The madman comes

Published in Prime Weekly under the column “Still Life,” April 27, 1989

He wasn’t anything at all like Nietzsche’s madman who rushed to the marketplace in the bright morning hours and proclaimed the death of God. Neither was he anything like those who roamed the city in tattered clothes, unwashed and apparently deranged. Rather, he seemed quite conventional. He had, I felt, the appearance of a fairly wealthy man, the air of a politician, the eyes of a philosopher. How could anyone, I asked, mistake him for a madman? That he was, however, so they insisted. The madman comes, they said, he comes. Even then they listened. From him, perhaps, they sought amusement.

At the park on a Sunday afternoon I saw this man, this madman. It was the first time I had ever seen him. At the park he attracted the attention of passers-by. There, by a small, curious crowd, he spoke.

“You call me mad,” he said, his eyes carrying an almost impressive fire. “But is my madness just the perception of your madness?”

He sighed with a weary breath, then he continued.

“My folks were mad,” he said. “I was their only child, and I was brilliant, the kind of child they had always dreamed of having. I topped my class, and they were proud of me for that. They showed me off, see our child, our brilliant child. I studied, read, memorized, learned. I grew wise, but my folks grew mad, day by day falling into lunacy. I saw reasons where they saw lunacy, order where they saw chaos, madness where they saw convention. As I grew wiser, they grew madder.

“Even as a child I was the only one who could see, the only one who could hear. I was educated by priests, and from them I learned science and mathematics, literature, the arts. I learned about faith and prayer, and I learned discipline. I guess they were good men, but I soon realized that they were mad. In their faith I saw contradictions. I entered the university when I was old enough and wise enough, and I stood in awe at the brilliance of worldly men with worldly notions, philosophers and statesmen, intellectuals, scientists. But they, too, were mad. Their principles were contradictions. I was educated by madmen, and when all that was over I worked with them, for them. I took their money and the recognition that they gave me. In madness I immersed myself.

“I rubbed elbows with men and women who sold their souls for comfort and prestige, artists of all kind who destroyed their lives for the chance to live forever. I mixed with intellectuals and scientists who enslaved themselves with the kind of work and ideas that would free humanity. Arts and sciences held my world. Philosophy held my thoughts, commerce held my life. I gave my time and my sweat, my toil. My very life was up for sale, and it was bought by madmen in a mad world. My very life was owned by them. We planned and dreamed, we toiled, we conspired. These were worldly men. I basked and delighted in their madness. Elsewhere were spiritual men. I took their faith and their philosophies and the rituals that would set them free, yet enslaved them.

“I then realized I had had enough. I was the only sane person among them.”

The madman stopped to catch his breath. No one was speaking now, no one was laughing. During the silence I kept my attention on this man, this paradox of brilliance and madness, insight and inanity.

“I just came from a gathering of wise men,” he continued. “Such wise men, I thought, such proud men who spoke before a crowd of simple folks. They didn’t just talk, no, they discoursed. I stood there with the simple folk and listened to these philosophers and intellectuals, the great thinkers of our time who sought their own place in eternity, their own contribution to the wealth of humanity’s ideas. They spoke of life and immortality, the nature of the universe, the destiny of humanity. They discussed the very meaning of life, these wise men. They debated politics, democracy and tyranny, the individual and the state, the endless isms that held us spellbound. Such wise men.

“They waxed with eloquence and brilliance, these proud men. Who could stand before them? Who among the simple folk could match them? They spoke of the hereafter, of the law and morality, of rebellion and the social contract, the social conscience, metaphysics, ideology, theology. One against the other, the arguments and insights of educated, brilliant men. They discussed the reasons for existence. They asked the timeless questions of humanity, and their audience listened in awe. The hungry, the sick, the homeless and the unemployed, how they all listened. Madmen making madmen of us all. I didn’t stay to see the end of it, I couldn’t.

“So I came here, seeking sanity. Tell me now, have I found it? Right here, right now, is there sanity?”

He turned silent and just observed the people who passed by and those who had gathered by him. He seemed tired, as if his talk had drained him of strength. Wearily, it seemed, he looked at each one of us as though he had the power to look into our souls. In our lives, perhaps, in our souls, he saw madness. He signed and looked down.

“I saw a child,” he said. “A beautiful child. How I felt for him, pitied him. The hope and the future of humanity, taught by madmen in a mad world.”

He said nothing more. The tears just started flowing from his weary eyes, and silently, we watched a madman weep.

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Mock the Executioner

Published in Prime Weekly under the column "Still Life," June 8, 1989

In a time of executioners, the executioner was faceless, nameless. He was the dispenser of justice in an intolerant society, the very sight of him and the mask that hid his face striking dread into the hearts of people. Only a few knew who he actually was. In this time of executioners, the executioner had taken many lives, some of which he felt were innocent. But then it was not for him to question or to argue or to judge, just to carry out the gruesome sentence. He had not the benefit of doubt that was thrown into modern executions. This was a time of executioners, and he was the executioner.

"It is my job," he often told himself. "It is what I do."

It was a secret that he shared with just a few others, a burden that he carried on his own.

When he had the time to spare and when the day was pleasant, the executioner took leisurely strolls just to pass the time away, to relax and to get his mind off the faces of people he had killed, the terrified looks of the condemned. He took those walks to mix with the ordinary folk, as though he were one of them.

One day while he was on a leisurely stroll, he came across a group of distinguished men and women, intellectuals, scientists and philosophers, statesmen, people from the university. There, at the square, as they carried on a lively discussion, the executioner stopped to listen. Some of the faces in the group were familiar. They were famous people, and their mere presence was enough to draw an audience. At the moment the discussion was being dominated by one man. A philosopher, another one of those famous and familiar faces.

He was rather elderly. He was thin and seemingly frail, but his very presence was impressive, carrying inner strength and conviction. The executioner knew this man; he had listened to this philosopher several times, and the executioner admired him, this wise and courageous man. That day, however, the executioner feared for him.

With impressive eloquence, the philosopher spoke of society, of its leaders and its institutions, of the government and the laws that were supposed to hold it together. He spoke of the moral decay and the crumbling conscience of the people and their leaders, and as he spoke of such things, his words carrying the force of his convictions and the outrage that he felt, the others listened. Now and then they nodded in agreement. Here was a wise man, a brave man, a true philosopher. The executioner looked on silently and listened. Here, he thought, was what the authorities would call a dangerous man.

Still he listened to this man as he went on, attacking the authority that held the land, the principles behind the laws, the institutions that yielded to corruption and decay. He attacked the very leaders of society; he denounced the greed and the corruption with such force that the others stood in awe of him. He spoke of change and revolution, of social upheaval. His words carried dire implications, but he seemed unafraid. His audience listened with awe, as did the executioner. But the executioner was well aware of the danger the philosopher was in. Sedition, they would say, rebellion, treason. Many times the executioner had seen it, and he feared for the philosopher. Still he kept silent. Perhaps the philosopher knew what he was doing.

The man himself showed no fear, and for some time his views went unchallenged. Then came those who questioned his assertions; finally they came forward to have their say, and a spirited debate ensued. Arguments were exchanged, and the philosopher defended his beliefs with the kind of eloquence and spirit that sometimes left his opponents speechless. He called for change, a real societal transformation, if by fire a purification of a society gone corrupt and decadent. He called for a tumbling of the pillars, a change in the institutions that had gone astray.

In the crowd there were those who nodded in agreement. Among the distinguished men and women there were those who agreed. From the philosopher's opponents came a tense, momentary silence. They stood there, faces flushed, their eyes filled with anger. The philosopher stood unwavering. Finally an official stepped forward.

"Men have died for less," he said.

And he warned the philosopher, stop this now. This was dangerous business.

The philosopher smiled. He grinned with sarcasm and eyed the official with disdain. He would stand by everything he had said, by his call for revolution and upheaval, for social transformation, however harsh. A purification, a cleansing of society. Once more the official warned him. Such treason, he said. The philosopher scoffed. Menacingly, the official pointed a finger at him.

"You shall meet the executioner," he said. "He shall have your head."

His voice said he meant it. Everyone was silent as he turned and walked away.

The silence continued as all attention fell upon the philosopher. After a while he smiled and looked at the distinguished faces in his audience.

"When that day comes," he said, "I shall spit at the executioner."

Again there was silence. And the executioner saw the man looking at him, as though the philosopher knew who he was. And as the scenes played in his mind, as he saw the philosopher coming before him on that fateful hour, the executioner stood there silently with the others, as though he were one of the ordinary folk, as though he were one of them.

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TAKE MY FATHER…PLEASE!

Published in Miscellaneous Weekly, June 10, 1991. Slightly revised, August 2007.

In memory of my father, Arturo D. Tolentino, Jr.

March 15, 1932-October 10, 2004

He was still with us when I wrote this.

AS A BOY I was into the habit of comparing fathers.

It must have started during my early years in school, lasting up to my late teens or early twenties. From elementary school essays and grossly exaggerated schoolyard boasts, it led to the more critical comparisons of adolescence, a time when the hand of authority was somehow firmer, yet the basis of authority somehow flimsier, with the man himself dislodged from his pedestal in the eyes of a once adoring son.

In many instances it was discovering what he was not. From being the very symbol of authority, the last word, the person who was always, always right, he became the man who understood little, the magnitude of his seeming mistakes and inadequacies only underscored by his stature during earlier days.

“Why isn’t Daddy tall?” I asked my mother once, many years ago.

I was then bothered by my height. I just wasn’t as tall as I wished to be.”He just isn’t. No one in his family is.”

“Why didn’t you marry someone tall?” I then asked.

At that point my mother simply laughed.

Daddy simply isn’t.

That was something I learned when I was still very young, a realization that would time and again be reinforced in the years that followed—the fact that there were many things that my father never was and would probably never be.

The pattern is familiar, a story repeated across cultures from one generation to another. At first he was everything—father, protector, teacher, provider. Whatever he was, he was what his son wished to be—doctor, lawyer, engineer, architect, soldier. The years, however, erode the myth of infallibility, and the man becomes all too human. The comparisons, perhaps, come unavoidably.

Consciously or otherwise, the habit of comparing fathers was something most of us indulged in then, just as others probably do today. It was perhaps at its strongest during high school and college years when the thirst for independence and freedom brought either the hand of authority or the wave of tolerance upon a restless youth. In many instances, “Honor thy father” gave way to “Fear they father.” Disillusioned hearts sought greener pastures. Sons sought better fathers.

Fathers varied from one family to another, and from son to son. Some helped their sons with school projects; others played ball games or went camping, hiking, even hunting;
Some were always around somehow, spending time with their families; some gave their sons advice, taught them how to drive or ride a motorcycle, how to pick coconuts out of a tall tree, how to fight. The comparisons, at times, brought envy.

One day, however, way back in high school, I was jolted by the sight of a friend in tears. With his face all red as he sat by the staircase, we wept like a baby before everyone—for the failing marks he received, for fear of what his father, in his rage, might do.

Stunned by the sight, I could just look on, never really having known that kind of fear.

That day, perhaps, I should have simply been glad for all those things my father never was, things by father never did.


IT SEEMS SO MUCH SIMPLER with the girls, as fathers seem more protective aqnd yet more tolerant with their daughters than with their sons.

From friend to disciplinarian, a father’s role with his son isn’t always very clear. At times the problem lies in knowing where one role ends and another begins. The strange relationship between father and son almost seems to hover between unity and distance, swinging from one emotion to another, from pride to disappointment, and evolving from one stage to another amid the complexities that stretch the ties between the “men” of the family.

Different intentions and emotions make the relationship pass through certain difficulties, and the competition surfaces sometimes. Both father and son play a game of catch-up, with the son catching up to the measure of his father, the father catching up with what he believes his son believes him to be. In certain cases, it’s the father catching up with old dreams, old ambitions, his own quest for immortality through his son.

“It’s all in them now,” one father said to another in a conversation about their children.

Their dreams in their children now, yes, in their sons.

A few years back, a distant relative I had not seen for quite some time remarked on how much I resembled my father. It was like seeing a younger version of the man, a carbon copy.

Similar remarks are often passed in casual conversations on fathers and sons. Somewhere, a proud father points our how his grandson not only looks like his son, but has the same temperament, the same stubbornness and immovable poker face.

“Now you know what it’s like,” he tells his son.

From one carbon copy to another.

One father I knew had mostly sons for his children, seven or eight of them. Silent and unsociable, with sharp eyes and a stiff jaw, he was a man who seldom smiled. His own sons seemed very much the same, just younger versions of their father.

It would appear that some fathers wish their sons to be better imitations of themselves. It’s the burden of the son to make the cut, the frustration of the father t see his son going a different way.

Disagreement bares the competition, the power struggle that at times exists between the two. It eventually comes to a point where father no longer knows what’s best.

A friend during my college days once spoke derisively of his father. Recounting how the man had offered some advice on relationships with women, the apparently disillusioned son scoffed.

“Don’t I already know those things?”

Fatherly advice that perhaps came too late.

Disillusioned sons and rebels are not all that uncommon, and at times the differences between father and son explode in the political arena, with conflicting sides pitting son against father, the liberal against the conservative.

The son finds his own direction. Spitting out the admonitions of the father, he goes ahead with his desires in pursuit of happiness and freedom, of his ideas and ideals. He questions the assumed wisdom of the generations, and he challenges authority. Conflict then erupts.

During such times, when the bitterest of words have been exchanged, as the son finds his independence trampled on, his wishes quashed, he turns against his father, this man who had fed him, sheltered him, educated him, this man who was once so great. He thinks of his friends and the fathers that they have. The good times vanish from memory, the feel of that special relations they had both felt at one time or another, as he bites his lip and swallows hard, in the silence taking in the message in his father’s eyes.

“Whatever I may be, whoever I may be, you’re stuck with me.”

The message leaves no room for doubt; there’s just no such thing as trading fathers.


WALKING IN ONE AFTERNOON on a young father and his three-year-old so, I heard an exchange that simply made me smile. After many futile attempts to get his son to eat, the young father unleashed what was supposed to be the clincher: a threat used successfully before—to hand the boy over to a new father.

“Would you like that?” he asked.

The boy shook his head but still wouldn’t eat.

“Would you like a new Papa?”

Again the shaking of the head. Still the boy wouldn’t eat.

“You’d like a new Papa then?” the young father asked, this time with a sense of finality.

“Yes,” the boy answered.

A moment later came the spanking.

At some point we all probably stop to ask ourselves just how our lives might have been, how we might have turned out had fate handed us a different father, had we been born into a different family.

As a child I hardly knew my father. He was then the busiest of persons, holding two jobs to support his family, going to law school in the evening later on. We would see him only late at night, perhaps have a glimpse of him as he relaxed in front of the portable television in his room. When he finally had the time to spare, the distance had already been established. For the most part he was simply the figure of authority.

I was already in my tees when I began to really know the man. Long conversations and weekend trips helped the process along. The complexities of the relationship began to surface, the competition, with one “man” trying to outdo the man of the family—trying to get his own way, trying to prove his independence.

The disagreements and the disappointments came, and as they did I looked around, still playing the game of comparing fathers.

One day I saw how a friend put his arm around his father before all of us, his friends.

“My father,” he said with apparent pride.

And beside him his father smiled, a short man, a stout man, dark and rather balding.

Another time I listened as someone talked his own friends out of some mischief for fear of his father’s wrath.

I noticed how the son of one military officer hardly spoke or smiled, how he never even cracked a joke in the presence of his father.

The comparisons went on and on, from childhood to my late teens and early twenties, then it must have simply died a natural and quiet death. Perhaps there was just not more use to it. There was no more point.

Along the course of comparisons I must have reached that stage where I came to accept my father for what he is and what he isn’t, for his good points and despite his shortcomings, bearing no resentment for his absence during my early years and for all those things I never got—which, I eventually realized, I never really needed.

Despite the difficulties and the disagreements, it had worked out after all.

Somehow I never got to try making out a list of all those qualities I’d look for in a father. Or of all those things I’d expect from one. I guess further thought would have only made me see that after eliminating all those qualities and acts I never actually needed or wanted, I would end up with the father that I’ve had all these years.

The same one, in fact, from the long lost days of comparing fathers, when we never even bothered to find out if fathers themselves were comparing sons—and feeling just as we were.

When I held you last

Is it even possible to forget?

I held you in my arms when there was no more life in you. I kissed your head and your feet. Before that, I watched you die. I knew I had to let you go.

Still, I had hoped the day would never come. I had always hoped that I would go before you.

I still cry.

I often relive that day. After all, it happened just months ago. It feels like years. Still, not a day goes by when I don’t remember that day I held you last. I never thought I could do it, but I did. It was my last gift to you.

I held you and gave you those gestures of love that I had given you for years.

To this day, I keep thinking, “Why did you leave me?”

“Get over it”

How do you do that anyway?

One of the worst things anyone has to go through is to see a loved one in pain. Quite close to that is to see the loved one go. In the end, perhaps, death is easier than pain, and even in intense grief, you realize that death is better than to have your loved one go through further suffering.

There are experiences you simply can’t forget. They haunt you.

My father suffered a stroke in September last year, two days before my mother’s birthday. They never got to celebrate a golden wedding anniversary. It wasn’t meant to be.

The frenzy of that day is still so clear to me. I took all my cards, knowing there would be a lot of expenses. He was taken by ambulance to a hospital where he could at least be stabilized, then later that same day to a different hospital.

Looking back, it was all just a matter of prolonging the agony.

On that first night, I wept outside the hospital’s emergency room as doctors attended to my father.

Sixteen days later, with my father gone, I wept inside the neurological ICU as hospital personnel “prepared” him for the morgue and contacted doctors on their fees (most were “no charge” out of professional courtesy). I was alone then; I volunteered to stay there till my father could be taken to the morgue.

Later, in the evening, at the place where the viewing was to be held, I looked upon my father again, this time as he was about to be “prepared” for the wake. They had questions about how he was to look. The answers didn’t come easily.

My father died on a Sunday. He was cremated on a Thursday.

My mother wrote a letter to him. It remained in his coffin during the wake, unseen. When he was about to be cremated, I put the letter in his hands.

That was it.

There are things you never forget.

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