Tomorrow, let’s have some bells for breakfast…
Tomorrow, let’s have some bells for breakfast…
VARIACIONES DE UN ARREPENTIMIENTO VACÍO
Si hubieras seguido, yo habría ido
Pero no llegaste.
Si hubieras comido conmigo, yo habría comido contigo
Pero comiste con otro.
Si hubieras cantado mi canción favorita, yo habría bailado
Si hubieras leído mi mente, yo habría sentido vergüenza
Pero me hiciste atrevido.
Si hubieras vivido en mi alma, yo habría sido patriótico
Pero me dejaste.
Si hubieras parecido como yo, yo habría sido alguien más
Porque no me sé
Y no sé lo que escrito yo
Y si yo hubiera compuesto una canción
Sin duda que nadie la habría cantado.
Si hubieras llegado, yo habría ido.
Así es yo habría terminado mi canción.
The only thing that warmed up the air-conditioned stadium that windy evening of July 7 in Imus was the cordial smiles of its smartly dressed crowd. Frocked in Filipiniana attire, the guests were huddled to their seats by courteous ushers who themselves were dressed to the nines. Near the entrance, a four-piece orchestra filled the already festive air with classic Filipino favorites. Beside them were dioramas and artistic sketches of the Katipunan, the seditious group that ignited our country’s eventual breakup with Spain in 1898.
All corners of the stadium were covered with black drapes to keep the entire stadium as dark as possible. At the farthest end of the stadium, the focal point of the seated audience was a wide screen. The entire Imus Sports Complex was virtually converted into a gigantic movie theater as a culmination of the city’s week-long cityhood anniversary. They were all anticipating their local government’s “labor of love” — the premiere of a docudrama recounting Imus’s celebrated Battle of Alapán.
“Today, I just want to say that this project has been a long-awaited dream of yours truly,” City Mayor Emmanuel Maliksi beamed proudly during the brief press conference preceding the film showing. The young city magistrate has been planning for this for a long time. The fifth cityhood celebration of his beloved city was the perfect event to turn that dream into reality.
Ask anyone where our flag was first unfurled and waved, and he will give you an immediate answer: in Kawit (Cauit), Cavite. That is the standard reply.
Unless the person you ask is an Imuseño.
To the natives of Imus, what is common knowledge to us is for them fable. Imus is not called the “Flag Capital of the Philippines” for nothing, for it was there where our national flag was first unfurled and waved. Mayor Manny’s film project sought to fight the fable. And to non-Imuseño visitors who attended the film showing, the press conference gave light as to why the city bears the flag capital tag. It was there, particularly in Barrio Alapán, where the flag was first waved, but as a war ensign.
Imus in revolutionary history was a foretelling of the climax that was the Declaration of Independence. The docudrama, titled “Bago ang Kalayaan: Imuseño sa Kasaysayan ng Pilipinas“, sought to retell the importance of Imus and its place in Filipino History. Produced by the City Government of Imus and Infinidad Entertainment, the docudrama, helmed by fledgling director Alen de la Cruz, paid tribute to the city’s local heroes (José Tagle, Licerio Topacio, Hipólito Saquilayan, etc.) who participated in the rebellion against Spain as well as to introduce the Battle of Alapán to a much wider audience.
It is not widely known that, two weeks before Emilio Aguinaldo’s declaration of independence from Spain on 12 June 1898 in Cauit, the Filipino flag was first waved, in fact had its baptism of fire, in Imus. It was first used rather fortuitously in a grassy field just outside the población. This site was part of the sylvan barrio of Alapán. Historian Alfredo Saulo described Alapán as forested, but the name itself, an old Tagálog word which means a place where cows feed on grass, aptly describes how the barrio looked like at the time of the battle: it was then grazing grounds for cattle.
As the story goes, the flag, freshly arrived from Hong Kong, was in the hands of Aguinaldo’s revolutionary army when it clashed with Spanish troops stationed at Imus on 28 May 1898. The battle lasted from late morning to mid-afternoon. Armed only with bamboo cannons and Mauser rifles, the Filipino troops engaged the Spanish army in a close-range fight. The flag was used as a war ensign, thus earning its literal baptism of fire even before it was unfurled in Cauit. After an intense five-hour battle, close to 300 Spanish soldiers surrendered and were taken as prisoners of war to Cavite Nuevo (now Cavite City).
But is this claim accurate? Was the flag really unfurled or even used as a war ensign during the Battle of Alapán?
Wave of contention
No less than our country’s eminent historian, Ambeth Ocampo, acknowledges this as fact. “It was first used in the Battle of Alapán in May 1898,” wrote Ocampo about the flag in his Philippine Daily Inquirer column “Looking Back“. Even before that, former President Diosdado Macapagal in 1965 issued Proclamation No. 374 where it is stated that “our flag was first raised and received its baptism of fire and victory in the battle of Alapán, Imus, Cavite, on May 28, 1898”. That proclamation has since declared May 28 to be our country’s Flag Day.
In 2008, the city government of Imus celebrated its very first Wagayway Festival (Flag-Waving Festival) to commemorate the first time that the Filipino flag was unfurled during the Battle of Alapán.
The problem is that this was contested by Augusto V. de Viana, former chief history researcher at the National Historical Institute, now the National Historical Commission of the Philippines. “One of the historical errors being perpetuated in history textbooks and commemorative rites is the place where the Philippine flag was first displayed,” wrote de Viana in an article for the Manila Times many years ago. “One signboard in Cavite claims that the national standard was first raised in Alapán, Imus, Cavite, on May 28, 1898.”
De Viana said that in Exhibit No. 71, Vol. 1 of the Philippine Insurgent Records, Aguinaldo himself revealed that the first unfurling and waving of the flag happened in Cavite Nuevo. Aguinaldo said that right after the battle, as the prisoners were being brought to Cavite Nuevo, they were met by an “immense multitude, with cheers of delirious joy and great hurrahs”. This prompted him to unfurl the flag for the first time, to reciprocate the euphoria of victory. He made no mention that he did the same during the Battle of Alapán. Even the old historical marker at the site of the battle is also clear on this — the flag was first unfurled in Cavite Nuevo:
However, in Saulo’s biography of the first president, he cited John R. M. Taylor’s The Philippine Insurrection against the United States (Pásay City: Eugenio López Foundation, 1971) as his source that indeed the flag was a major participant in the battle:
The flag that Aguinaldo personally brought home from Hong Kong lent color to the Battle of Alapán, a forested barrio of Kawit (sic), on May 28. It was unfurled to commemorate the victory of the Filipino forces over 270 officers and men of the Spanish Marine Corps in a five-hour firefight.
In writing the above, Saulo used Vol. 3, Exhibit 2 (pp. 7-8) of Taylor’s Philippine Insurrection as his source. But he failed to make it clear where exactly the flag was unfurled, even if just to fend off criticisms of vagueness. Further research is needed to compare the contents of Exhibit No. 71, Vol. 1 of the Philippine Insurgent Records against Vol. 3, Exhibit 2 of Taylor’s Philippine Insurrection.
Until then, this leaves us with which flag fable should be unfurled and fought, to be finally forgotten.
The belief that the Filipino flag was first raised in Imus has been enshrined in the hearts and minds of the Imuseño for years, so much that it has become an inseparable part of the local identity. The entire floor of the city plaza, for instance, is painted with a huge symbol of the waving flag which can be perceived perfectly from the air. At the exact site where the battle of Alapán had been waged stands a 90-foot pole where one of the largest Filipino flags is waving mightily against the rural breeze. Citywide festivities compel Imuseños to display flags in front of their homes.
So fervent is this Imuseño zeal towards the national emblem that, minutes before Bago Ang Kalayaan was to be shown, everybody immediately stood up when the national flag appeared on the screen. With their right hands upon their breasts, they patiently waited for the national anthem to blurt out from the speakers. About a minute later, everybody was chuckling back to their seats. It turned out that what was being shown at that moment was just a short video for the Flag and Heraldic Code of the Philippines.
Pretending to be from Imus, I joked aloud to my wife: “This is how we Imuseños show our love and respect for the flag!” That the mere sight of it compels Imuseños to stand in salute.
Most, if not all, municipalities and cities in our country bear distinct nicknames that reflect their unique identities and histories. Usually, such nicknames are rooted on a particular place’s prominent environmental features (Puerto Princesa: The Eco-Tourism Capital of the Philippines), economic renown (Macati: The Financial Capital of the Philippines), cottage industry (San Pedro Tunasan: Sampaguita Capital of the Philippines), successful tourism branding (Bacolod: The City of Smiles), and so on and so forth. It appears that the so-called search for national identity has permeated each and every unit of local government. Each city, every municipality, even barrios and sitios, wanted to showcase its own uniqueness, not for the sheer desire of becoming famous but simply to let the world know that it exists, that it has an exceptional story to tell, that it is not just another place that one passes by or mentions dispassionately. Because a dispassionate reception from outsiders makes its people all the more passionate —to the point of zealousness— to burst out from the flames of existence itself, that it is its own being, as if distinct from the very country that cradles it.
Is this zeal, borne out of that national identity crisis, a curse or a blessing to our local government units?
One man’s hero is another man’s villain
De la Cruz’s docudrama itself is reflective of that zeal. Imus, clamoring for its own identity, that it is as historic as Cauit and Manila and Malolos, showcases its local heroes who participated in and contributed to the flowering of the uprising against Spain. The Battle of Alapán is its climax; its denouement, that the raising of the flag in Cauit was all but anti-climactic. But even before all the action had unfolded in de la Cruz’s dramatic structure, the documentary’s exposition itself was “anti-expository” in the sense that it made a simplistic approach to what had caused the Katipunan revolt.
At the start of the story, we see actors portraying Spanish soldiers and Filipino peasants, the former physically mistreating the latter. This clearly sets the tone of the whole narrative: the waving (no pun intended) of the leyenda negra. To a non-historian viewer, this brings him back to classroom and textbook fodder that has proselytized the execrable black legend for decades. The expository didn’t expose anything new that would have raised the standard of quality historical documentaries. Although Bago Ang Kalayaan introduces something generally novel, that of the first unfurling of the flag, it would have been developed further had the story strayed away from emotional appeals and have instead given much justice to the Katipunan’s raison d’être: that its predecessors —from Luis Rodríguez Varela and his Hijos del País all the way to Marcelo del Pilar’s propaganda movement— have lost all hope on the reforms that they were trying to push. After all, the Katipunan, for all its faults and good intentions, was born out of a lingering disappointment on Spanish political policies over the islands. To show that a Spanish soldier beating up a Filipino peasant in a docudrama was too simplistic a cause for the Katipunan’s founding and is far from being political (not that such a thing ever happened, but if it ever did, it would had been isolated at best and would still not had been a major cause for revolt). While the polo y servicios and the bandala —both of which were not entirely malevolent— were mentioned, they were not enough to justify the dispiriting opening scenes of Bago Ang Kalayaan. Indeed, there is much to be unraveled about the Katipunan, how and why it came to be. But since de la Cruz is no historian, we only have her film’s scriptwriter to blame.
During the Spanish times, we have to consider the fact —and I am speaking from a legal standpoint— that the Katipunan, the wheel upon which Aguinaldo’s revolution against Spain (and later on, against Uncle Sam) rode on, was a criminal organization. It doesn’t matter if they are considered as heroes and patriots today, and whether or not their motives were noble. But if we are to deal with historical events, we have to keep our minds in tune to the semantics of the age in which those events had occurred, and not how present society would have received them. If we consider the Katipunan purely as heroes and the Spanish colonial government purely as villains, what keeps us from saying that the Islamic extremists in Mindanáo are not heroes? Aren’t they fighting for their Bangsamoro that we Christians “stole” from them?
Love of country should not stand on a pedestal of hatred built from a loathing of an oft-misunderstood past.
I. THE STORY BEHIND THE GIVING OF MY NAME
My real name is José Mario Alas y Soriano, but like everybody else, I prefer using my nickname Pepe. Pepe is a nickname for José, and I have zero idea as to why.
When I was born 38 years ago today, my parents were to give me the name Jomar. It was a portmanteau of Jo, taken from my father’s name Josefino, and mar from María Teresita, my mother. But my paternal grandmother (my father’s mother) interfered and suggested that I just be baptized as José Mario. I do not know my abuela‘s reason why she chose that name for me. I was thinking, perhaps, that she found the name Jomar odd since she comes from a Hispanic background. Her name, as well as the names of her parents, siblings, husband, and children were all in Spanish. Jomar just didn’t fit right.
Looking back, I am thankful that my beloved grandmother (que descanse en paz) did interfer. Jomar ended up as a childhood nickname which I dumped later on when I started to become conscious of my Filipino Identity (close friends and relatives still call me Jomar, though). Another nickname of mine, Mómay, didn’t survive that long. It was how I was called by my mother’s family members when I was still a baby. Mómay eventually became the nickname of my eldest son, José Mario Guillermo II Alas.
When I got older, I realized that my grandmother named me after the earthly and saintly parents of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Perhaps in the hopes that she’d get to have a saintly grandson? 😇
II. THE MEANING/S (ALL THE POSSIBILITIES) OF MY NAME
To what I’ve gathered, José was derived from the name Joseph which originated from the Hebrews (יוֹסֵף). It means “the Lord shall add” or “the Lord gives”. On the other hand, Mario was derived from the Latin name Marius which in turn gave birth to the variant feminine name Mary. In Hebrew (מרי), Mary means “bitter” or “bitterness”.
My middle name Soriano pertains to Soria, a province and city of Spain or its inhabitants. Soriano, therefore, means someone who is from Soria.
My surname Alas is Spanish for wings. But for the indigenous Filipinos (Tagálog, Bicolano, Cebuano, etc.), they use Alas for playing cards (pronounced as /aˈlas/). Finally, in the English-speaking world, Alas means an expression of great grief, anxiety, and the like.
III. ONE OR TWO FAMOUS PERSONAGES WITH WHOM I SHARE MY NAME
Propagandist José Mª Pañganiban, singer José Mari Chan, and Mexican politician José Mario Wong are the famous names that I share my name with and the only ones I could think of.
IV. CREATIVE COMBINATIONS/RECOMBINATIONS OF THE MEANINGS OF MY NAME
José Mario: the Lord shall add bitterness.
José Mario Alas: the Lord shall add bitterness which will cause great grief, pain, anxiety, and sorrow.
José Mario Alas: the Lord shall add winged bitterness.
Those who have a deep-seated hatred of their Spanish past should stop calling themselves Filipino (not excluding its two twisted derivatives: Pilipino and Pinoy) because, historically and culturally, the term implies that one is a subject of the King of Spain (Felipe II de España). After 1565, our archipelago’s various ethnolinguistic groups, each with its own distinct culture, creed, and form of governance, were gradually homogenized, a process that took three arduous centuries. In due time, these varied peoples eventually became “Felipenos” or those who saw King Felipe II as their rightful sovereign, in the same vein that the vassals of King Carlos XI of Sweden (1655–1697) were called “Carolinos“, the vassals of King Fernando VII of Spain (1784–1833) were called “Fernandinos“, and so on and so forth.
In other words, a “Felipeno”, which later on became Filipino (because most of the natives here originally only had “a“, “i“, and “u” in their vowel sounds), means a person who pays tribute (taxes) to the King of Spain.
Therefore, due to a severe dimness of historical observation, I suggest that these ungrateful “puristas” who foolishly think that culture is static should simply call themselves “Taong Bundok“, “Taas Noo Tumbong Ko“, or anything similar to that to further emphasize their native pride that is free of cultural dissemination… which is a natural anthropological phenomenon in the first place.
🤣 Mabuhay ang Pinoy? 😆
“Write only when there is something you know; and not before; and not much later.”
Last month, US film company Universal Studios announced the title of the sequel to Jurassic World, that science-fiction adventure film which earned more than a billion dollars two years ago. Titled Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom, it will be the fifth installment in the Jurassic Park film series, all of which were based on two best-selling novels by the late Michael Crichton (1942—2008): Jurassic Park, published in 1990, and; The Lost World, published in 1995.
Crichton was a very prolific writer. He had published 25 novels and 4 non-fiction books in his lifetime, not even counting several short stories that saw print in various magazines. So prolific was he that there were even times that he was able to publish two or three novels in the course of only a year. And even after his death, three more novels of his saw print. The guy was a virtual writing machine.
One other prolific writer from the US, also a novelist, was Stephen King, arguably more well-known than Crichton because many of his horror novels were adapted into films that played well in the box office. King, who is turning 70 in a few months, appears to be more prolific than Crichton; he has published 57 novels, 5 non-fiction, and several other publications (short stories, novellas, etc.).
Skeptics who have not yet read both Crichton and King might think that, with the rate that they publish books through the years, their works might had been hurried, thus robbing them of quality storytelling. But fans of both Crichton and King (myself included) will immediately tell them that it is far from the truth. Both novelists have crafted into each of their books the kind of entertainment that will glue readers to their seats for a prolonged period of time. Even in fast-paced scenes, readers will not sense any hurriedness in their writing. Each sequence, every subplot, is carefully crafted and well thought out. That’s how damn good these writers are. There is an apt adjective to describe their books: page-turners.
For sure, a lot of writers from the US are page-turners like Crichton and King no matter what genre they’re using. Many of their names are familiar to us (Judith Arnold, Sidney Sheldon, Danielle Steel, etc.) even though we have not yet read any of their works because they have become homegrown, always marketed as best-selling authors, which is always the case anyway. Back in college, I remember one brief chat that I had with one of our instructors about these amazing US writers. While our country has its fair share of excellent writers in English, how come almost none of them are best-sellers? Why couldn’t we produce such page-turners? His reply had stupefied me for years: those US authors absolutely do nothing anymore but write. And because they can afford to give 100% of their time towards writing, it is always expected that they can churn out some of today’s best stories and write-ups. On producing excellent writing, King has this to say:
“Read and write four to six hours a day. If you cannot find the time for that, you can’t expect to become a good writer.”
But here in our country, the Filipino writer is forever burdened with other tasks other than reading and writing. In his book The House of True Desire: Essays on Life and Literature, National Artist Cirilo Bautista perfectly describes the dilemma faced by his fellow writers:
“…the Filipino writers cannot live by writing alone, no matter how masterful they may be.”
“My magnum opus, The Trilogy of Saint Lazarus… took me thirty years… The enterprise begot another odd aspect by the fact that I stood to gain nothing monetary by its realization; indeed, it depressed me by its fruitfulness and drove me to misanthropy by its selfish demand on my attention.”
Most of our best writers today are those who use English. Young Filipino writers are always encouraged to hone their writing craft in this language. Even the English Division of the Palanca Awards is the most sought-after contest in the country’s biggest literary award-giving body. But up to now, even after more than a century of English education, the only writer we have ever produced to be of the same caliber as Crichton or King is Nick Joaquín, and only him. It’s because the Filipino writer is poor. His writings, if of any merit, will only give him fame, trophies, but not money which is needed to sustain him. Like Bautista, the Filipino writer is always faced with the dreaded reality that no matter how he strives to make his craft the best it could ever be, he couldn’t because his freedom is limited. The harsh reality of making both ends meet weighs more than art, thus jeopardizing the quality of their works. They could have done more, but employment is a necessity in order for him to physically survive. Crichton and King (and to some extent, Joaquín) didn’t have to worry about monetary problems; they were always assured of huge sums of money. That is why they have more time to focus on the creative writing process.
But the foregoing accounts may have not always been the case. In the last century, we have had prolific writers (and researchers) who have poured their everything into their works despite the absence of any promising monetary award. They may not have had published as much as Crichton or King or Joaquín, but the circumstances they were in will astound any aspiring writer today who are also faced with the dilemma of focusing solely on their craft for the sake of quality. Take for instance former diplomat León Mª Guerrero III who was able to translate Rizal’s memoirs and novels despite his political and legal chores. And then there was the daunting task of writing Rizal’s biography even as he was fulfilling his duties as ambassador to the Court of Saint James’s in London (that biography of his ended up first prize in the Rizal Biography Contest of the José Rizal National Centennial Commission in 1961). Years before Guerrero entered the scene, another nationalist, Teodoro M. Kalaw, wrote essays every single day for the newspaper La Vanguardia. He also wrote several books on history and politics despite his schedule as director of the National Museum and as a public servant. Dr. Domingo Abella was both surgeon and historian. Máximo Solivén was writing profound and up-to-date political commentaries in his column at The Philippine Star while serving as its publisher, making him a writer-businessman. So was Teodoro “Teddyboy” Locsín, Jr. who was able to helm those biting editorials that we now sorely miss in his defunct Today newspaper while serving as board of director for big companies, one of which was San Miguel Corporation (he rarely writes nowadays as he’s too busy with his tweeting engagements).
However, it should be noted that Guerrero, Kalaw, Abella, Solivén, Locsín, and a few others like them had the wherewithal to accomplish their tasks. They could afford to delegate mundane chores (cooking food, washing clothes, payment of bills, etc.) to other people so that they could go about with their writing/researching assignments without any hassle, unlike in the case of many writers and researchers today. Including myself. With five kids to raise (no nannies!) and a job that requires a rotating graveyard shift, it’s virtually impossible for me to focus on what I’ve always wanted to do: read, write, repeat.
Speaking of my kids, I remember one meeting that I had with novelist Joe Bert Lazarte in some monotonous fast food near his place in Bacoor, Cavite more than a decade ago. He was then helping me out to secure an employment with the company he was working for at the time. I can still clearly remember how he told me that when he had heard about the news of my unplanned marriage years before, he felt disstressfully sorry for me. There was, of course, no derision from his part. He was just aware of the travails of being a writer and a family man at the same time, and his being distressed was simply a show of concern. If I’m not mistaken, I only had one child back then. Now I have five. Just imagine (disclaimer: in no way am I blaming my family for my shortfalls in being a writer).
I also remember one brief chat that I had with poet Radney Ranario many years ago. Chancing upon him as he was exiting one of his classes, he mentioned to me that he was thinking of going on a hiatus from his teaching job to focus on his poetry, even if just for a while. With a frown on his face, he complained that his teaching job, even if it has something to do with literature, was also draining his creative juices.
The likes of Crichton, King, and many other US authors never had to go through such challenges. But Lazarte, Ranario, myself, and a host of other Filipino writers had to struggle monetarily just for our dreamy heads to keep afloat in this sea of unreality.
For my part, I’m trying my very best to follow at least part of King’s advise just to stay alive, to keep me sane, by reading during traffic jams on my way to the office and by blogging every day. That is why if you have noticed, I have been blogging every single day since the inception of this blog last June 24. Ideally, a blogger really has to post daily since a blog is considered as an online journal. But due to daunting challenges that I face (working as a wage slave by night, as a consultant for two local government units by day, and as a dad in between), I might not be able to keep this up. Most probably after this blogpost, I’d be able to blog only during weekends. Or during my free time. Or perhaps only if I feel the urge to write about something that I know (“and not before; and not much later”).
Nevertheless, at the end of the day, talent and discipline are the true accomplices of a prolific writer no matter what the challenges. Don’t give up on your dreams. The Filipino writer simply has to rally on no matter what the odds.
And those odds are not forever. This I believe.
AL IGUAL QUE MADERA FLOTANTE
Me voy flotando
Al igual que madera flotante
Pudriendo en el río de mis
Muriendo en un bosque alegre
De mis esperanzas
De las aves de colores
Burlándose de la manera
Que me voy flotando.
ÉL SIN ROSTRO
Tuve un sueño gris de la tarde:
tenía un pescado viscoso
para los feligreses.
Un desconocido sin rostro
me instruye sobre lo que debo
hacer con el pescado:
me dijo que lo rompiera por
y lo hice.
Tomé un pan de sal tan redondo
y mordí un pedazo pequeño
antes de dárselo a un alma a
Todo esto lo hice con la guía
del Desconocido sin rostro
que me instruyó a despertar después
CADENA DE PALABRAS
Los trovadores deben seguir
(como el camino)
Son esclavos de sus caprichos,
no tienen más remedio
Eso es la esclavitud al ritmo:
el flagelo del raciocinio.
América es el segundo continente más grande del mundo. Pero debido a su gran tamaño y sus características geográficas, este continente se divide tradicionalmente en América del Norte (Canadá, los Estados Unidos de América, y México), América Central (Belice, Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, y Panamá), las Antillas (Antigua y Barbuda, Bahamas, Barbados, Cuba, Granada, Dominica, Haití, Jamaica, República Dominicana, San Cristóbal y Nieves, San Vicente y las Granadinas, y Santa Lucía, e incluye también el estado libre asociado de Puerto Rico), y América del Sur (Argentina, Bolivia, Brasil, Chile, Colombia, Ecuador, Guyana, Paraguay, el Perú, Surinam, Trinidad y Tobago, Uruguay, y Venezuela).
Por otro lado, los Estados Unidos de América (EE.UU.) es una república federal constitucional compuesta por cincuenta estados y un distrito federal que se ubica en el centro de América del Norte.
El gentilicio para los ciudadanos de este continente, desde el océano Glacial Ártico por el norte hasta el Cabo de Hornos por el sur, se llama “americano”. Pero hoy en día, ¿por qué se limita estrictamente este gentilicio sólo para la gente de los EE.UU.? Aquí en Filipinas, cuando se menciona la palabra “americano”, los filipinos piensan de inmediato del pueblo de los EE.UU. Estoy seguro que es lo mismo caso en muchos otros países. En realidad, no se debe olvidar que América es el nombre de todo el continente — y todos los que lo habitan son americanos.
Salvo la gente de los EE.UU., todos los americanos del norte hasta al sur, a pesar de ser americanos, tienen su identidad propia, con su propia cultura única. Por ejemplo, un americano de México se llama mexicano. Un americano de Bolivia se llama boliviano. Un americano que vive en Honduras se llama hondureño. Un americano también en Cuba se llama cubano. Hasta los canadienses son americanos. Etc, etc, etc…
Pero el ciudadano de EE.UU., un país que está conformado por varios estados, unos de los cuales fueron robados de México, ¿cuál es su propia identidad además de ser americano? ¿Cómo los llamamos?
¿Y si “estadounidense”? Es algo artificial, usado con menor frecuencia. Es preferible pero el problema es los EE.UU. ya es crisol de muchas poblaciones: asiáticos, europeos, latinos, etc. Los blancos, el estereotipo de “americano” en la mente de mucha gente, forman parte de una minoría.
Sin embargo, esta minoría tiene la audacia de apropiarse para sí mismo el gentilicio “americano”. Y estos blancos ejercen tanto poder no sólo en los EE.UU. sino en muchas partes del mundo.
¿Quiénes son estos blancos en particular?
Se llaman WASP, el acrónimo en inglés de “blanco, anglosajón, y protestante” (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant). Ellos son los que detentan el poder neocolonial en el gobierno de Filipinas así como en muchos países en todo el mundo. Ellos son nuestros verdaderos enemigos.
Tenemos que poner un alto a esta simpleza “americana”.