How I Liberated My Nation

By Rodolfo Martin Vitangcol

  Victor Paulino is the name of the protagonist of the story herein, and I am he in real life. 

 

  In a way this book turns somewhat like an auto-biography. All things written here actually happened in real life, more specifically—in my life. The tale only started when Victor Paulino ran for president. It is a fiction because I did not really run for president, nor do I have any intention [even in my wildest dreams] of running to lead our country. I am just an ordinary man whose preoccupation is to realize a simple, quiet life.

   

  I wrote this book for the reason that, though just a simple man, I could still somehow contribute something for the uplift of our country, especially our poor brothers and sisters who never get tired of waiting for someone who can deliver them from their poverty and oppression.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rodolfo Martin Vitangcol
• Release date: Jun 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393720850

Book preview

Chapter 1

THE MAN

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Victor Paulino is my name.

I was born in Tondo, Manila on the 5th of September, 1951.  We were five children in all—3 girls and 2 boys—me the middleborn.

My mother said I was a crybaby just as I was also the clown in the family.  I guess that’s very true since up to now I easily react to anything I do not want to see like seeing someone getting oppressed, just as I easily get heartened when I see a poor soul being helped.

My father was a policeman who unfortunately died when we were all still kids. I was about five years old then.  His death was horrible.  As he was chasing after an armed snatcher, he stumbled.  The gunman shot him in the back killing him instantly.

Our mother raised us through sewing dresses.  She was a seamstress.  Regrettably though, there were more times she had no customers than when she had.  We were pushed to the extremest of hardships in life.  Time came we could not pay the rent anymore that we had to move out and look for a much cheaper one.  But even at the cheapest already, we could hardly still pay.

It was at this point that my uncle took pity on us.  He offered us the basement of his house for free.  How thankful were we!  But there’s just one problem, though: the height of the basement was low [about five feet].  I could see my mother hunching her back as she moved about. 

Furthermore, the flooring was uncemented.  When it rains, the entire earth floor turns into mud.  Sad to say, in the Philippines almost half of the year it rains.  So there we were, practically living in the mud half of the year!  But, be that as it may, it was still a dwelling—and it’s free.  Way much better than living in the street.

Chapter 2

THE INVITATION

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When I was a sixth grader in the elementary school, two priests came over to our school.  They asked the students in our section as to who would like to become a priest.  They gave each one of us a small piece of paper on which to write our answers.  We could answer Yes, no, or maybe.  I wrote down maybe.

One summer day, right after I finished elementary school, I came home seeing two priests talking to my mother.  They were the same priests who had come to our school.  They were asking my mother if she had any objection to my becoming a priest.  My mother turned to me and tossed the question to me.  I didn’t know what to answer:  I felt like saying yes as I also felt like saying no.  But I could sense that my mother was just too eager that I accept the priests’ invitation.  Priests were so well respected during that time that it’s a considerable honor for any parent to have a priest in the family.  Somewhat compelled, I said yes.

To send a child to the seminary is not that easy, though: it’s expensive.  Parents have to pay for the tuition, the books, the uniform, the board, and the lodging.  We’re poor.  My mother just can’t afford it.  However, the two priests said they would recommend our case to Cardinal Rufino Santos for  possible sponsorship so that we don’t have to pay a centavo for my studies. The arrangement gave way to my entering the seminary—not as an answer to the call of Jesus, more than as an answer to the invitation of the two priests.

Chapter 3

THE SEMINARY LIFE

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At age 12, I entered the seminary under the sponsorship of Cardinal Rufino Santos.  The seminary is Our Lady of Guadalupe Minor Seminary located in Guadalupe, Makati.  You need a full 12 years to become a priest.

The seminary was run by the Belgians.  [There were only two local priests there.]  Belgians are like Germans—very strict.  If my child were a boy, I would be sending him to the seminary—regardless if he’d quit afterwards.  Why? I wanted him to be moulded in the true ways of discipline.

In the seminary, ‘WE ALWAYS MOVE BY THE BELL’ 

Krrng!—Wake up time.  Krrrng!—Breakfast time.  Krrrng!—Hearing mass time.  Krrrng!—Study time.  Krrrng!—Recreation time.  Krrng!—Shower time.  Krrrng!—Bedtime.  And so on.

At 5:30 in the morning, when the bell rings, you have five minutes to get up, make your bed, wash your face, brush your teeth, get dressed, put on your shoes, comb your hair, and leave the dormitory, lest you’ll be locked up in there for the rest of the day.  Can you do all of that in five minutes at your home?

One more thing, if you hear the bell ring, whatever it is that you are doing, you ought to stop it right away, lest you be punished.  For instance, recreation time is from four o’clock to five o’clock in the afternoon.  If you’re playing basketball and you are in the act of shooting the ball when suddenly the bell rings, you had better not shoot that ball anymore.  Stop your playing right away and head to the bathroom to take a shower.  If you don’t and you are caught, there’s a punishment.

Likewise, if you are slow in eating your food at mealtime and you are in the act of putting that last spoonful into your mouth when suddenly the bell rings, you had better not proceed with it.  Finished or not finished, stop your eating right away and stand up for the thanksgiving prayer.  If you don’t, there’s a punishment.

Now, there is a rule that if it is ‘silent time,’ no one should be seen speaking or talking or even making a gesture to anyone, lest one be punished.  There are many hours during the day where absolute silence ought to reign inside the seminary. The silent time is usually in effect when we’re in the chapel, in the study room, and in the dormitory.

Now, if you want to talk to your neighbor during the silent period and you don’t want to be caught doing it, there is a technique.  If, say, everyone’s inside the chapel for the rosary and you want to talk to the person kneeling down next to you, the trick is don’t ever turn your head to the person you’re talking to.  Otherwise, that will give you away to that eagled-eyed and prowling priest there in the back of the chapel who is always watching for any wayward he can catch.  So you may softly say to your neighbor, "Buddy, have you done your assignment?  He answers, Not yet, how about you?  For as long as you keep your heads straight up as you talk to each other, you will be safe.  Indeed, some of those kneeling immediately in front of me and at my back are not really praying at all.  They are just chatting like us.  I can safely say that only about half of the seminarians inside the chapel are praying the rosary.  All the rest are engaged in clandestine talking which they usually roll out whenever the prayer is to start again at Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . ." and at Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . .

There is just one problem, though, in all of this.  What is that?  One time, the person beside me whispered a joke.  I found his joke so funny that my shoulders convulsed as I tried hard to repress my laughter.  I thought, "I’m done!"  It’s pretty obvious that I was chatting with someone.  Seeing the trembling on my shoulders, the priest in the back whose name is Fr. Herbert Dupont [his real name and our prefect] shouted, PAULINO!  [The priests there call us by our family names, not by our first names or nicknames.  Hence, if your family name is Monster, it is the name the priest shall yell out—"MONSTER!"]  Now, the chapel—being enclosed—creates an echo.  And so when Fr. Dupont called out my name at the top of his voice, it reverberated three times—"PAULINO-LINO-LINO!

Fr. Dupont waited for the rosary to finish.  After the rosary, everyone quietly stood up and walked one by one past the exit door of the chapel.  Now, there is no other way for the seminarians to exit the chapel other than through that door at the back.  So if you want to avoid that priest who shouted at you, there’s no other route you can slip through. 

Fr. Dupont was waiting for me at the doorway.  I made it the last to leave.  Coming to him and with bowed head, I contritely said, "I’m sorry, Father."  He didn’t say anything.  He gestured me to kneel down.  That’s my punishment.  And I knelt down.  I knelt down near the doorway.  The rule is where you’ve been caught, that’s where you kneel.  If you were caught, say, in the comfort room, in the comfort room would you kneel.  I tell you, it hurts in the knees to kneel on a concrete floor.  And how long will I kneel?  It could be an hour or two or three, depending on what time he’ll come back to let me go.

Right after I got down on my knees, Father Dupont left.  Now, don’t you ever think that because he’s not around anymore, you can stand up and rest yourself from the strain of kneeling.  If he comes back and catches you on your feet, he will bawl you out and tell you off, "Get out of the seminary!  We don’t need people here without discipline!  Out!"

We’re about 300 in my batch, but do you know how many from the 300 finally made it to priesthood?  Only one!  Most got kicked out due to lack of discipline, while others left due to change of heart and I was one of them.

Now, there is also a rule that we must always speak English.  I guess this is their way of practicing us in the language since the Belgian priests don’t speak Tagalog.  If you get caught speaking even just one Tagalog word, you will be punished.

One time, while I was playing basketball and so caught up in the excitement of the game, I forgot my English.  I called out to my teammate, "Pare, pasa!  Pare, pasa!"  [Buddy, pass the ball!]  What a bad fortune that Fr. Dupont was passing by and he clearly heard me.  I thought, Uh-oh, I’m done again.

As usual, he yelled out my name at the top of his lungs—PAULINO! Being an open court, though, this time there’s no more reverberation like PAULINO-LINO-LINO!  My punishment?  Go to the study room and write 200 times—‘I will not speak Tagalog anymore.’

I went to the study room and commenced right away my punishment: I will not speak Tagalog anymore, I will not speak Tagalog anymore, I will not speak Tagalog anymore.  Aah, quite straining!  Just too plenty.  I had barely written three times than my hand was already tired.  And so, while my peers were out there playing basketball, I was there in the study room doing my punishment.

When I was done with my writing-punishment, I went to Father Dupont’s room.  As I was giving it to him, I bowed my head and with deep regret said, "Sorry, Father."

Now, I have a question for you:  When I got out of the seminary, did I ever harbor any ill feelings towards the priests?

My answer is, "No!  In fact, it’s the opposite:  I love them."  I tell you, whatever it is that I have attained in life today, I largely owed it to the priests in the seminary.  If I carry productive attitudes towards work like commitment and dedication to work, if I never throw litters anywhere, if I never disobey my superiors, and if I know how to show respect for other people—I credited it all to them.  They, my mother, and Jesus—are the people responsible for shaping me into what I am today.  Honestly, if I can only go back to the seminary again, I won’t hesitate doing so.  But of course, that is not possible anymore: I already have a family.

Never been late, never been absent

When I left the seminary, I have been so conditioned to get up at 5:30 in the morning that when the clock strikes 5:30, I’m awake.  Even if I had a drinking spree with my friends the night before and got home already in the wee hours of the morning, when the clock hits 5:30, I’m awake—with no help from anyone, let alone an alarm.  And when I awoke, I could not get back to sleep anymore.  It’s already a habit—developed over my four-year stay in the seminary.  And because of this, there’s something I want to brag to you about.

There’s one company in Makati where I have worked with for six years.  Would you believe if I tell you that in the six years that I have worked with this company, I have never been, never been absent?  Mind you, six years—not six months or six days.  To be honest with you, there was one day that I was late.  There’s one gasoline truck that turned turtle at the Guadalupe Bridge, and before the road could be cleared up, it had taken nearly two hours.  I was late.  But because there’s no similar accident that happened again at the Guadalupe Bridge, that first incidence of tardiness had not been followed up with a second.

Indeed, I can report to work every day as early as 6:30 in the morning—without fail.  I can get dressed and take my breakfast in less than ten minutes.  From my residence in Cubao, I can reach Makati by car in 30 minutes.  During the 1970s, there’s practically no traffic along EDSA.  However, if I reach the workplace at 6:30, it might still be closed.  It’s boring to wait without having someone to chat with.  And so what I do, I just pass the time at home.  Already dressed at 6:00, I would be pacing up and down in the sala with nothing to do since the newspapers has yet to arrive at 8:00.  When I look at the clock and it says 7:00, off I go.  I’ve never been late!

As to absences, I’m not a sickly person.  Only once in a decade do I get sick—sometimes not even.  And I am not that type who will absent myself if I’m not in the mood to work.  I didn’t have any Lazy Leave.  I am just fooling myself staying home doing nothing except lie down or watch TV.  I’d rather go to work.  Time is gold.

Going back to the seminary

Now, in order for you to really have a good grasp of what I’ve been telling you here, I will relate to you one incident that really opened my mind about the true meaning of discipline.

One time, Fr. Dupont unexpectedly caught me again talking to someone at the very time that’s supposed to be silent.  I thought, "Uh-oh!  I’m done again."  But to my surprise, he didn’t shout at me nor signal me to kneel down.  He simply looked me in the eye, turned around, and quietly walked away.

Now the tendency was for me to rejoice for having been spared the humiliation of being chewed out, let alone the punishment of having to kneel down for hours.  But I did not!  In fact, it’s the opposite.  Instead of rejoicing over it, I felt sad.  There’s something that came over me when he looked me in the eye, turned his back, and quietly walked away without punishing me.  I realized: "He does not care for me anymore."  It dawned on me then that disciplining is after all a sign of love and care.  It is a sign of someone trying to make a better person out of you that if that disciplining did not come, you miss it!

Class Reunion

About some ten years later after I had left the seminary, our batch arranged for a class reunion.  In my speech, I grabbed the opportunity to thank the priests for the discipline they gave me that shaped my person.  But deep down inside I was sad.  The priest to whom I specifically wanted to extend my gratitude was not there—Fr. Dupont.  A few years before the reunion, I heard that some burglars broke into his room, tied him up, and pounded him on the head that killed him.  When I heard the news, I wept bitterly.  

Manila Boys Town

In my third year in the seminary, the priests formed a soccer football team.  I was fortunate enough to make the team. 

Right after the formation, we went to Manila Boys Town in Marikina to compete.  In the middle of the game, an opponent dribbling the ball was moving closer to the goal unopposed.  Fearing that he might make a score, I ran fast towards him and tackled the ball off his feet.  What ensued was our feet got tangled up and we rolled over on the ground.  When I stood up, I saw my left forearm broken—with half of my forearm dangling at right angle. I was horribly shocked when I saw it.  I screamed in pain when I tried to move it. 

I was rushed to the Philippine Orthopedic Hospital and the doctor operated on my arm and braced the fractured bones with steel.  Three months later, I decided to have the steel removed.  After this second operation, the doctor lifted up my spirit saying that my healed arm was then better than before.  Of course, he was lying.  My left arm is so weak that if you kick me and I use my left arm to block it, I’m sure it will break.  It is that weak.  Due to this, my dream of becoming a great martial artist like Bruce Lee went down the drain.

Even just a little help

One day, turning four years in my stay in the seminary, Father Rector called for me.  He told me if I could request my mother to chip in with the cost of my staying in the seminary.  He said even just twenty pesos a month would do.  But the truth is, at our most wretched situation then—with my mother as the sole breadwinner for her five children who were all still studying—the twenty pesos [equivalent to about a thousand pesos today] would surely still be burdensome for my mother.

When I went back to the dormitory that night, I couldn’t sleep.  I felt like—in the four years of my stay in the seminary and knowing full well that I was under full sponsorship of Cardinal Rufino Santos—I was not really welcome there after all.  Hence from then on, every time I ate, the food that I put into my mouth seemed like not really meant for me.  The bed I lay on in the dormitory seemed like not really meant for me.  The chair I sat on inside the classroom seemed like not really meant for me.

After completing my four years in the seminary, I decided not to come back anymore.  And from then on, I rarely did go to church to hear mass, until I completely didn’t anymore.  This year, though, I started visiting the church every first Tuesday of the month but solely to pray, talk, and give thanks.  But, be that as it may, when someone asks me what is my religion, I will hold my head up high and proudly say, I am a Catholic.

That incident when Father Rector called for me didn’t affect at all my good perception of the Catholic faith.  The best religion I have ever known is still the Roman Catholic Church. In my view, she’s the one religion closest to the teachings of Jesus—though she’s not perfect; in fact, far from being perfect.  There’s one beautiful thing I like in her.  What is this?

As almost all other Christian sects that I have witnessed do emphasize well the giving of tithes [making you wonder if they are just using the name of God and Jesus to derive wealth off their followers]—not the Catholics.  Except for donations to the poor and calamity-stricken, hardly have I heard any priest talking about asking for money—that if you give money to the church, a hundredfold will come back to you, and that you have to give to the church God’s share for that is not yours.  Those are practically unheard of in every priest’s homily.  But we cannot hide the fact that the Catholic church is rich—very, very rich—perhaps from its long 2,000 years of existence.  But there’s one church I know that is relatively new [just several decades old] and yet has gone way far richer than the whole of the Catholic church in the Philippines.  You’ll be