The Champion of the Poor

I was teaching in high school some two years ago when I was commissioned by our assistant principal, now in New York, to write something about Fr. Al so we can present it during the opening of the SMS National Academic Challenge, which we hosted in 2006.

For the uninformed, Fr. Al is the founder of the Sisters of Mary School, where I graduated in high school. To us, the beneficiaries of his goodwill, he is a saint who opened the door to the community which was to change of lives forever. Founded purposefully for the poorest of the poor, The Sisters of Mary School, operates in South Korea, Mexico, Brazil, the Philippines, and only recently, in Guatemala. This international presence easily gives us the privilege of sharing with millions out there a common father, who will always be remembered as our "Champion."

But before this becomes a biography of some sort, let me go back to that article Ms. Cabanero asked me to write. I was digging on my files and happened to chance upon it and thought may be I should post it in my blog. Please forgive the hyperbole on poverty but I thought I write it that way to convey the message more meaningfully and forcefully. Read on...

Darkness... Ignorance... Hunger... Poverty... In a word, hopelessness. These were the things that greeted my every sunrise. Each day brought a promise not of recreation, but of back-breaking toil; not of the finer things in life, but of the coarse, harsh realities whose hungry fangs had taken deep cuts into my young existence. For how could you even admire the resplendent beauty of the sun caught in a dewdrop when the same sun mercilessly scorches your back as you toil for your next meal? How could even smile and love the rain when it is the same rain that finds its way through the roof overhead right into where your head is when you sleep, making you dismiss a beautiful dream and scamper to another "safer" place? How could you even appreciate what good education can bring when everyone else around you permits passivity and mediocrity as they themselves have succumbed to the seemingly irreversible despair in the wasteland of poverty.

As I looked around, I saw that I was not alone. There were thousands, perhaps even millions who shared the same fate as mine. Surely, God must be away filling the coffers of the rich children, making their lives brighter, more comfortable, more promising. Surely, God must have forgotten us...

Then in the total darkness that enveloped us, just when we were about sink into the mire of hopelessness, then came a man who made us believe that God hadn't given up on us; then came a man who cuddled us in his arms and made us taste how it was to live a dignified life, full of beauty, full of promise, full of hope; then came a man who believed in us, who never undermined our worth, who loved us without question; then came Fr. Al.

It is not without reason that we will forever call him the Champion of the Poor. These grounds, this school will always be a testament to that great love of Fr. Al, his zeal for the abandoned, his passion for the deserted.

God, You were never really far. Because of Fr. Al, and all the selfless people who sent with him, we thank You. We will never be able to You enough.

God bless us! God bless the Sisters of Mary!

There was a confusion as to who will deliver this piece during the program. The final days approaching the opening saw one of our co-teachers reading this on the background as a group of students gave life to it in an interpretative play. But as our principal found the intensity of emotion lacking in his delivery as the piece required, she asked for a replacement. They later found that there was no one else who could give justice to this piece but the writer. I ended up doing the voice-over and saw the welling of tears from the audience during the kick-off.

The Explanation

My laziness is getting the better of me these days. If you might have noticed, I have not posted for almost an eon that my site looks abandoned already. Tarantulas took this side of the virtual space under siege with their enormous cobwebs. My title, "C'mon... Unearth Me," can now be interpreted literally as it is buried in layers of dust as of this writing. The words in the previous posts have rearranged themselves in protest to form an ancient language that can only be deciphered with the use of the likes of Rosetta stone. (They may have reverted back to English when you stumble here by chance, but believe me they did!)

I've been meaning to post blogworthy events that happened during my long hiatus but they've been perpetually put off. It's a pity my audience got tired of going back here to check on my latest posts but went away frustrated. Now I have to start anew to win old friends back and earn new ones.

Actually, I did not really go away. Many times, I visited and reveled on my, as well as my blogmates', entries but just went away unnoticed. I was like a silent watchman of the valley who wandered aimlessly leaving no mark of ever being there. All along, I was rebelling against myself for my incorrigible procrastination.

The finally break the void, I am posting my three entries to the three-part blogwriting contest in Sykes. And to answer your next question, I did not win and that was justifiable enough! I don't mean to sound self-saving but I did not really put my heart into it.

The first piece entitled "Becoming Nocturnal" was a recycled one as it was my same exact entry that won first place in an intra-account essay-writing contest. We were to talk about what we were before Sykes and what we were thinking about the industry before we got in. The article was really out-of-bounds with the theme but I submitted it anyway and afforded myself the surprise of my life when I got wind that I qualified for the next round.

The second round was supposed to talk about our experiences while in Sykes. My entry, which I called "The Tale of a Sykeser," almost missed the deadline. I had to email it to the office three hours before the cut-off as I was on a sick leave that Friday.

"Living the Call" did not make it to the deadline. The mechanics said it was the final blog that will complete the loop and needed to describe the drive that makes us stay. I thought I'd let it go but when my boss pressured me to submit one, I had to apologize profusely to the McDonald's crew who had to dig my draft out of the bin as I knowingly left it there just hours earlier, resolved not to participate in the last leg of the contest.

I know I gave my opponents an easy contest. I know I should have done better than submit haphazardly written articles. But all that is water under the bridge now. I'll just make it up next time, in keeping with my manana habit. And I hope there is a next time...