I had taken my assignment to the Philippines with joy and satisfaction. It felt good to be out of school and to be working at a "real" job, one for which I had prepared for many years. So now, my books were closed, at least for a little while and I was in the vineyard,so to speak.
I was not totally turned around, but mostly bemused by the change in environment. Things were different. The climate, the surroundings and, of course, the people. There was one thing that did not change. I had to cope with a different language. This had happened to me five years before when I landed in Rome and knew that it was going to be a four year stay. There, I knew the official language of the residence to which I was assigned, but of course, I did not know Italian. So, I proceeded to dedicate myself to learning Italian.
Now, I was in the midst of a language challenge again. Again, I was surrounded by many people who knew English, but the mission required that I know the language of the residents. It was not up to them to learn English. So, I proceeded to learn the language. The first story about Isabelo is about language, sort of.
He was one of the inner circle of parish leaders. They would come to the rectory [parsonage] fairly regularly for an exchange of ideas and some planning reasons. They, approximately seven or nine, depending on the day of the week and the central topic to be discussed, knew one another quite well. They were all able to speak the "Lingua Franca of the region. They were quite happy that I was dedicating myself to learning it and they usually took time and patience to speak to me, and to one another, in the tongue of the region. Until we got down to business, and then we would switch to English.
One evening, they were all there with me and we were having a finger snack and a sip of adult beverages and without paying attention to me too much they had fallen to using the "official local language" of the country, i.e. Tagalog.
After about five minutes of this, Isabelo realized what was happening. He coughed in a loud, interrupting, stentorian tone and announced, in Ilokano, "We are really not being very respectful. Paul is getting quite capable in Ilokano and we are happy for that. We should be ashamed of ourselves that we have fallen to speaking Tagalog in front of him this evening." The moment following that didn't need any language to define it. I broke the ice by saying, with a big smile, "I understood what he just said." It was all it took. We laughed together and I was glad to see that everyone thanked my friend for what he had done. I did too. It was a very nice feeling.
Isabelo had four beautiful daughters. There came a day when the eldest was preparing for her marriage. I was involved in the preparations and everything was going along smoothly. The ceremonies were to be held in a location too far away from where I lived for me to go there to officiate since it was a Saturday and travel between the two places was too difficult to allow for a round trip in one day.
Isabelo had a problem. His daughter was eschewing all the traditional local and cultural customs and was intent on breaking the mold for her own comfort. He was trying to be "macho" about it, but was having a hard time. His wife was beside herself. He and I talked about it a lot. He and his wife decided that they should not interfere. In the Philippines, the groom's family is in charge of the wedding and financially responsible for it. So Isabelo and his wife were pretty much onlookers. I never did get a good appreciation for what the the other side felt.
The wedding went well. After the ceremony and the celebration, he came back to San Mateo, proudly showing us the photographs of the event. Everything went well and he and the family were happy. I asked how he felt. His only answer, one that I will never forget was, "Your child is always your child. I am happy." It was a good lesson for me. At the time I never thought that I would ever have offspring of my own. Now that I do, I know what he meant. I owe him.
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