World-class
World-class
Updated 11:20pm (Mla time) Nov 02, 2004
By Conrado de Quiros
Inquirer News Service
Editor's Note: Published on Page A14 of the November 3, 2004 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer
WHEN I was in high school, I imagined that to write for all times and climes, one had to write about timeless and universal things. In literary pursuits, in particular, that meant using indefinite settings instead of specific ones, general experiences instead of personal ones, and universal themes instead of particular ones. That meant writing not about the concerns of your time, which would be relevant only for your generation, but about concerns that spanned centuries, which would be relevant for generations to come.
Happily, I had no lack of teachers and mentors who disabused me of the thought and showed me that the very opposite was true. The greatest writers wrote for their own time and place, the greatest writers wrote about their time and place. You can't separate Leo Tolstoy and Fyodor Dostoyevsky from the Russia of their day, you can't separate James Joyce and William Butler Yeats from the Ireland of their day, and you can't separate William Faulkner and F. Scott Fitzgerald from the America of their day. What made their works powerful was that they spoke about experiences quite unlike any other, experiences that provide insights into the human condition as it unraveled in all its pain and splendor.
What made their works universal and timeless was precisely the fact that they were rooted in time and place. It gave them weight and immediacy, to which we responded strongly. In their particular experiences, we recognized ourselves and our common humanity. The people in the stories were different from you and me, yet somehow they were not so different from you and me. The sentiments in the poems were different from ours, yet somehow they were not so different from ours.
The lesson was clear, though paradoxical: The universal was to be found in the particular. The immortal was to be found in the temporal. The "human condition" was to be found in the plight of individuals. God's creation was to be found in a grain of sand.
I remembered this in light of something that's not literary at all. I've been interviewed by a number of students of late (it's the end of the semester, I guess) and the one question that keeps cropping up is why we should be concerned about history and tradition and identity in this age of globalization. Isn't the Filipino blessed rather than cursed by having no sense of history, tradition and identity? Isn't the Filipino blessed rather than cursed by being able, or driven, to live abroad, becoming a citizen of no particular country but of the world? Isn't the Filipino blessed rather than cursed by being a chameleon, by being able to adapt to whatever circumstance he finds himself in, turning himself into an Arab or an American at least in ways if not appearance?
Not at all. It's the same fallacy as the one that says to be able to grip the imagination of the world, you have to write about Everyman instead of a man, you have to write about humanity instead of Juan de la Cruz. You not only will not impress the world that way, you won't get listened to. The world listens only to people who have something to say, and the people who have something to say have something to say about their time in place. What applies to writing applies to living. A fellow who aspires to be accepted everywhere will end up being accepted nowhere. A fellow who strives only to belong will stick out like a sore thumb.
I know some Filipinos in the United States who try to make their kids more American than they are by keeping the history and language of their country of origin away from them. Or such as of their country's history and language as they themselves know, which is often little. They forget that America is a land of immigrants -- Irish, Italians, Jews, Chinese, Japanese, Africans (forcibly taken from their continent and turned into slaves) -- all of whom are fiercely proud of their roots. They are no less Americans because they are also Irish-Americans, Italian-Americans, and so on. In fact, they are more so: What makes them Americans is that they have something to bring, or contribute, to the "new world" from the old ones they came from. You do not become a Filipino-American by systematically destroying the Filipino in you.
It's not that we don't have an identity and culture, it's that that identity and culture are slipping away from us more and more. One reason for it is our disinclination, or refusal, to look at the past. We have probably the poorest sense of history in all of Asia. Or at least our history: I half suspect our senators and congressmen will more easily pass a quiz in American history than Philippine history.
But the bigger reason is the smug belief that in these days of globalization, national cultures or characters mean little anymore. That in these days of globalization, homogeneity and sameness are in, multiplicity and differences are out. That in these days of rapid changes and global villages, our strength lies in our amorphousness and ability to blend in the woodwork.
Not so. You may not like Lee Kuan Yew, but he has a point when he says that to succeed in today's world, you have to have a strong sense of independence. He has a point when he says that to be accepted by the world, you have to do things your own way. He has a point when he says to succeed in a regime of globalization, you have to think in terms of how much you can contribute and not just how much you can hope to get. It's a paradox only in the same way that great writing is a paradox: The big is in the small, the universal is in the particular, the global is in the local.
It's no small irony that we kill ourselves in karaoke bars singing "My Way," when doing things our way is the last thing we think about, or want to do.
Updated 11:20pm (Mla time) Nov 02, 2004
By Conrado de Quiros
Inquirer News Service
Editor's Note: Published on Page A14 of the November 3, 2004 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer
WHEN I was in high school, I imagined that to write for all times and climes, one had to write about timeless and universal things. In literary pursuits, in particular, that meant using indefinite settings instead of specific ones, general experiences instead of personal ones, and universal themes instead of particular ones. That meant writing not about the concerns of your time, which would be relevant only for your generation, but about concerns that spanned centuries, which would be relevant for generations to come.
Happily, I had no lack of teachers and mentors who disabused me of the thought and showed me that the very opposite was true. The greatest writers wrote for their own time and place, the greatest writers wrote about their time and place. You can't separate Leo Tolstoy and Fyodor Dostoyevsky from the Russia of their day, you can't separate James Joyce and William Butler Yeats from the Ireland of their day, and you can't separate William Faulkner and F. Scott Fitzgerald from the America of their day. What made their works powerful was that they spoke about experiences quite unlike any other, experiences that provide insights into the human condition as it unraveled in all its pain and splendor.
What made their works universal and timeless was precisely the fact that they were rooted in time and place. It gave them weight and immediacy, to which we responded strongly. In their particular experiences, we recognized ourselves and our common humanity. The people in the stories were different from you and me, yet somehow they were not so different from you and me. The sentiments in the poems were different from ours, yet somehow they were not so different from ours.
The lesson was clear, though paradoxical: The universal was to be found in the particular. The immortal was to be found in the temporal. The "human condition" was to be found in the plight of individuals. God's creation was to be found in a grain of sand.
I remembered this in light of something that's not literary at all. I've been interviewed by a number of students of late (it's the end of the semester, I guess) and the one question that keeps cropping up is why we should be concerned about history and tradition and identity in this age of globalization. Isn't the Filipino blessed rather than cursed by having no sense of history, tradition and identity? Isn't the Filipino blessed rather than cursed by being able, or driven, to live abroad, becoming a citizen of no particular country but of the world? Isn't the Filipino blessed rather than cursed by being a chameleon, by being able to adapt to whatever circumstance he finds himself in, turning himself into an Arab or an American at least in ways if not appearance?
Not at all. It's the same fallacy as the one that says to be able to grip the imagination of the world, you have to write about Everyman instead of a man, you have to write about humanity instead of Juan de la Cruz. You not only will not impress the world that way, you won't get listened to. The world listens only to people who have something to say, and the people who have something to say have something to say about their time in place. What applies to writing applies to living. A fellow who aspires to be accepted everywhere will end up being accepted nowhere. A fellow who strives only to belong will stick out like a sore thumb.
I know some Filipinos in the United States who try to make their kids more American than they are by keeping the history and language of their country of origin away from them. Or such as of their country's history and language as they themselves know, which is often little. They forget that America is a land of immigrants -- Irish, Italians, Jews, Chinese, Japanese, Africans (forcibly taken from their continent and turned into slaves) -- all of whom are fiercely proud of their roots. They are no less Americans because they are also Irish-Americans, Italian-Americans, and so on. In fact, they are more so: What makes them Americans is that they have something to bring, or contribute, to the "new world" from the old ones they came from. You do not become a Filipino-American by systematically destroying the Filipino in you.
It's not that we don't have an identity and culture, it's that that identity and culture are slipping away from us more and more. One reason for it is our disinclination, or refusal, to look at the past. We have probably the poorest sense of history in all of Asia. Or at least our history: I half suspect our senators and congressmen will more easily pass a quiz in American history than Philippine history.
But the bigger reason is the smug belief that in these days of globalization, national cultures or characters mean little anymore. That in these days of globalization, homogeneity and sameness are in, multiplicity and differences are out. That in these days of rapid changes and global villages, our strength lies in our amorphousness and ability to blend in the woodwork.
Not so. You may not like Lee Kuan Yew, but he has a point when he says that to succeed in today's world, you have to have a strong sense of independence. He has a point when he says that to be accepted by the world, you have to do things your own way. He has a point when he says to succeed in a regime of globalization, you have to think in terms of how much you can contribute and not just how much you can hope to get. It's a paradox only in the same way that great writing is a paradox: The big is in the small, the universal is in the particular, the global is in the local.
It's no small irony that we kill ourselves in karaoke bars singing "My Way," when doing things our way is the last thing we think about, or want to do.
posted by Dante at 9:39 AM
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