New Year 2010

The much celebrated Christmas has just passed. All the presents have been unwrapped except for one more _ the gift of the New Year. . . . It is yet to unfold.

As the remaining days of December keep shrinking closer to the end of 2009, the anticipation of what 2010 has in store for us brings a tingling excitement, mixed with anxiety. We are about to face a new chapter, and like all chapters in a novel, 2010 is interwoven with the previous years in our lives.


What we started or what we learned in the past continues on to next year. Would it be the end of our misfortunes and bad habits?

Weddings

   Of all the festivities known to man, it is indisputable that weddings are the most celebrated occasions in the universe, and embraced by people from all walks of life regardless of cultures, race, religions and beliefs.

   In a diverse society such as Toronto, weddings come in many forms and colours. To anybody who is photographically-inclined and is genuinely interested in learning about other cultures, shooting weddings could prove to be a rewarding experience.

   What I find most interesting about being a wedding photographer is the great opportunity to witness a variety of ethnic groups practice some of their fascinating traditions and wedding rituals that are distinctive from the rest of the world. Although most young “Canadianized” brides and bridegrooms shy away from their roots, their parents often encourage them to be proud of their heritage and to keep it alive, at least on the wedding day.

Scarborough

“Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.” An old friend from Blackpool, England recited this one-liner with such eloquence in his amusing English accent. That was many years ago. Today, the words still hold true to the message that people see only what they want to see.


When I tell people that I am from Scarborough, most of the time I get unflattering remarks from those who don’t live in this east end of Toronto. They somehow equate Scarborough to  all of the undesirable elements of crime that are unfairly sensationalized by the media.The opposite of the matter is also disappointingly true. The beautiful places of Scarborough that I have captured in photographs are often unrecognizable. And surprisingly enough, there are some people who have lived in Scarborough since their childhood who would still find it difficult to believe that those photographs were indeed shot in their neighbourhood.

An Immigrant's Dream

 

Of all the animals roaming this planet, it is without a doubt that Homo Sapiens reign superior. We are that breed, created special with solemn responsibilities to be the guardians of Planet Earth. As humans, we have the power to tame the wild and build communities out of wilderness. We are people, endowed with many creative abilities and one of them is the special ability to dream.

Whether we dream big or dream small, the cost is free. But when followed through, the fulfillment can bring its ultimate glory.

The great explorer, John Cabot sailed away with his dream across the big seas and discovered a new land. He found a vast land filled with many opportunities and new beginnings. It was also the ground that embraced the flow of the early settlers from United Kingdom, Europe and China. They were the hardworking groups of people who built the land as a strong nation. They opened the doors to the flocks of immigrants, so they too can fulfill their lifelong dreams, the dream to be free and the dream to build better lives. This beautiful land where dreams are bountiful is known to the rest of the globe as Canada, one of the leading countries of the world today.

Just like other immigrants, I also had a dream. When I was a child, I would sit down by the sandy coast line of the Philippines and look as far as my eyes could see across the South China Sea. Then, I would imagine the good life   beyond the horizon. I fantasized a place where all poor children could have toys to play with and still be able to eat good meals three times a day. I imagined a nation where the poor and the rich were treated equal. I dreamed of a country where authority was respected rather than feared. These lively thoughts and vivid imagination amused me for hours, but it also made me wonder if there was really such a place.

My children have lived my childhood dream. It is Canada that made it happen. Although they were raised in Filipino values and have South East Asian features, they are Canadians! They were all born in this country. They are part of Canada's diverse multicultural society that is interwoven with mutual desire to protect and preserve the greatness of this nation.

Unlike my children, I am not Canadian born. But in my thirty-four years in Canada, my heart grew loving this country that adopted me. And it is not far from the truth to say that I am Canadian grown. I feel I am just as Canadian as my children. We all share the same loyalty to the flag of this land.

I love Canada. This is where I belong, the country of all nations. This is the place where all ethnic backgrounds are treated with dignity. It is also the place where freedom and equality are strongly upheld. My fondness for this country is better expressed in my photo journal of its people and mixed cultures; cities and towns; and its breath-taking natural beauties.

It is my ardent wish that on my final day, my family would bury me in this land, the land that has been my home for more than half of my lifetime. I hope and pray that on my resting ground, wild flowers will bloom to silently tell the clouds in the sky, "Here, lies a man who fulfilled his dream and forever grateful to Canada."

Wish List

The month of June never fails to bring one good reason to celebrate. Its third Sunday marks the day of great importance to my three daughters. Together, they observe its yearly significance in the same manner that I remember their grandfather on Father’s Day.

June is also the month that touches a nerve that is deeply rooted in me. It painfully reminds me of the death anniversary of someone very dear to me. He was a soldier who fought and lived the horror of the Korean War in the fifties. More than four decades later this one heck of a man fought his final battle, against a much stronger foe. On June 9, 1995, lung cancer defeated him. I lost my father, my great mentor, my hero and my best friend.

During the grieving years that followed, I eased the pain by immersing myself deeper into photography, the art I learned from him. It is our common ground and our strongest bond. It is the only dimension where our spirits connect. Holding a camera is like touching his hand. I feel his presence in every photo that I shoot. His passing away also inspired me to write a short fictional story about a son’s heart-warming relationship with his father. It is a story that mirrors my grief-stricken self, still longing for him every Father’s Day.

The story begins:
John is up in the attic of his father’s house, cleaning up. The morning sunlight beaming through the window makes the floating dust even more visible. Boxes of garbage to be thrown out are finally separated from the items that he thinks are worth keeping. The house where John grew up is now listed for sale. His father passed away just a month ago.

An old shoebox with string tied around it catches John’s eyes. He wonders what is so important inside the box. It seems like a well guarded treasure. He opens it. An old sepia photo greets him. Faded and torn around the edges but otherwise still recognizable. It’s a picture of a smiling little boy, mounted on his father’s shoulder. They both look happy. John remembers the day when the photo was taken. It was on a bright summer day. His father took him out to see the Air Show. He remembers everything about it. The thundering roar of the fighter planes flying overhead, the ice cream cone melting in his hand and dripping on his Dad’s shoulder are still crystal-clear in his memory. Underneath were more photos of family events and important documents. John wants to see more photos of his father. He continues to dig in. Reaching the bottom, he finds a folded lined paper. It looks very familiar. He examines it closely and quickly realizes that it was the Wish List that he wrote when he was in his fourth grade, over thirty years ago. His teacher gave him an “A” for it. With a smile on his face he reads….

1. I wish my father was as brave as Batman so he could stand on guard and scare the ghosts away while I sleep.
2. I wish my father was as strong as Hercules so he could protect me from the school bully.
3. I wish my father was a millionaire so he could buy me the most expensive bicycle.
4. I wish my father was a famous musician so that the whole world could hear his music on the radio.
5. I wish my father was as smart as Einstein so he could do my all my homework and I could get the highest mark in school.
6. I wish my father was the president of our country so he could be the most powerful man across the land.
7. I wish my father was the best in all sports so that all the boys in school would envy me.
8. I wish my father was a handsome movie actor and admired by many people.

Just below the last wish is a hand written note. He can almost hear the usual soft-spoken words of his father as he reads, “Son, I am sorry to disappoint you. I could never be what you wished for.”

After all those years, John did not know that his father replied to his selfish wishes. He looks at the picture of his father and with his voice almost like a whisper, he says: “Dad, you were not as brave as Batman, but you showed me the courage to keep going in the most difficult times; you were not as strong as Hercules, but you gave me the strength to grow and face the harsh reality of the world; you were not a millionaire, but you provided for me with the best you could possibly afford; you were not a musician, but the stories you told me were like music to my ears; you were not as smart as Einstein, but you sent me to school so I could obtain the education you never had; you were not the president of our country, but you held our family together with your values and principles; you were never an athlete, but you always played with me when no one would; you were not a movie star, but you were always real. You never pretended to be what you were not.”

With his teary eyes, he continues, “Dad, if you only knew….you are far above my wishes. You surpassed what I expected of you. And on that list, I would like to add one more, my last and final wish. On the day that I face my own death, may your spirit be there by my side, to comfort the scared little boy in me. ………thank you for making me what I am today.”

And that ends the story.
To all fathers out there, I extend my warmest greeting,
HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!

In Search of The Lost Hill

Although the globe is round in shape, it is also a known fact that it has four corners, starting from the north to the south and continues on from the west to the east. However, this universal law does not seem to apply in Scarborough. Funny as it may sound, the eastern corner is missing, particularly in the Highland Creek area.

When our family moved to Scarborough in 1980, I did not have the slightest idea that living in West Hill could be confusing. I thought that by simply travelling eastbound, I would end up in the neighbourhood of East Hill. I found out soon enough that it wasn't so. There was no East Hill on the map. "So, where the heck is East Hill?" I asked. And to my dismay all of the people I talked to did not know what to say. None of them were sure if it ever existed. It just did not make sense. How can there be a West Hill without East Hill? Did it just sink? Was it swallowed by the creek? The questions nagged me for weeks. And when I couldn't take it anymore, I took on the challenge of finding the missing corner. Like another Indiana Jones, but without the fedora hat and the whip, I embarked on the search for the “Lost Hill.”

Months have passed and I was still getting dead ends. Then, one day when I was about to give up, my inquisitiveness finally paid off. While leisurely reading up on the history of Scarborough, the fascinating tale of the elusive hill unfolded its page and shed light to the mystery.

In the early years of Scarborough Township, back in the 1850’s, a hilly land stretching down from Sheppard Avenue to Lake Ontario and across from Galloway Road to Port Union was home to the hard-working immigrants who built the community known as Highland Creek Village. It was the largest and the centre of commerce in Scarborough. Although it was established as one community, it was geographically sliced in two by a valley. The one on the west side was appropriately named as West Hill, while the hill on the east side by the creek was never referred to as East Hill, but retained the Highland Creek name of the village. The gap caused some form of friction between the local residents living in the opposite hills.

In 1879, the Post Office, which was the centre of rivalry between the two competing communities, was moved to West Hill. Its relocation overshadowed Highland Creek, at least in postal sense. Although it appeared that West Hill may have gained the upper hand, this also marked the beginning of the two communities in putting their differences aside under one name. Today, the land that was known as Highland Creek is now West Hill.

The shifting of names could not change the fact that the hill on Highland Creek was the cradle of its community. It is now one of the historical landmarks of Scarborough. Its history is proudly showcased in a beautiful mural on the eastern wall of Highland Creek Plaza by the historic Wesleyan Cemetery, on the north side of Old Kingston Road and east side of Morrish Road. The large scale painting by the renowned muralist, John Hood, depicts the early settlers of Highland Creek Village, building an extension to the Wesley Methodist Church in the winter of 1867.

This short glimpse of Scarborough’s history revealed the much sought explanation to the “Lost Hill” that was always there. This year of 2009, on June 20^th, Highland Creek Village will once again bring back the time and its old glory. It will celebrate its 24^th Highland Creek Heritage Day. And just like in the previous celebration, it promises another day of great time for everyone, starting from the Annual Festival Parade. The festivity will re-live the good old days. And the folks from the other side of the creek will cross the valley to attend the celebration.

The East Hill that I thought was missing is still standing tall…. and is lost no more. Long Live Highland Creek!

The Ending

Aside from an appealing introduction, an alluring plot and a thrilling climax, a well-written story is not complete without an ending. When translated into film, the ending is the part when the last scene fades to black. On stage, it is the part when the star performer seals his brilliant performance with a gracious bow to the applauding audience as the curtain gently rolls down.

The world we live in is like a big stage. It presents a drama and every one of us has a role to play. Our scripts begin on the day we are born. As we grow older, we unknowingly write pages of events that form the book of our lives. Then, when the final chapter is fully revealed, the book closes its covers.

There was a remarkable old man whose wizard-like eloquence in telling stories made me feel like a child listening to a fairytale. It was a delight to watch his expressive face as his baritone voice narrated his riveting life story. The anecdote of his adventure in the deep forest of the Philippines when he was hunting for wildlife was very fascinating. The suspenseful account of his experiences with the invading Japanese soldiers is one of my favourites and certainly put me on the edge of my seat when I heard it. Every conversation we had was always wrapped up with a promise of another episode. And in his own words, he would say with his infectious smile, “Sa susunod uli,” which means “to be continued.”

Sadly, that next session did not materialize. My dear old friend, whom I got accustomed to calling Tatay, became gravely ill and passed away. On January 12, 2009, at the age of 82, he faced the final curtain of his life and breathed his last.

My stubborn admiration for the man refused to accept that his story had ended just like that. ....No. Not that way. He was a wonderful man and he deserved a better ending. So I took upon myself to produce a short video tribute which was centred upon his deep love for his family. Every passing image was a reminder of how he lived a contented life. And just before the last frame faded to black, a smiling photo I took of him on the first day we met appeared on the screen, then, gradually drifted away into the colourful sunset backdrop, to join up with his loving parents who predeceased him. This is what I believe he would have told his ultimate journey.

The book is now closed and the curtain is down. My friend, Celestino G. Yokingco left our world with a heart-warming memory that I will always cherish. And to all of us who are still here, let us enjoy the most of what life has to offer. We too will reach our end.

You can watch his farewell video by clicking the link: A Song For Tatay Tino