Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

The meeting did not interest me, but I was fascinated by Puneta, by his mannerisms, and I tried to find out what in his very masculine features was the clue to his homosexuality. I could not find any. He moved about with machismo and decision. In spite of his lips, there was nothing effeminate about his voice, his intonation. He dressed elegantly, but that was because he could afford it. His fingernails were not manicured. No jewelry adorned his fingers, just a simple gold wedding band. Had Lily made a mistake?

I noticed Puneta looking at me and I turned away. We were talking about reaching more people, spreading the base of the Brotherhood, even making alliances with other groups.

Betsy was taking notes and putting in a word or two, but I was soon far away, thinking of my meeting with her parents and wondering where we would go tonight. I looked at her, bent over her pad, at her finely molded face and at her full breasts under her formless katsa blouse.

Puneta snatched me from my reverie: “Pepito Samson — he has not contributed anything yet. I am sure he knows a lot, what with his background, where he lives.”

Professor Hortenso turned to me. “Well, Pepe?”

I must have looked bewildered.

“Any suggestion you can make about broadening our base? Reaching more young people? You organized that chapter in Tondo; surely you must have ideas,” Puneta pressed.

I did not have to think; I remembered Ka Lucio. For a month now he had not been working. He had tuberculosis, as Father Jess and all of us had suspected, and was at home, resting … on what?

“I think we can learn from the past,” I said. “We have a neighbor, Ka Lucio. He was Commander Puti — he is sick now — spent twelve years in jail. He knows a lot. We can learn from him and establish links with men like him, and his followers, and the children of his followers. They are ready to join us. We have, I think, been committing mistakes, like emphasizing ideology and politics when we should be winning members, winning them on the basis of their needs. As for education, it is the leadership that needs it, but as Ka Lucio said, the Huk movement was strongest when it was facing an enemy, a real enemy, whether it was the Japanese or the Constabulary that pillaged the villages.”

“We should also be able to identify those enemies who are lurking in the background, who wear the masks of friends, who steal our souls with kindness or with promises,” Professor Hortenso spoke evenly. “I am, of course, referring to the Americans — just in case you have forgotten.”

I recalled the Directorate sessions; I did not want to disagree openly with him, but it was best that I spoke my mind. I owed him this.

“I cannot accept this form of anti-Americanism, Professor,” I said. “The Americans are not a problem as such. Just look at the hordes at the American embassy every day. Filipinos wanting to immigrate. I would rather work in an American firm than in a Filipino company. I know Americans give better pay, privileges, and I can aspire to a very high post with them. Not with the Spanish mestizo companies. I am not one of them.” I was explicit. I wanted Puneta to know.

“I know what you are going to say,” Professor Hortenso said. “But we have to look at our struggle in a broader perspective.”

“First things first,” I said. “We cannot take on the world. And besides, once you have gotten rid of the oligarchy, it should not be difficult to push the Americans out. The experience of other countries illustrates this. And even if we had a revolution and won in the end, what would we do? We would still have to produce and sell — sell, yes, to America.”

“It is not just for the reason I mentioned,” Professor Hortenso continued evenly. “We have to recognize our being part of Asia, our being Asian.”

“But Asia means backwardness,” I said. “Monuments, religious tradition — why should we worry if we don’t have these? We should be able to create them ourselves. What is an ancient culture embellished with ritual if there is no freedom in that society, not enough food? We will create the new culture, and thank God we will not be shackled by the past.”

“Except that the Americans have shackled us to their concepts, their megalomania.” It was Betsy who spoke.

I had not intended to defend the Americans. They are such a big target and could not be avoided. They are also an overwhelming presence. Wherever one turns, they are there, with their technology, their brands, and their malaise. They are, it is true, an obstruction to legitimate nationalist aspirations, and they don’t need Filipinos to defend them, least of all a self-seeking escapee from that limbo called Cabugawan. They can do that very well with their own hirelings in the elite schools, in Pobres Park — the nationalist bourgeoisie whose fortunes are entwined with theirs. Still, there are things that must be said, not in their behalf but in the interest of truth.

Puneta was very pleased. “See?” he was beaming, his white teeth gleaming, his mestizo eyes crinkling. “See? Really, Pepe, I should have a long, long talk with you. I should go over there and talk with your Ka Lucio, too.”

“Isn’t American imperialism real?” Betsy interrupted Puneta.

“No doubt, no doubt,” I smiled at her. “But the people are pro-American, Betsy. Look at me: I have no ill feelings toward them, toward anyone. But I hate whoever was responsible for the death of Toto … of our thirty-three friends. Whoever killed them is the enemy.”

“Go beyond that,” Betsy said.

“I can. But my friends in the Barrio — their concern is food and jobs. They are not political.”

“We have to be political.” She was insistent.

“I don’t disagree. But even in my university— I don’t know about the schools of the oligarchy.”

“Don’t be patronizing,” she said sharply. It was now she or I.

“I organize on the basis of friendships, on being Ilocano. Most of the students are not really interested in demonstrations, except that they mean no classes. Do you know what their interests really are? To pass, to be able to get a degree, and after that, a job. Politics is a luxury of the rich.”

“This is reverse snobbery,” Betsy countered. “Are you saying that the masses do not need political education?”

“I am the masses,” I flung at her. “Do you want my credentials?”

I had pushed her into a corner, and she scowled at me. I had the floor to myself, and I did not give it away.

“Yes, everyone needs to be politicized, not just the masses. But we are talking about organizing and winning a broader base. This comes first if we are to have the sea. And we can build this sea around us first by talking the people’s language — not the language of conference rooms and seminars. And this language is warm, earthy. Many of my friends in the Barrio,” I continued slowly, “have not even finished grade school. When I organized the chapter there I had a broom— ting-ting , that I used in sweeping the church floor every day. I detached one midrib and snapped it and I said, see, alone, singly, how weak it is? Then I held out the broom to them and challenged anyone to break it. This is what unity brings, I said. Strength, usefulness. And they understood immediately. That is why we were able to get cement for the basketball court. Now we can play even in the rainy season. And we painted the multipurpose center, too. All of us. We are proud of these.”

They were listening eagerly. They were all hopelessly burgis ; what did they know about living in Tondo?

“Any day,” I continued, “I can get more than fifty young people from the Barrio. Fifty! You cannot go there and make speeches and expect them to follow you. Do you know that all sorts of politicians go there and make speeches? What makes you think you’re any different?”