Death Brought Me to Ateneo Monday Night
(1:54 AM)
I nearly didn't go, since I lived in Makati and I was afraid of EDSA traffic. But I promised myself that I should. It was the decent thing to do. It was the last night of the wake for Dr. Pesigan.
As I turned into the dark campus, I had it in my head that the visiting rush would be over. The wake started Saturday, so I was sure everyone had paid their respects. I would meet the family, share my condolences, maybe even chat about the fact that my father also lived in San Pablo City, the home town of Dr. Pesigan. He was my teacher, I would say. He also taught my two eldest brothers, in Ateneo de San Pablo, a lifetime ago.
I had to go because I felt I owed it to him, as a student, as a fellow English teacher. I was there to root for him, to show support, to cheer for the underdog. I still want to teach again someday, like him, like the others, like I once did.
I parked the car and took a book I was supposed to return to another English teacher, who would probably be at the wake. I headed for the chapel in Gonzaga Hall, in the middle of the campus. I heard music. There must be people.
In the hall outside of the chapel, they put up a board where people could sign and write a dedication to Dr. Pesigan. It was decorated with a collage of pictures. There was a pen laying there, waiting for the next kind soul.
I didn't sign on the board.
During this whole time, I was trying to remember any story I can share about Dr. Pesigan. It was so long ago, I couldn't even remember which class I took under him. It must have been grad school. I did remember him telling me that his family was originally from Taal or Tagaytay, but they were forced to move because of a massive earthquake. They settled in San Pablo City, nearly 200 kilometers away.
I signed my name in the Guest Book, putting in my middle initial. I remembered that Dr. Pesigan's middle name is Mangubat--maybe we were distant relatives.
Inside, I was greeted by a song from someone singing at the front of the chapel. A girl, I couldn't see her. Pitchy (as they say in American Idol), but heartfelt. I craned my neck to see the front, where most of the people were. There was about a hundred people, scattered around, all ages, very few familiar faces.
Where was the coffin?
The familiar lamps used for wakes, tall and golden, were off to the side, near the front. I sat at the back, near the wall, waiting for a chance to go and see Dr. Pesigan. Maybe there will be a break in the singing.
In my head, I wondered who was there from the English Department, but I didn't want to look. Then a young man with glasses crossed in front of me. I called to him, "Vince," and handed him the book. He read the cover--Empire Writes Back. He smiled and left.
I saw a student go to the front and stand by the coffin. I took his lead and marched up front, trying to be inconspicuous. I didn't want to be noticed. The singing went on.
Dr. Pesigan lay in a silver coffin. A clear plastic shield protected him. His portrait by the coffin showed a healthy man. During my days, he was slimmer, thinner. I fumbled with my prayers and threw in--"May he rest in peace, Amen." I touched the coffin, as a form of greeting and respect. Goodbye, Dr. Pesigan.
I walked back to my seat and wondered how soon I should leave to go home.
They started a slide show of Dr. Pesigan's photographs, with a melodramatic soundtrack. In the pictures, I could see the rest of the English Department, some I knew, some I wanted to forget. I took my undergrad in that department, my graduate studies as well, plus one token semester as an English teacher.
I picked up a small booklet lying on the empty chair in front of me. There was a set program for the evening and I had just caught the last part of it. We were about to give the final respects. A line formed so each person can scoop up a handful of flowers and scatter them on his coffin.
I waited for the line to finish before I took my turn, so I got to see who was there. Danton, Danny, Cyan, Rica, Gad, BJ, Ada, Philo teachers, Theo teachers, and Dean Garcia. It was only then that I realized the significance of tonight, of this wake.
This was how a life of an English teacher can end--the chapel at the Ateneo, free of charge, the students with their earnest but amateur singing, and your fellow soldiers in the English Department failing to hold back their sobs.
A life that I saw for myself when I was finishing up my master's degree in 1996.
I was ready to say, "Condolence", but I didn't know whom to offer it to. Dr. Pesigan had family, even grandchildren, but I can only guess who they were.
I lined up and grabbed the leftover flowers. I tossed them gently onto the coffin. I wanted to say, "Good luck, Dr. Pesigan" but it seemed silly. I headed for the exit and passed by a group of faculty I knew, but there were all crying. I saw a poet's face, Danton, scrunched and wet with tears. A chat would have been inappropriate. I caught his eye and looked away quickly, hoping that he took that as a sign of empathy.
Back in the parking lot, I took in the night air. Something was over, something had just begun.
As I turned into the dark campus, I had it in my head that the visiting rush would be over. The wake started Saturday, so I was sure everyone had paid their respects. I would meet the family, share my condolences, maybe even chat about the fact that my father also lived in San Pablo City, the home town of Dr. Pesigan. He was my teacher, I would say. He also taught my two eldest brothers, in Ateneo de San Pablo, a lifetime ago.
I had to go because I felt I owed it to him, as a student, as a fellow English teacher. I was there to root for him, to show support, to cheer for the underdog. I still want to teach again someday, like him, like the others, like I once did.
I parked the car and took a book I was supposed to return to another English teacher, who would probably be at the wake. I headed for the chapel in Gonzaga Hall, in the middle of the campus. I heard music. There must be people.
In the hall outside of the chapel, they put up a board where people could sign and write a dedication to Dr. Pesigan. It was decorated with a collage of pictures. There was a pen laying there, waiting for the next kind soul.
I didn't sign on the board.
During this whole time, I was trying to remember any story I can share about Dr. Pesigan. It was so long ago, I couldn't even remember which class I took under him. It must have been grad school. I did remember him telling me that his family was originally from Taal or Tagaytay, but they were forced to move because of a massive earthquake. They settled in San Pablo City, nearly 200 kilometers away.
I signed my name in the Guest Book, putting in my middle initial. I remembered that Dr. Pesigan's middle name is Mangubat--maybe we were distant relatives.
Inside, I was greeted by a song from someone singing at the front of the chapel. A girl, I couldn't see her. Pitchy (as they say in American Idol), but heartfelt. I craned my neck to see the front, where most of the people were. There was about a hundred people, scattered around, all ages, very few familiar faces.
Where was the coffin?
The familiar lamps used for wakes, tall and golden, were off to the side, near the front. I sat at the back, near the wall, waiting for a chance to go and see Dr. Pesigan. Maybe there will be a break in the singing.
In my head, I wondered who was there from the English Department, but I didn't want to look. Then a young man with glasses crossed in front of me. I called to him, "Vince," and handed him the book. He read the cover--Empire Writes Back. He smiled and left.
I saw a student go to the front and stand by the coffin. I took his lead and marched up front, trying to be inconspicuous. I didn't want to be noticed. The singing went on.
Dr. Pesigan lay in a silver coffin. A clear plastic shield protected him. His portrait by the coffin showed a healthy man. During my days, he was slimmer, thinner. I fumbled with my prayers and threw in--"May he rest in peace, Amen." I touched the coffin, as a form of greeting and respect. Goodbye, Dr. Pesigan.
I walked back to my seat and wondered how soon I should leave to go home.
They started a slide show of Dr. Pesigan's photographs, with a melodramatic soundtrack. In the pictures, I could see the rest of the English Department, some I knew, some I wanted to forget. I took my undergrad in that department, my graduate studies as well, plus one token semester as an English teacher.
I picked up a small booklet lying on the empty chair in front of me. There was a set program for the evening and I had just caught the last part of it. We were about to give the final respects. A line formed so each person can scoop up a handful of flowers and scatter them on his coffin.
I waited for the line to finish before I took my turn, so I got to see who was there. Danton, Danny, Cyan, Rica, Gad, BJ, Ada, Philo teachers, Theo teachers, and Dean Garcia. It was only then that I realized the significance of tonight, of this wake.
This was how a life of an English teacher can end--the chapel at the Ateneo, free of charge, the students with their earnest but amateur singing, and your fellow soldiers in the English Department failing to hold back their sobs.
A life that I saw for myself when I was finishing up my master's degree in 1996.
I was ready to say, "Condolence", but I didn't know whom to offer it to. Dr. Pesigan had family, even grandchildren, but I can only guess who they were.
I lined up and grabbed the leftover flowers. I tossed them gently onto the coffin. I wanted to say, "Good luck, Dr. Pesigan" but it seemed silly. I headed for the exit and passed by a group of faculty I knew, but there were all crying. I saw a poet's face, Danton, scrunched and wet with tears. A chat would have been inappropriate. I caught his eye and looked away quickly, hoping that he took that as a sign of empathy.
Back in the parking lot, I took in the night air. Something was over, something had just begun.