Chabacano Anyone?

Enriquez: Chabacano, Anyone? page

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Antonio Enriquez Ramiroville Carinugan, Barrio Balulang Cagayan de Oro City 9000

Chabacano, Anyone? I was about to change my mind to come over, after finding out that the trip wasn’t going to be pleasant, but rather strenuous to say the least. The shortest route to a point is a straight line; unfortunately, the transportation executives think differently. So, you have to go to Cebu or Davao to come to Zamboanga. If you go by land, a very tiresome and gruesome experience to senior citizens like me, you have to go via Ozamis, again an oblique route --- which seems to be the favorite of our transportation bosses --- instead of straight from Pagadian city. Land, sea, or air: it’s the same thing: obliquely. So, I called up a friend who had been helping me facilitate with Irene U. Hassan, of Ateneo de Zamboanga, for my coming over to this conference. I told her that these old bones probably wouldn’t make it to Zamboanga. While we were speaking over the telephone, she said something that stunned me. I don’t remember now what brought it up, but she said: “Do you know that Chabacano is so corrupted, that you’d laugh when you hear it spoken downtown?” “Yes; how?” She replied, and I could hear a ring of laughter in her voice: “For example, when somebody now greets you in Zam,boanga, he might say: “Que tal man ikaw?” I laughed, but then and there made my mind to come, through hell or high water. −−− Language as you know is very much my concern: it is the tool in my occupation, as a hammer is to a carpenter, and a scalpel is to a surgeon. A skilled writer or communicator has a powerful tool in his hand. Quite recently, a read a column in a daily, commenting on President Estrada’s abrupt plunge in his survey rating and his quarrel with the media, particularly with the press. The columnist --- I can’t remember who it was now --- wrote, advising President Estrada thus, and I paraphrase him: “Never quarrel with anybody who buys ink by the tons.” Language also has a kind of a mystique, a magic in meanings.

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Before I left Zamboanga, that was in the late 80s, we use to go hunting wild pigeons in the boondocks. On the afternoon before the day of our hunting, we’d meet to finalize preparations and schedule. Particularly important was the time we’d start off to the hunting ground, since if we were too late in departure, there might not be any wild pigeons to shoot at. Pues, once we decided that we’d leave, say, at 4:00 o’clock in the morning, emphasis is placed on this schedule. Anybody who came in late would be left behind, since the common good, like in democracy, prevails over the individual. Then, just after concluding the business of hunting, one of us, usually, the selfappointed head, would say: “O, o, sigue. Aqui quita man meet manyana aga, hende tarde, a las cinco impunto; rain or shine, basta hende el cay ulan.” Several years back, I was in Davao City, as one of the panelists in a U.P. Writers workshop. NVM Gonzales and Nick Joaquin were among the panelists. That day it was Nick’s turn to give his talk, and he said something, between sipping on his beer, which has intrigued and seduced me. Nick Joaquin said, and I quote: “In the 1930s the city of Manila became invisible to our writers in English. Something in their upbringing,” he went on, “in their schooling, had made them unable to see what had been so apparent to their grandfathers. These young writers in English could see only what the American language saw.” What exactly did Nick Joaquin mean? Or should we ask, Was language so strong that it forged the minds and souls of our Filipino writers? And ours as well? I’ll deal with the second question later on; but now let me tell you of this revelation, coming down like manna from heaven, since I knew I could use this somewhere in my talk. My youngest grandchild (I’ve four, the eldest 10, and their combined creativeness can turn your house into an instant graffiti billboard), about 6, in kindergarten, was sitting across me at our table. The three other grandchildren were either watching television or somewhere doing something else. She was drawing something on a piece of paper, left-handed, and after finishing it she very proudly showed me her drawing. From the glitter in her eyes I knew she was waiting for my verdict. But when I looked at her drawing, which was that of a house, I was surprised to see that the house had a chimney protruding from it. There was even an attempt, which looked like smoke coming out of the chimney, although the chicken-scratches representing smoke was unrecognizable if you don’t have any imagination. “Ngano man na-ay chimney diha sa imong balay?” I said in broken Visayan. “Do you see around you houses here with chimneys? O, tanawa sa atong balay, nia ba chimney sa atob?” “Kasi,” she said with all innocence in her eyes, “kana man na quita ko sa among libro sa escuelahan.”

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That was that, and after which she went on drawing houses with chimneys. You may however question this sample I just gave by saying that it has nothing to do with language. Maybe the sample would concern such painters as Picasso, Renoir, or our own Juan Luna. But think of this: isn’t language nothing but symbols and images. Look at all those drawings on the walls of ancient structures, or much older on the rocks in caves, and much, much older the drawings of deer, tigers, antelopes, &c. found under the Ocean in France not too long ago. The genesis and poetry of language have always been symbols and images. Ask our poets, like our own Butch Macansantos and Cesar Aquino, and they’ll cry, Amen, it is so! From that we can assuage what Nick Joaquin meant by seeing only what the language saw; which also answers our earlier question: that indeed language welds and forges our mind. So much has language influenced the mind, the soul, that thinking synchronizes with it, and can only dance to its tune or beat. Many years ago, I came upon an essay on language. I was then writing my novel Subanons, and trying to keep within the range of my style of writing. This was to write in English but not reflecting the sentiments and resonance of an American or British writer. It was as if I was writing in Chabacano, but using the medium of English. The essay I just mentioned is entitled “The Prism of Language,” by Stephen Ullman. Since his essay is so concise and compact, a missed or interchanged word may change meaning and intent of a sentence, a paragraph, worse the thought itself. Allow me to quote him then: he says, “It is perhaps more appropriate to visualize each language as a prism, unique in structure, through which we view the world and which refracts and analyses our experiences in its own particular way. This is seen most clearly in the vocabulary, but grammatical structure tells a similar story. The impact of grammatical conventions on the human mind is even more far-reaching than that of single words [the Greeks and the Romans had no word for the different shades of colors, so that its absence from the Homeric epics led critics to conclude that Homer was color blind). Pronouns of address are an example in point. Most languages have two or more such pronouns which will be used according to degree of intimacy, social status, and other factors. English, however, differs from the rest: sinc the elimination of `thou’ in the late Middle Ages, there is no possibility of choice. This may lead occasionally to awkward ambiguities, but the risk is more than offset by the amount nof snobbery and arrogance, of inhibitions and inferiority complexes, which the English-speaking world has been spared thanks to this simple device.”

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Language’s characteristic features may affect the national psychology or the manner our minds work. This we see particularly in “the habitual patterns of wordorder, which determine the channels along which our thoughts will flow.” Author Ullman explains, thus: “The vast majority of English and French sentences are built on a rigid pattern: the sequence subject --- verb---object, as in `Peter sees Paul.’ … . There is little possibility of departing from this arrangement, as English and French words are uninflected and their position alone marks their role in the sentence. In inflected languages, such as German, …the logical scheme may be superseded by emphasis and other considerations. … While English and French sentences proceed in a straight line, German syntax prefers elaborate constructions which have been described as `incapsulating’; they are like boxes fitted into one another. A prefix, for example, will be detached from its verb and relegated to the very end of the sentence; it is as if we said in English: `An epidemic broke last year in England out’. This requires a certain amount of planning in which some people may detect a characteristic trait of the German mind. Not quite recently, I experimented by writing in Chabacano a novel I’m presently working on. Then translate it into English. The idea came when I read that the author of a biography wrote in the original form the portion in his book about his old town and its people in his old language, Gaelic, one if not the oldest in the world. He went on to say that he did this to be able to feel genuinely his town and its people. However, I cannot say as much yet, or be so riotously right to claim that to feel genuinely one’s hometown and people there is no other way but to write it in his language. But here are samples of that attempt and experience. And see for yourself what you make of it: Chabacano to English (Chapter I, The Revolt of General Vicente Alvarez): “The foul smell stuck to the leaves, on barks of trees, in thickets, on the grass, and even the earth that the Filipino revolutionarios were tromping upon. The strongest odor was there in the river, in the water there which originated from Tumaga barrio, and the water of Tumaga came from the river of Masinloc. “Even the rocks in the middle of the river had that same foul smell, the smell of the dead of many days passed. Alongside the river, on the banks, the putrefying smell there was very strong: as if upon them water had been poured, which came from a giant deep well where there had been a man rotting. And the clusters of bamboo growing along the banks of river, like a sponge were their thick and luxuriant leaves, as the bad smell never left them. “Like an hospital their camp was, instead of camp of soldiers of the revolution.” English: (Chapter 5, The Conquistador’s Last Hurrah): “Major de Murga's striking special forces had just cut through the second block of giant hyacinths, about two o'clock in the afternoon.

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Suddenly, from under the leaves of the giant hyacinths and from the invisible water up sprang dark, slithering, and save for animal-skin straps covering their loins, naked swamp people (obviously, hidden among the prop roots of the mangrove along the bank, before submerging themselves underneath the cluster of giant hyacinths), and within seconds thirty-forty savages were all over the decks of the vessels, surprising the stunned paddlers, and soldiers, and mariners (1,600 fighting men in all). So astonished were they that it took several seconds before anyone regained his senses and reacted sensibly --- by drawing his sword, throwing his lance, shooting his arrows, or at desperate moments firing his musket. “So sudden and quick was the swamp savages' retreat that ignoring what was stolen, the pools of blood on the decks and in the water, it seemed they had all dreamed of the incident. There was, however, a lingering smell of decay and refuse, as when garbage is left for months and months without collecting them. This foul and putrid odor was to remain on the vessels for two days, clinging to them as they went upriver. And so foul and malodorous was the smell the men couldn't believe it came from human beings just like themselves. Though how much they washed the decks, the unhuman smell stuck to them like leeches to one's skin.” “…. Other philosophers are more concerned with those features of language which may distort or confuse our thoughts. Abstractions have been singled out for special attention, and we are constantly warned against the habit of setting up our `isms,’ … and of assuming that where there is a label there must necessarily be some reality behind it.” Proust once brought attention to the French adjective grand, and the effect it may have on the unsophisticated mind. Says Ullman on this: “Grand can mean both physical and moral greatness: the Frenchman has only one word where the Englishman can choose between big and great. One of Proust’s … characters, the maid Francoise, falls into the trap laid by language: she imagines that physical and moral greatness are somehow inseparable.” Another example of abstract words causing confusion of thoughts: the Swedish verb which may mean either `to read’ or `to learn.’ has been, says Ulman, “held responsible for wide-spread misconception that having read a passage means having learned it.” At this point, you may ask the question, So what? All we have done so far, is talking about language particularly --- not Chabacano and its preservation. But let us look back a while, which wasn’t too long ago, if I recall. There we saw the different effects and influences of the characteristics of language on people’s thoughts and national psychology. We may as well say that language is the dress of communication, but most important it is the heart and soul of a people: as he thinks, feels, and reasons by it.

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To disregard it, abandon it, is to strip oneself of his tradition, culture, and

I’ve thought about this, mulled over it; even spoke before a diversified audience, not a few listeners likely more intellectual than I am. But all this while it looked like there’s no better answer than this: a Chabacano studies center. While culture and tradition were given emphasis in studies and research, this time we equally stress the subjects of history and language. Needless to say, while almost, if not all tribus have their own historical/cultural center, as well as a museum --- or something just as enhancing in the preservation of culture and tradition, such as journals, books, or archives --- the city of Zamboanga cannot pride herself of having either, or as similar, of her own. Thus, the Ilocanos, Ilongos, Cebuanos, the Maranaos, Maguindanaos, Suluans, et cetera and so forth, have had such for quite a number of years already. And here we are not having one or the either even for a day, or just a minute. Also, isn’t it about time that we correct some errors and misconceptions (bias?) of Zamboanga’s history and people? For instance, the plaque at our Fort Pilar displays this shameful anomaly: it celebrates the return of the Jesuits in1666, when in fact they came back in 1719; over half a century later. A second instance spells the bias if not ignorance of not a few of our historians: one American amateur historian delegated Zamboanga’s revolutionary hero Gen. Alvarez as the head of a gang, not more nor less. So: he writes, “Alvarez and his gang left Zamboanga” and fled to places unknown. It was as if Gen. Alvarez was the head of gangsters, or worse pranksters; not Filipino revolutionarios fighting for freedom. For available records show that Gen. Alvarez was appointed brigadier general and head of the revolutionary forces in Zamboanga by the Malolos Congress on May 4, 1899. In the meanwhile, let us ford from the course we’ve taken on preserving our culture and take that seldom-trodden path of how to preserve our Chabacano language. Since the Chabacano language is our main concern here. Likely the most practical and quickest way is through a program adopted in private and public college curriculum: a course or subject containing: 1) brief history of Zamboanga (in Chabacano with English translation), using existing works in Chabacano (for example that of Maestro Binong Saavedra on the Zamboangueño revolution against Spain); 2) tales, songs, dirge, &c. in Chabacano; here’s an example: Yo el anak desdichado [miserable or wretched] del mundo Sin mi gusto mi amor ya entgrega Con el estrano chino comerciante Que mi tata conmigo ya deja Por el camino de juego Ese yo cosa pensa Tata y nana na vicio

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Con su anak ya entrega. And 3) Literature by Zamboangueño writers and poets in English, with Chabacano translation: particularly those with local color, like a) parts of novel, b) short story & poetry, and c) plays & essays. By the way, before closing … did you know that Shariff Iskandar Julkarnain, th the 17 sultan of Mindanao wrote in Chabacano or trambulicao Castellano in his testimonial of the origin of Zamboanga royalty? As usual Chabacano maybe beautiful to hear but hard to understand: “Yo el datto Escandar Serri Chucarnain principe de Subuguez y sultan de Tamontaca. Digo lo que transfirieron mis padres y la que halle al retirado archivo del secreto de sus anales por interpretacion de Don Jose Araneta y de mi secretario Placido Alberto de Saavedra en el año 1725 la que halle escritas en español fueron copiadas en castellano el que era de la idioma nusra con prestado juramento de un secreto inviolable por los primeros troncos de Zamboanga …” Source: Roots of Zamboanga: by Hilaro Lim y Atilano, p. 178 Translation by Hilario Lim: “I, Datu Iskandar Shariff Jkulkarnain, Chieftain of Sibuguey and Sultan nof Tomantaka, do hereby testify what has been handed to us by our fathers, which I found in the secret archives of the family, as interpreted by Don Jose Araneta in the year1725 and transcribed for me by my secretary Placido Ablero de Saavedra in Spanish. The original was in our language and translated under oath of secrecy concerning the origin of the Zamboanga royalty …” It is not really my favorite verse in Chabacano, but since it is the closing of the millenium, allow me to quote these lines: Marido: ‘Ta aqui ya el año nuevo Neneng, no mas regaña; Cosa ya pasa de antes Ahora todo olvida. Mujer: Olvida que en vez de pan Ya come tu bayu-bayu, Y en vez de leche flan, De aton postre lang bukayu. From the same source. Muchas gracias.

Fin