Between the covers of this book, Jose Rizal suddenly comes alive. You will not hear the usual textbook stories of the moth and the flame, or that old tale of Rizal throwing his remaining slipper into the river after the first one was swept away by the currents, so that whoever finds them will have the complete pair.
This is a book that will tell you that Rizal was kind of funny looking, with a small frame and a rather large head, that he had a lot of girlfriends, and that he even tried hashish 'for experimental purposes'. It gives you a peek into his insecurities and his frustrations, down to the little stories of how he hated tipping because he was so kuripot, or that while he was living abroad, he was too proud to let his landlady find out that he had no more money for food, so he would go out for a stroll every lunch time to give her an impression that he'd gone out to dine.
It's a whole bunch of little stories that show you how Rizal was "just like us".
And then Ocampo takes you through the story behind the "Mi Ultimo Adios", the politics behind the KKK, and a narration of what happened that morning of December 30, 1896.
You take a step back and remember that this is the man who influenced the course of our history and helped solidify our sense of nationhood.
That's when you see that heroes are people who were "just like us".
And it's these people who are more interesting to learn about and learn from, not the mythical heroes we hear about in school. You begin to relate to them, and to wonder what was going through their heads, the emotions raging in their hearts...
This curiosity lead me to read the "Mi Ultimo Adios" with fresh eyes, and I've never found it more beautiful. Now it's challenging me to take a second look at the Noli Me Tangere and the El Filibusterismo.
If you read "Rizal Without the Overcoat", be prepared to go down the path of rediscovering our national hero, and in turn rediscovering our sense of being Filipino. Trust me, it's more fun this second time around :)
There’s a long-running urban legend about how the Eskimos (actually, Inuits) have more than a hundred words to refer to “snow”, showing how involved their culture and life is with the stuff. It’s not actually true, research by linguists show there are only about seven distinct words.
In any case, there is some sense to this theory of Linguistic Relativism that claims that “the language we speak both affects and reflects our view of the world.”
My brother tells me that the Japanese are so involved with the craft of sword-making, that they apparently have distinct names to identify the origins of the particular sword, or the kind of the blade that has been used.
My friend Edgar and I also got a discussion about how in Filipino, we have different names for rice in its different stages –
Palay is for the unhusked grains. Bigas when they’ve been turned into polished grains. Kanin when cooked. Tutong when burnt.
That’s not including variants of rice, such as malagkit, or ways of preparing rice – like sinangag or lugaw. Definitely not surprising, since we are a country that eats rice with every single meal, and sometimes even incorporate it into our snacks or dessert.
One thing that’s been puzzling me for a while now is how, in Cebuano (Bisaya), we have an unusual number of words to refer to people falling down. A long conversation over coffee with my brother got the count up to 10. There’s hagbong, hulog, pandol, sapid, dalin-as, dagma, umod, mo-mo, hapla and umpak.
Which begs the question – what is it about Cebuanos (or Visayans?) that has made our language around people “falling” so highly developed and descriptive?
You can even classify the words into two - the first set clearly defines a specific cause of the fall, while the second set gives you a pretty good idea of what happened as a result of the fall. (We’re not really linguists, so these are the words we know from our everyday use of the language.)
First of all, there are the generic words for “fall” – hagbong and hulog.
And here’s set one – words that clearly defines why the person fell:
Pandol: to fall due to a loss of coordination. Sapid: to trip over an obstacle, as when your ankle gets caught in a rope Dalin-as: to slip over a wet surface Dagma / Dam-ag: to fall after running too fast
Then, there’s set two – words that define what happened after the person fell:
Umod: to fall face first Mo-mo: to fall face-first, specifically with the nose and mouth receiving the impact Hapla: to fall flat, with a large surface area touching the floor, but not face-first Umpak: to fall on your behind
If you stretch it a little more, there’s a third group that describes how people fell. We figured it’s a bit too much of a stretch, and didn’t include it in the official count. But just for kicks, here they are:
Tulimbang: to flip over Hagpa: to slam into something Lagobo: to make a series of loud sounds while falling, the kind that makes you picture how many things the person banged into on the way down Tagak: to fall from a higher level Labay: to be thrown, as in motorcycle accidents Labog: also refers to being thrown, but this word sounds more forceful than labay
Oh, and did I already mention that these are all words referring to people falling? There’s still a different set of words used when referring to objects that fall.
A guy named Wilhelm von Humboldt once said that "the diversity of languages is not a diversity of signs and sounds but a diversity of views of the world."
So again, the question is, why does Cebuano (Bisaya) have a very highly developed language around falling?
My brother’s theory is it’s because Cebu is a mountainous region, and so people fall a lot.
My theory is that Cebuanos just love a good laugh. And the clearer the image in our heads of someone falling, the better the story :D