I have this small plot along the river Tigum where I built a small bamboo hut besides which I literally planted with camote after about 15 years of working my ass abroad. This camote I feed to my pigs which scream to death each time they hear my car coming. Pigs love to eat camote leaves. And each time they see me, they see camote.
What I like about the place is the river. I like the sight and sound of water flowing among rocks and along verdant valleys and plains. And when the local men come down with their carabaos, or when the womenfolks settle to do their laundry along the rocky banks, I can hear the sigh of Amorsolo. If only I could paint that good.
But most of all, I like the name of the river. The local folks call the river Tigum. To me the name is so Filipino, so ethnic. It conjures images of brave, muscled, sun-browned men battling the guns and taunts of white men from far away. It gives me images of beautiful lasses with long black hair adorned with a simple gumamela.
How I wish my name is Tigum. People change their names into something they love that signifies their beliefs and principles. There's Kidlat Tahimik. And many African Americans changed their names because they wanted to erase the past when there were masters and slaves. And what's so good about being named Lawrence, Berthold, or Henry when you look so Filipino? My name was copied from the Americans by my parents who thought that having an American sounding name made one think American. I don’t like to think that my parents believed that speaking English made one an intellectual. To me, my name reeks of a colonial past, when Filipinos felt so small beside the Americans. I don’t look up to the Americans. And I would like to think that I don’t salivate to go and live in the States.
If I have a chance to change my name, I would like to be called Tigum. I like a name that truly embodies my ideals and personality. Most of all, by just looking at or hearing my name, I would like people to know immediately that I am truly a Filipino.
Note: I found this write-up from somewhere. I wrote this in 2002 after coming home to the Philippines from a long stint abroad. I'm still in the Philippines and still maintains my nipa hut along the river. The pigs are now gone due to bankrupcy (somehow, I now admit I am not good in agribusiness.). The camote made way to corn, then bell peppers, to lacatan bananas courtesy of the Department of Agriculture (where I signed numerous documents which I hoped would not be used to justify the Joc-joc Bolante fertilizer fund scam), to string beans, and numerous other crops to make ends meet. I posted this entry because visitors are yearning to know my identity (Astig gid abi!).
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What I like about the place is the river. I like the sight and sound of water flowing among rocks and along verdant valleys and plains. And when the local men come down with their carabaos, or when the womenfolks settle to do their laundry along the rocky banks, I can hear the sigh of Amorsolo. If only I could paint that good.
