The Living Past

By Marlyna O. Sevilla

This is a story about a girl in the Philippines who showed signs of autism until the age of five. Her name is Marlyna.

She was six years old when World War II broke out in 1941. In her life story, she takes us to evacuation places and to witness a Japanese soldier aim a shining bayonet at her pregnant aunt. Well walk with her in the darkness, treading on rocks among tall, thorny shrubs where footpaths ended.

She was twelve when her parents separated and was eventually separated from her siblings as well. Marlyna rejoiced as she was reunited with her mother and siblings in 1954. She vows not to be separated from them again. She migrated to Canada with husband and daughter in 1967, and endures the frigid cold and the pangs of loneliness. Nothing stands against her dream of bringing her mother and siblings to her new country.

Annie arrived first in 1969, the rest followed, and her ambition was realized when her mother arrived in 1974. Marlynas dream to be reunited with her family was no longer a dream but a reality.

Marlyna believes that education is freedom, the intangible asset that enriches ones life. She takes courses in business, writing, and public speaking under government assistance. Her Service Excellence Award in 1993 is her crowning achievement.

Now a Canadian snowbird in the Philippines since 2000, she works with community and church organizations. She enjoys sharing her knowledge gained from abroad with her own people.

The Living Past is a story of the life struggle and triumphs of a girl who once had only spoke five words. Marlyna believes that her experience with World War II, her broken home, and migration to the great country of Canada has made her a well-seasoned grandmother. Her first book a must-read!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 23, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462827978

Book preview

The

Living Past

Marlyna O. Sevilla

Copyright © 2008 by Marlyna O. Sevilla.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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Contents

Preface Looking back at seventy-one

Acknowledgment

Chapter One Where I Came From

Chapter Two My Parents

Chapter Three Early Family Memories

Chapter Four My Siblings

Chapter Five Maternal Grandparents

Chapter Six Mama’s Siblings

Chapter Seven Memories of Hacienda Mandoma

Chapter Eight World War II and Cebu

Chapter Nine Peacetime (?)

Chapter Ten Tatang

Chapter Eleven Papa’s Side

Chapter Twelve Papa’s Siblings

Chapter Thirteen My Philippine Schools

Chapter Fourteen Hard Times

Chapter Fifteen Short-Lived College Days

Chapter Sixteen Siblings Reunited

Chapter Seventeen The Quonset Hut (QH)

Chapter Eighteen Goldie

Chapter Nineteen The Submarines of Bogo

Chapter Twenty D-day, June 6

Chapter Twenty-one Sally Penaco Tan

Chapter Twenty-two Menchu

Chapter Twenty-three O Canada!

Chapter Twenty-four Canadian Connection

Chapter Twenty-five Belle

Chapter Twenty-six First Canadian Job

Chapter Twenty-seven Life Goes On

Chapter Twenty-eight The Ministry of Housing

Chapter Twenty-nine My Crowning Achievement

Chapter Thirty All for Mama

Chapter Thirty-one Ash Worth

Chapter Thirty-two Back to Apartment Life

Chapter Thirty-three Retirement, Here I Come

Chapter Thirty-four Retirement Home

Chapter Thirty-five As Snowbirds

Chapter Thirty-six Bogo Redeemers Society

Chapter Thirty-seven The Grand Feeling

Chapter Thirty-eight They Too Have Touched My Life

Chapter Thirty-nine A Speaker’s Delight

Chapter Forty Memorable Holidays

Chapter Forty-one My Fantasy

Chapter Forty-two For the Record

Chapter Forty-three Mary’s Farm

Chapter Forty-four Self-Appraisal

To my mother, Mary Ortiz Orat, whom my life story began and whose memory I want to pass on.

Preface

Looking back at seventy-one

Monday, August 28, 2006. Recalling seventy-one years of memory is a lot to write. I don’t know where to begin. So I shall write what comes to my mind. Some of you may think that I missed some events. I might have, or I have considered them not worth retelling at all. And if you are not in my story, please do not be disappointed. You are in my heart forever, and I shall cherish the memory of you as long as I live.

I hope you will learn something from my life story. I lived through it, and I triumphed. I went through life’s hardships, struggles, and frustrations as well as happiness, success, and contentment. Life is a cycle that must be endured and enjoyed. For me, looking at the bright side of life and using common sense at all times make life worth living. There is hope if we work hard and have faith in the future. I realized that life is living, and living is life.

One day in your old age and when you have achieved your goals, you might want to look back. You’ll then remember those unbearable events you thought you could never survive due to worries and hardships. You start to cry a little when you come to the sad times of your life; then, you cry a little more when you feel the aches in your heart. Suddenly you smile, still with tears in your eyes; this time, they are tears of triumph! You have come a long way; your path laden with thorns, have turned to a bed of roses. Your hard work and perseverance did it. You see, victory is sweeter after a hard struggle, just like feeling true happiness after sadness. I felt them all while writing this book.

I am writing this autobiography to share my life experience with you. I think they are too valuable to be forgotten and are worth retelling, especially to my readers whose life stories do not include ups and downs, those who have not suffered separation of parents, financial hardship, and immigration. To my family, I hope you will pass on my life story and the history of our great clan to your children and grandchildren. To all my readers, I hope to reach out from my humble beginnings in a remote place such as a small town in the Philippines and from my challenging life in Toronto, Canada, where I grasped the true meaning of life and achieved most of my goals. To you all, let me live forever in this book. This is my living past.

Acknowledgment

To:

All for giving me your valuable pictures and the details where my memory became foggy, I thank you.

Menchu, who insists that I write this book, your patience is wonderful.

Belle and Kevin, thanks for helping me out every time I got stuck with my computer and for giving me my writing space in your home.

Evan, without your laptop, writing this book could have taken me forever. I thank you sincerely.

Marife, thanks for helping me with the chapter logo. Sorry to give you and Belle the rush job.

And to all at Xlibris who helped me with my book especially Vanessa Medel, Rowena Divicay, and Jane Sabuga.

Chapter One

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Where I Came From

I was born in the town of Bogo, one hundred kilometers north of Cebu City, Philippines, on November 2, 1935. My parents were Maria Ortiz Orat and Ramon Sunico Sevilla Sr.

November 2 is All Souls’ Day, a day well revered by Filipinos to pay homage to their beloved departed. Folks celebrate this day by offering mass for the dead and visiting the cemeteries. Traditionally, candles are lighted while praying; others offer food served on platters for the souls. During the celebration, the cemeteries are repainted, cleaned, and electric lights are installed. Tombs are decorated with wreaths and vases of flowers. Graveyards become alive and festive on All Souls’ Day, November 2—my birthday.

I was born on a cold, rainy, and gloomy day like most All Souls’ Days that I had known in my lifetime. My parents stayed home in anticipation of my birth. Their anticipation came true. I came into this world when the town was deserted as most of the townsfolk had gone to the cemetery. Our town midwife Mrs. Aurora Auring Mendoza was tracked down at the cemetery. She came on time to assist in the delivery. My ears were pierced right after birth, a tradition of the times. Mama thought girls look nice with earrings, but her ears were not pierced. She never wore earrings.

Auring’s memory of me upon birth was my very small eyes; she recalled they looked like very narrow lines on either side of my flat nose. At first, she was afraid that my eyes would not open. I am amazed with her memory, knowing that she must have attended most births in town. Her description of me was confirmed by Mr. Panares, my instructor in business psychology at Cebu College of Commerce, now known as University of Cebu, who said that God almost forgot to give me my nose and eyes, hence the minimized features.

I was baptized by the name of Marlyna (Inna and Lala to my grandsons) on December 28, 1935, my uncle Jess’s birthday. My godparents were Dr. Teofilo C. Rodriguez, a close friend of my parents, and Sofia (Ma Sophy), Mama’s younger sister. I was baptized on Uncle Jess’s birthday to save money and to make it more memorable. I only found out about the date when I got my baptismal certificate from our local parish last March 2006. December 28 is the feast of Holy Innocents that is celebrated by many traditions. Strangely enough, Uncle Jess’s birthday had to be celebrated with a party or else he succumbed to some kind of illness. Grandma said that they intentionally missed to celebrate December 28 to see what would happen. And every time, Uncle Jess got sick.

How did I get the name Marlyna? I was curious about it too because in those days, names were traditionally Filipino. We were overseeing the farm tenants peeling corn husks in one of my grandparents’ granaries at the farm called Hacienda Mandoma when I asked Mama why she decided to call me Marlyna. I can still see Mama’s eyes light up when she told me why. She named me after Marlene Dietrich, the fabulous and brilliant German actress. Marlene captured Mama’s heart. She became her idol. Marlene’s superb acting, remarkable beauty, and shapely legs made Mama decide to name me after her. Marlyna, she said, was her Philippine version of Marlene.

I have just searched Marlene D. in the Internet. Wow! She looks so marvelous, so beautiful. How on earth could I have the likeness of a great star? When I was young, I was led to believe that namesakes have physical similarities and personalities. Now I know it isn’t true. Maybe it could happen among families, but it is impossible to happen among people of different races. (Thanks for your wishful thinking, Ma.) Marlene Dietrich is my secret idol too. Her talents inspired me to act in school plays. Recently, I wrote a script and acted the leading role. It was a talent show presented by the eleven choir groups of San Vicente Ferrer Parish of Bogo. The title of my short play was The Power of Christmas. It won first prize.

I love my name Marlyna. It’s me and mine. I like to see it in print, and it sounds like music when someone calls my name in any accent at all. But I never want my name to be taken in vain. I consider my name as my flag bearer. I uphold it with respect and integrity. My nickname was originally Lena, but some called me Ena. I revised the spelling to Inna—INN, which has a beautiful meaning, a place as refuge for people in danger or in trouble, and A to have four letters in my nickname equal to my middle name Orat. My coined nickname is inspired by lighthouses.

From Bogo wharf on a clear day, the Capitancillo Lighthouse on Capitancillo Islet comes to view. Even as a young girl, I was attracted to this lighthouse though what I saw from afar was just an outline of the structure, and I never saw a lighthouse in pictures in those days. Every time I got a glimpse of Capitancillo Lighthouse, I got more curious about it, and I thought, What a lonely place to be—the only building on the islet.

Mama had explained the usefulness of lighthouses: to serve as refuge for seafarers who are lost or are traveling during typhoons; the big flashing light will guide travelers safely by avoiding the big dangerous precipice. Right at that moment, my love for lighthouses was born, and I decided that if I were a structure, I’d be a lighthouse. I don’t mind being the only building around because I am there to save people, a noble job.

I have a collection of miniature lighthouses in pictures and designs from tablecloth corner pins to a cross-stitched lighthouse that my friend Vicky Presnillo made for me. Every time people asked me why I love lighthouses, I gave Mama’s explanation with feelings.

Having been born on All Souls’ Day gave meaning to my life. I believe that I rose from the dead, and only the souls can take me. I feel that I am a special person, chosen to represent the souls among the living, and that they gave me special guidance and assistance. Furthermore, I believe that the souls will protect me from danger because they want me to carry on a mission: to help others and to bring the best out of everyone within my reach. They will not exempt me from hardships or pain because hardships and pain

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Capitancillo-Bogo Lighthouse

will make me strong. They give me a better understanding of life and the existence of diversified individuals.

I have some characteristics that, I believe, were formed during my nine months in Mama’s womb. I believe that I was exposed to the raw winds of life that gave me strength to weather the storms of existence, that I am spiritually sufficient, which gives me good health, and perhaps I heard Grandpa’s lecture on education and Mama’s love for people. So now, I think I plucked my soul from the winds, from healthy spirits, and from loving, educated people. These distinguishing traits will unfold in my life story.

I was born in a big house along the main street of Bogo. The roof was made of galvanized iron; except for the concrete floor on the ground, all other building materials were wood. Its posts were trunks of big trees with a circumference of about forty inches. I remember the wide windows with capiz shells through which the sunlight gave a beautiful luster. The wide stairs with easy steps led to the second floor. We stayed in this house a few years after my birth. I also remember walking carefully on the slippery wooden flooring of beautiful deep brown with golden yellow stripes on the second floor that gave the house a luxurious look.

The house gave me a spooky feeling though. The rooms upstairs were dark and smelled of dampness except in the kitchen where the sunlight came through the open windows. I have a delicious memory of the kitchen where I tasted the best cheese made of goat’s milk wrapped in fresh green banana leaves. It’s still my favorite cheese to this day.

There was an old lady named Adriana who occupied one of the rooms downstairs. She had a pale complexion and high cheekbones. Her hair was always loosely tied at the back. She must have been tall, but I did not see her standing. Adriana wore white long dresses made of light cotton, and underneath her dress were layers of garments.

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House where I was born.

Her large deep-set eyes seemed to penetrate right through a person’s body. I can’t remember hearing her voice at all or hearing her laugh or seeing her smile. The expression in her face was that of a spy—forever alert and suspicious. I have no memory of ever sleeping, playing, and hearing any human voice or sound in this house though we stayed there whenever we came to town usually on weekends.

Adriana intrigued me so much. I was scared of her, but yet I wanted to be near her. She seemed mysterious, almost like a stranger to mankind. Yet I remember people coming to see her. I did not know why then. Mama told me that they called Adriana the gypsy of Bogo who can foretell a person’s destiny or fortune, good or bad luck. Everything that Adriana predicted about Mama’s siblings all came true. This will later unfold in my story.

In my lifetime, I noticed that I could foresee things, guess correct answers, and imagine or hear things that soon would happen. It scared me especially when people asked me why my premonitions usually came true. One of my Canadian friends teased me as being a witch. Then I started reading about psychology and the unborn child. I have read about the unborn child as a deeply sensitive individual who forms a powerful relationship with his or her parents—and the outside world—while still in the womb; the unborn child has significant memory capabilities and can hear and feel. I think I got Adriana’s clairvoyance while I was developing in Mama’s womb. I remember her looking in my direction as I edged to where she was fortune-telling. I think I had a pre birth communication with her. Being clairvoyant helped me a lot in my life, but at the same time, I get scared when I know that some trouble or tragedy would happen. Later in my story, I will mention some events that led me to believe that Adriana communicated with me earlier before birth.

Here’s my poem inviting my readers to visit Bogo:

Bogo

There’s a lovely town

That you must see

It’s a little far to the north

By the sea

There you’ll find smiling faces

Welcoming you as their own

As they sing

Songs of familiar tune

They make you feel at home

Away from home

Watch the sunset by the bay

And you’ll say,

YES, I’LL GO

AGAIN TO LOVELY BOGO!

Bogo derived its name from a tree with spreading branches. It gave shelter to the natives and became the trading place for merchants who came in small boats from neighboring islands. This spot became popular for both natives and traders; intermarriages took place, and population rapidly increased. People residing in Bogo are called Bogohanons.

Chapter Two

My Parents

My parents were Maria Ortiz Orat and Ramon Sunico Sevilla Sr. Mama was eighteen and Papa was twenty-one when they got married. They were a handsome couple. I never heard them argue or said unpleasant words to each other.

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Papa and Mama’s wedding picture

Mama was born in Cebu City on April 1, 1915; she was the eldest among nine siblings. She was petite, fair-skinned, slim, and had shapely legs. She was always well-groomed. Her favorite clothes were skirts and blouses. I remember her looking so smart in plain slim skirts and dainty white blouses. She looked good in high heels that complemented her beautiful legs.

As a teacher, Mama ranked A1. She did demonstration classes in her school district attended by public education officials and teachers. I was so proud of her, the way she handled our classes and the way she walked back and forth in the classroom, writing on the board, showing her beautiful handwriting and her drawings. She drew like an artist. Grandma claimed this as a Portuguese gene.

I think Mama’s outstanding talent was her acting ability. She was a member of Bogo Teachers’ Drama Club and had leading roles in dramas. The club was a fund-raiser. During school vacation, the club went to towns to show the drama of the season. There was a scene in which Mama was to hit the villain on the shoulder with a bottle gourd (upo) about seventy centimeters long and twenty centimeters in diameter. The squash was cut at the middle and rejoined by a stick inside for it to break easily. During the actual performance, the squash did not break until Mama hit the villain hard three times. The squash went to pieces, its juice and seeds scattered on the stage floor. The villain himself was in charge of preparing the squash to break with just one hit. But he forgot to do it! For weeks, his shoulder ached. The irony was that Mama and the villain were good friends and were inseparable co-teachers.

I was Mama’s pupil in grade three. She was strict but lenient. I was at my best behavior in her classroom knowing that if I misbehaved, I will be in big trouble. Well, I misbehaved once and got punished. It happened one very hot afternoon at two during class lineup. Instead of lining up along with our classmates, some of us went under the school building for shelter. We came out to join at the end of the lineup, which we thought was a smart idea. Not for Mama! She made us stay under the sun for fifteen minutes, which was about double the time spent for class lineup. The heat that afternoon was grilling hot, but I felt a chill in my heart (every time I’m overcome with fear, I catch this chill feeling). I knew Mama’s discipline was strictly adhered to, and for that one time, I displeased her greatly in school. As I remember it today, I can only blame the heat that melted my common sense! I got a long lecture that evening, and I cried until sleep took over me. I should have known better. As far I can remember, that was the only time Mama was angry with me and the only time that I crossed the line of good discipline.

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Mama was a generous person. People who knew her still remember how kind and helpful she was. This I remember too. My sister Annie would take Mama to the supermarket and let her pay. Mama complained about this to me, but laughed when Annie justified, You are the mother of perpetual help, aren’t you?

She replied, Supposing I don’t have money with me?

Oh, Mom, when do you ever go out without cash? Annie then handed her some money.

Until today, people talk about her with reverence. One of her co-teachers remembers Mama as a person who only talked about the goodness in people. She did not dwell in people’s shortcomings. Papa told us a story about Mama

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that I can’t forget because I can relate to it. Papa gave her a Spanish fan (fans are a necessity in the Philippines; they are of many designs and materials, but Spanish fans take the lead in style and price); it was her prized possession. One time while waiting for the bus, they sat on a long bench with other passengers. Papa remembered that Mama was using her fan, but it got lost. Later they saw a woman using Mama’s fan; she was sitting at the other end of the bench. Papa asked Mama to retrieve her fan, but she wouldn’t and couldn’t. Not Papa either.

A similar story happened to me in Toronto. My daughter Menchu and I were walking along a commercial street one cool day in summer. I had my pink sweater on my shoulder. After a little shopping, I noticed that my sweater was gone. Menchu and I gave up looking for it when we saw a woman carrying my pink sweater. She was coming toward us. But I didn’t have the guts to ask for it. I think the woman must have picked it up from the sidewalk and was looking for the owner.

Mama loved togetherness, even if it meant cooking and working in the kitchen for hours, especially in Canada. She had many house parties that she enjoyed so much. Her kitchen was our popular hangout; the table was always set and food ready to serve. Mama’s friends were from her work and the parents of our friends. They were her frequent visitors.

Mama’s one dream was to be a writer. She wanted to take up journalism, but Grandpa objected to it, saying that most artists’ popularity is only known when they are dead. That was the end of her dream, but she continued to write, corresponding with friends and relatives. Her letters were treasured by all her recipients. She had a writing style that touched people’s hearts. Until now, Dr. Pureza Purie Trinidad Onate, Mama’s beloved goddaughter, still talks about their correspondence.

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Mama’s only solo picture that I could find

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Whenever we go to Cebu City, we stay with Purie and her husband, Jorge. Indeed we are very lucky to enjoy their generosity and hospitality.

Mama danced well; she participated in teachers’ dance presentations. She played table tennis with her cousins and brothers, but she could not beat Papa. I remember her playing chess with Uncle Jess. This was the only time that they were quiet and very serious together. Scrabble was a game that Mama enjoyed playing with her sisters since 1959. Her hobbies were crocheting, reading, solving crossword puzzles, and sewing. Mahjong was a great passion at her later age.

One thing our family will remember about Mama was her unending support to all our ventures and goals. Her inspiration and encouragement helped us to succeed. She was proud of our achievements, which brought her happiness to no end. Mama’s memorable and remarkable statement was You can do it, and you’ll do it well.

Her words would ring in our ears like a lullaby, not to sleep but to succeed.

Papa was born in Singalong, Manila, on May 17, 1912; he was the youngest among five siblings. He was tall, dark, and handsome, very charming. His almond-shaped eyes would dazzle so bright when