The priests, 3

What thoughts ran through my mind as I sat through the virtual videoke night cum bikini festival with the priests?  I’m certainly no prude—being an erstwhile fashion editor, I can accept fashion as self-expression, but I also acknowledge certain limitations to that kind of exercise. 

My mother, queen of tolerance herself, surprised me one day I was to have a beach outing with my staff—a jeepney load of male and female 20-somethings.  With us was a priest, our moderator.  She said, almost shyly, “Pag maliligo kayo kasama ng pari, magsosoot kayo ng shorts.”  Shorts, over our swimsuits?  “Yes.”  But what for?  “Huwag ninyong ipapakita mga singit ninyo sa mga pari; hindi maganda iyon,” she continued.  I didn’t get her drift, but I did honor my mother’s concern by telling the girls about her reminder. 

On the way home from the same outing, during a “CR” stop at a gasoline station, I caught two of the boys snickering as they came out of the toilet.  “What’s so funny,” I asked.  “Si Father, naglagay ng tuwalya sa kandungan niya, me tinatakpan! (Father put a towel across his lap, covering something).”  I shrugged, “He’s just being modest, he’s in shorts.”  They laughed aloud and snickered some more, exchanging knowing glances.  For my quizzical look, they returned a comment that went over my head:  “Siyempre, lalaki kami eh! (Of course, we are male!)”  I dismissed the incident, but back in the jeepney, I did notice a towel across Father’s lap; it reminded me of jeepney-riding girls in mini-skirts who tug at their hemlines and cover their laps with their handbags.

Back in Manila with the staff, preparing to go our separate ways, Father discreetly whispered to me:  “Turuan mo ngang maupo yang mga anak mo.  (Teach your children to sit properly)” referring to the girls with us.  I was perplexed by his sudden concern but I didn’t need him to say anything more.  I got it: two plus two equals four.  In the jeepney, Father was sitting across from the girls, and the one directly opposite him was in shorts.  Ah so… it dawned on me: that’s why the giggly boys were saying “Siyempre, lalaki kami eh!”

Men are men—that was the unspoken dictum behind my mother’s reminder about wearing shorts over our swimsuits.  That was the memory that smoldered on in the back of my head as I beheld the bikini parade while trying to enjoy the priests’ singing.

 What impressed me about Fr. Rector’s reply to my query then (about the videoke session’s regularity) was the tone of paternal indulgence in his voice.  He sounded as though he were a father with a dozen sons to feed, clothe, shelter, and love, no matter what.  Even if his sons were to resemble in misdemeanor the Dirty Dozen—drawing on the walls, messing up the bathroom, spilling milk on the carpet, throwing pies at one another’s face, knocking down furniture while playing war games, never giving him a quiet moment—still they were his sons, and he will give them anything they want, anything, just to keep them all gathered in his house. 

(To be continued)

The priests, 2

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In his reflection on the priesthood at Casa Marta last January, Pope Francis cautioned priests against becoming “smarmy.”  Now that sounds like something British teenagers say all the time, but given his style and personality, the pope couldn’t have chosen a more precise word, because “smarmy” means “ingratiating and wheedling in a way that is perceived as insincere or excessive.”  Tell me if “smarmy” applies to the following priests (whose identities we will hide under fictitious names):

His most available parishioners claim that “Fr. Trek is okay except for one weakness—he is under the saya of a rich matron in our parish.”  They note that he is normally easy to get along with until conflicts arise, in the parish council, for example.  Viewpoints and personalities clash but fair or unfair, rain or shine, the rich matron prevails.  Her ideas may not be the best, they may even be “corny” or “baduy” but she gets her way because Fr. Trek supports her, even against his better judgment.

They are sure there’s nothing romantic between the two “because she’s old enough to be his grandmother”; rather, they add: “We understand that Ma’am Matrona donates a lot—a lot—to the parish projects, we appreciate that, but we also wish she wouldn’t ‘donate’ so much to Fr. Trek.  Every time she comes back from abroad there’s always a pasalubong for him from Ferragamo, Bally, Florsheim.”  It’s hard to just laugh it off, they say,  because the obvious bond between the two—“yung pagkakampihan ng maglolang iyan”—affects their efficiency and tends to turn off competent parishioners whose talents could really improve things in the parish.

In another parish, Fr. Pol is known for his often sour disposition.  “Hindi naman siya masama, sumpungin lang, (He’s not really bad, he’s just moody)”, parish leaders say, “pag may sumpong, hindi mo malapitan, kahit kailangang-kailangan mo na ang pirma niya, matatakot ka kasi parang bulldog sa bangis (When he’s in a bad mood, he’s unapproachable, even though you need his signature badly you keep distance because he’s as ferocious as a bulldog).”

Fr. Pol’s parishioners have learned to tolerate certain delays in parish procedures due to his moods, which they see as some kind of chronic illness, but “Nagtataka lang kami, bakit pag ang kausap niya ay si Mayor o si Gob, nagagamot ang sumpong niya? (We just can’t help wondering why he seems cured of his moods when he’s dealing with the mayor or the governor).”

Pope Francis further said last January, “And how damaging to the Church are smarmy priests!  Those who put their strength in artificial things, in vanity, in an attitude... in a cutesy language... But how often do we hear it said with sorrow: ‘This is a butterfly-priest,’ because they are always vain... [This kind of priest, even though anointed] does not have a relationship with Jesus Christ! He has lost the unction: he is smarmy.”

Instead of “smarmy”, however, “squirmy” is what the following incident made me feel.  One day I was invited to dinner at an institution where many priests reside.  After dinner—which was sumptuous by any standard—we all went to something like a recreation room, with tables and chairs and a huge tv set.  “Oh, I gleefully thought to myself, we’re going to watch a movie!”  But before I could ask what movie that was, the priest setting up the system started to test the mike.  Ah so… it’s sing-along time, it’s a videoke room!

Some priests came in with plates of hot dogs and drinks both soft and hard.  And faster than lightning the songs began—My Way, Leaving on a Jet Plane, Besame Mucho—while the images flashed on the screen—girls in bikinis.  Blondes, red heads, brunettes, they strutted about, draped themselves on velvet couches, bared their nubile bodies on the beach, and popped their over-endowed breasts before the camera.  These bikini bombshells were the standard background visuals for all the songs.  All the songs!  Even when a priest was belting out a Beatles favorite—“When I find myself in times of trouble Mother Maaaary comes to me, speaking wooords of wisdom let it beeeee….”  I observed the angles of the shots, the focus—and concluded with certainty that the cameramen who took these videos never suspected there would be men with a vow of chastity among their audience. 

I had thought long ago that due to my vast experience, nothing could shock me anymore.  That night I was proven wrong.  Nothing prepared me for that.  Stunned but nonetheless concerned, I politely asked my host, the superior of the house, “Does this always happen?  You know… these videoke pictures…With drinks and pulutan pa, when we had just had a very rich dinner?”  Fr. Superior said matter-of-factly but with a tinge of resignation in his voice, “Yeah, yan ang gusto nila eh! (Yeah, that’s what they want).”  Really?  “Gosh,” I told him, “I hope you choose people you invite to this!  Not everybody will understand you.”  He assured me he had believed I would understand.

I did understand but I couldn’t help being squirmy about it.  Being in a roomful of priests singing with their eyes on a screen animated by those barely clad Caucasian bodies, I was suddenly reminded I was female.  I had never before felt so uneasy being female, because my gender never got in the way of my work.  In the late 70s, many years before my hair turned gray, I crossed the Atlantic on board an oil tanker with 43 seamen, interviewing them and gathering data for two weeks, from New York to Rotterdam and back—not one moment did I feel ill at ease about being the only woman on board.  But now, trapped by civility with a dozen anointed men in a virtual videoke bar, I, a hardboiled journalist, was absolutely stupefied.  My only consolation was, it was a joy listening to the singing priests.  In fairness, I must say ALL of them have wonderful, recording-quality voices.

(To be continued)