would think this book, if they take time to read it, relevant to their lives?
Additionally, this book might resonate to some expatriates living in the Philippines who might find themselves confused about the local culture. As well, residents in foreign countries might enjoy reading it, perhaps because they have Filipino partners or friends. Or simply in general, it might be of interest to people who are curious about the lives of others whilst looking for shared commonalities—or differences—amongst us all. Could this book give some enlightening ideas about why we Filipinos do what we do?1 Or more broadly, on what happens to those who don’t fit in the societies where they live? Or it could appeal to people who somehow have become “homeless” in a psychological sense, so that like turtles, they carry their homes on their backs wherever they go.
*
It is sad that many Filipinos are not book lovers. Although footloose, they remain relatively uninterested in ideas, preferring to talk about people: of personal relationships with families, relatives, relatives of relatives, friends, friends of friends, politicians, celebrities, even strangers. They love sensual stimulation—eating, shopping, singing and dancing, partying—but are often not as interested in abstract thoughts. This is not to say this is a “bad” thing, as a seemingly high “happiness” index is frequently given to the nation despite its general poverty. Perhaps it is the Filipinos’ concern for relationships, which is a key to their perceived happiness. However, this relative lack of exposure to the world of issues and ideas, accompanied by a relative lack of opportunities for introspection—they are a practical and action-oriented people—can lead to a decreased self-awareness and, eventually, to lives not lived to the fullest.
Socrates, the great Greek philosopher, famously said during his trial for impiety, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” The meaning of this short sentence has been debated through the centuries. If we are to take this quote at face value, however, Socrates is simply encouraging us to scrutinise our thoughts and impressions so that we are fully conscious of each step we take and deliberative in each decision we make. My dog Apollo doesn’t examine his life but I think he’s a happy dog, just as people who follow and comply with every tradition, custom, and practice without reflection can lead relatively easy and pleasant lives. However, this does not allow them to experience being fully human. Socrates concludes that the only life worth living is a truly human life. Only humans have choices and thus only humans can be truly free.
*
Should we be free? To be sure, freedom presents its own burden, so perhaps not everybody would want to carry the weight of true liberty. Many people in authoritarian states lead satisfying lives. It is said that the ancient Incas had a totally regimented but nonetheless fulfilling world, perhaps akin to the social world of ants where, by instinct, the individual is subsumed to the collective good. We find this true to varying degrees of many cultures in the world today.
For me, freedom is extremely important. Admittedly, in a world of increasing complexity and nuanced experiences, the opportunity afforded by freedom—freedom to comply, or not, to believe or not, and its collateral, independence—can sometimes present difficult challenges. Nonetheless, it can lead to growth and to a richer and more meaningful life. I have made my own feeble attempts at pursuing freedom, and whilst the emotional costs have been high, I still think it was well worth the fight.
In this effort to exercise individuality and independence in such an extremely collectivistic society as the Philippines, I am probably in a small minority of Filipinos. However, it is my sincere hope that this book will resonate with these people and others, both within and beyond the country.
*
My memories date back to the early 1950s, when my little town was still recovering from the devastating destructions caused by World War
II. Located in central Philippines, Victorias Negros Occidental was home to about 25,000 souls at that time. It had a mono culture, with the main livelihood for most connected with sugarcane production and the processing of these canes into granulated sugar. Most of the population lived in plantations owned by the euphemistically named “sugar planters”, or more accurately, big landholders or hacienderos, each employing on average perhaps scores of tenant-labourers. With their families, these tenant-labourers lived on the plantation itself, housed in small, slightly built, thatched dwellings provided for them by the hacienderos.
The lucky ones lived in the town’s much coveted development owned by the Victorias Milling Company. It boasted of beautifully asphalted roads and an array of neat housing developments. I wished I resided there too, but actually where I lived was in the town proper, in a not-quite-as-neat neighbourhood about ten minutes’ drive from the mill. Up to the age of nine, I went to a publicly funded primary school there.
Flash forward to some sixty years later—I now divide my time between Manila and London where I maintain a pied-à-terre I have named Hol’nWall. I use Hol’nWall in the spring and fall when I spend some of my time in Europe, including extended visits to Berlin where my son now stays. From being a little girl who used to walk to a local government school in rubber slippers, I have since been exposed to alternative lifestyles, not necessarily more pleasing nor more satisfying. My horizons have broadened, and I am now perhaps more able to compare and contrast these different lifestyles, taking snapshots at various points in time and space.
We now all live in a conflicted, polarised world—the world of Trump, of Brexit, of Duterte with their “grassroots support”, versus the world of “reason” and “openness”. This is a world in rapid transition: nationalism and nativism, on the one hand, and liberalism and globalism, on the other. It is as if centripetal and centrifugal forces are pulling us into opposing directions. We do not know which way we are heading—whether we are marching on to a more utopian or dystopian existence.
When Turtles Come Home Page 1
