<font color='black' size='2' face='arial'><b style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: large;">Military culture</b><br>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Two institutions determined how I ladled my soup in my
youth. First, there was West Point of
far away America but close to Pinoy imagination. The second was the Philippine Military
Academy in Baguio where shorter versions of cadets at West Point bugled
themselves on and off barracks. It was
my mother's fascination with both that got my siblings and I to scoop soup with
engineering precision.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal"> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">The posture called for a straight back, head up and eyes front,
left hand on the lap, right hand on the soup spoon (lefties were deemed sissy)
dipping it on the bowl, perpendicularly lifting the spoon to the level of one's
lips, then moving it to the mouth for the in-pouring. Reverse the movement for the next dip.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal"> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">I did not understand this when we were young in Sanchez
Mira, Cagayan where my friend's Papa at his house sat on his stool with his
undershirt rolled up to the chest, left foot on the bar of the chair and left
elbow on the raised knee, knuckled fist on the cheek as he slurped his soup
straight from the bowl. Ladle was for
wimps, he said. I tried the gesture once
at my house. My mother asked: <i>Ano ka,</i>
<i>intsik? </i>(What are you, Chinese?) The Hakka merchants in town were not known
for finesse in public appearance, let alone, dining.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal"> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">It was not until I was four when mother took us to my
great aunt's house in Laoag, Ilocos Norte that I understood the import of the
military tradition on the dining room.
She was married to the youngest elected Governor of the Province of
Ilocos Norte, a personal friend of President Quezon who disappeared during the
war while fighting the Japanese in the mountains. While on the run, great aunt was captured and
the Governor was declared MIA shortly thereafter. His body was never found but my great aunt retained
a mystique that made political wannabes trek to her house for her blessings
before tossing hats (no ribbons) into the electoral ring.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal"> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">It was around her dining table where I noticed the military
ladle. There were stiff uniforms around
the table. My Uncle was aide to a young
Senator Ferdinand Edralin Marcos. The
only son of the late Guv, Roquito (the late Guv was Roque) also got elected to
public office. A Major named Fidel Edralin
Ramos who attended West Point also graced the table.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal"> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">My brothers grew wanting to join the military service, and
to the credit of Uncle politico, he did not assist hard enough, though as a
national legislator, he could have recommended either of them to PMA. I was averse to guns and commands so I was
out of the picture. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal"> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">I skipped ROTC on my first two years of College but I
needed two years of it to graduate so I donned a uniform on my last two years
in College. My school was short of
officers, and being the student council president and later the school paper
editor, I was offered a First Louie ranking to escort the band majorette on
parades. She was a bit on the plump side
but oh, so good-looking. I acceded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal"> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">As one of the officers, I took a test administered to some
20K officers across the country to train as a pilot with the Air Force. Three hundred of us were notified to appear
at the Air Force Base near Manila for physical, finally paring 75 invited to
enlist for training. The come-on was
the possibility of training on the US Air Force's F-4 in Colorado Springs,
should we qualify. Heady stuff for a
young mind to process.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal"> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">The Vietnam War heated up and the signs of violent times were
on the wall. Mactan Air Base in the
Visayas supported US operations. The
girls at the Manila Air Base were smart looking and they thought we were not
bad looking either. But I was ambivalent
re pilot training and when the recruiting officer mentioned that if we declined
to enter the incoming class, we had a second option on the next one, I
postponed deciding.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal"> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">Today, everywhere in the world, it is the military that is
expected to maintain order when chaos prevails, preferably led by Sandhurst or
West Point grads, though an <i>Ecole Militaire
</i>will do, too, as <i>Ecole Polytechnique </i>produced
better engineers (and MIT would surpass the cadets by the Hudson). I did not follow the course.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal"> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">Things moved fast. Thanks to USIS, 50-some student leaders in a six-week
sojourn at Rizal's <i>Retiro Park </i>in Mindanao
in the first YMCA Rizal Youth Leadership Training Institute became conversant on
the contradictions and promises of democracy, of socialism, and of communism. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal"> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">In between semesters, eyeing a career in civil law, I joined
an Asian Christian Youth Assembly at Silliman University in Dumaguete City in
'64 where I saw Vatican II's import and the ground swell of <i>oikumene.
</i>In '65, the US got sucked into a skirmish its military-industrial
complex was raring to jump into in Vietnam.
My soul shifted to canon law, and journeyed akin to Nikos Kazantzakis' <i>Saviors of God. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal"><i> </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">I was an adult by assignment at ten; at twenty, I became
an adult by choice! I sailed under SF's
Golden Gate in '65 leaving my short pants in Pea Eye. I ladled my soup my own way from then on.</div>
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