On a recent shoe-shopping trip with a girl friend, as we sat barefoot on a quilted ottoman contemplating dozens of pairs of shoes in dizzying colors strewn about the floor, an image of Prince Charming slipping the glass slipper on Cinderella’s foot popped into my mind.
“You think knights in shining armor and princes charming still exist today?” I asked her. She snapped her head to face me and with a raised eyebrow said, “You on something? Stupid question, so here’s your stupid answer: there’s Osama Bin Laden, there’s the Bali bombers, there’s George Bush, there’s O.J. Simpson…sure, yeah, they exist.” She then proceeded to pay for her one-pair purchase while I walked out empty handed. Shocked? Well, we were both under the weather that day so the shoes stayed in the store.
Because I thoroughly enjoyed my friend’s reaction, I ventured to ask other people the same question, not necessarily in search of answers, but for the entertainment value that their facial expressions and sarcasm may dish out.
But first, I had to set parameters with which to define the term “knight in shining armor” in the event that I am asked to be more specific. Here’s what I came up with: according to www.phrases.org.uk knight in shining armor means, a person, usually a man, who comes to the aid of another, usually a woman, in a gallant and courteous manner.
The present-day use of this phrase is, of course, figurative and refers back to the notion of gallant knights saving fair maidens in distress. The reality behind that imagery is dubious and no doubt owes much to the work of those Victorian novelists and painters who were captivated by the chivalrous ideal of an imagined court of Camelot. Nevertheless, knights did wear armor, and that worn by royalty and the high nobility was highly polished and did in fact gleam and shine.
Today, it may simply mean, according to www.idioms.thefreedictionary.com someone who helps you when you are in a difficult situation.
And so I asked a thirty-something cousin if she believed in present-day knights in shining armor by first defining its modern meaning, which, simply put, is a helpful man and she said, “Whatever. You can define and simplify it all you want, there are no knights in shining armor, duh! It’s all about female empowerment, as in, do it for yourself and by yourself.” That was pretty cutting, so I moved on.
I bumped into an old French teacher, who is now in her late sixties and asked her the same thing. She said, “Yes, he lives in my mind. The real knight I have at home snores, won’t help me with carrying grocery bags unless I threaten to eat the sinigang na bangus belly before he gets to it, and once handed me the screw driver when I asked him to help mend my broken eyeglass frame. But oh, in my mind, he looks like the young Robert Redford in Out of Africa and he would slay lions for me. The one at home wouldn’t even scrunch out a cockroach to stop me from screaming; he just hands me a rolled up newspaper.
I was unfazed. I knew someone out there would be a positivist like me, so I forged on. At the beach with some friends two weekends ago, I met somebody’s 23-year old niece—a pretty girl who had just landed her first job. Over margaritas, I asked her the same question. “Sure there are,” she answered, “good looking men atop cantering white stallions with swords drawn. The problem is, they just keep galloping past me or if at all they stop, they do so just long enough to cause heartache and then move on to their next conquest.” Oh no, I thought to myself, so young yet already so jaded.
Done with females, I badgered a 46-year old male friend to share his thoughts on the matter. “What? Knight in what? That’s the problem with you women, you romanticize everything. We will help you when we can, if we have the time, and we don’t need no armor to do it. What else? Ha? Slay dragons? Mosquitos pwede pa.” No luck here either.
Desperate at this point, I went to my all time go-to guy: my brother. “You think there are modern-day knights in shining armor?” I asked. He hunched his shoulders, shook his head and said, “Ano nanamang kalokohan yan?” He gets exasperated because of the many social experiments I conduct for this column and with him always as guinea pig. “Nothing, I’m just asking.” Of course I was lying. He took a few moments to consider the question then said, “Yeah, me. I’m that by default because you’re always in trouble. I’m always having to rescue you.” “And you feel bad about it?” I snapped at him like a spoiled brat. “No, but please try to space the incidents out so I get some reprieve, okay?” he teased.
After we spoke I contemplated what he had said. He was right, like he always is. I do run to him for anything and everything and each time he was there for me. The last time this happened was when he was all the way in South Africa. He asked me over the phone, “Do you need me there?” I didn’t answer because I didn’t want to impose. Nevertheless he said, “I’ll catch the next flight out. I can be there in 36 hours.” And he was. Plus, he never fails to say, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. Everything will be alright.”
Just before I sat down to write this piece, I mentioned to my 12-year-old daughter over dinner that there might not be knights in shining armor anymore in this post-modern world. She disagreed, “That’s not true Mom. Remember that man in the Seattle airport shuttle who helped you?” That is one story that merits a retelling a hundred times over.
A year ago, I was in an airport shuttle in Seattle. The bus was half full and the atmosphere was serene. Directly behind me was a young man, 20-ish, his ears plugged into an iPod, his hands, thumbing his PSP. I reclined my seat back to get comfortable as we rolled along and started reading a book when I felt a pounding behind me. I turned around and saw him kicking my seat. I said nicely, “Excuse me, please try not to do that, thanks.” This only provoked him to kick harder. Then in a raised voice he said, “Put your seat back up! Put it up; I need leg room!” The entire busload of passengers looked at him, which only made him shout louder, “Put up the seat!”
“No thanks,” I answered. “I like it the way it is.” He then let out a barrage of expletives, complaining how cramped he was. So I explained in a normal tone that it was my seat and I had the right to do with it as I pleased, that half the passengers on the bus had their seats reclined, and that no one else was complaining. After I had turned back around and resumed my position, he raised both feet onto my headrest, hitting the top of my head in the process.
“Could you not do that?” I said, now trembling with anger.
He answered, “No, they’ll stay there until you put up your seat.”
“Had you asked nicely in the first place, you would be enjoying more leg room by now, but no thanks. The seat stays reclined.”
At this point, I was livid and ready for anything. Then, from out of the blue, somewhere off to my right, a huge man (over six feet and over 200 pounds), mid-30s, whom I oddly did not notice before, screamed at him in defense of me. “Leave the lady alone!” The manboy attempted to argue with him but the gentle giant said, “It’s her seat; if you have a problem move somewhere else. But leave her alone. You got that?” The manboy didn’t as much as breathe after the forceful dressing-down he got.
But then the deed doesn’t have to be all that dramatic for a man to be considered a knight. Random acts of kindness—so rare these days—are enough to merit a knight’s title: a helping hand; a sincere inquiry about how one’s day went; a please or a thank you; a big, warm hug; or in my case these very words—eleven of them: “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. Everything will be alright.” He might not be able to fulfill all of that or even half of that but the gesture itself and those soothing words always manage to assuage fear and anxiety and appease a troubled heart. It’s works like magic.
There are modern-day knights in shining armor. Believe me; there are.
Showing posts with label Article for Fortyfied. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Article for Fortyfied. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Harvard Business School: Educating Leaders
The idea kept floating around in my mind. “We educate leaders who make a difference in the world.” This is the mission statement of the Harvard Business School (HBS), a century old educational institution founded as part of Harvard University in Massachusetts, USA.
I entered the Tower Club in Makati, the venue for the Centennial Dialogue of the Harvard Business School Club of the Philippines. The club, composed of HBS alumni based in the country, marked the school’s centennial with cocktails and a dialogue featuring HBS Professor Howard Stevenson, via live video conferencing, and Mr. Manuel Tordesillas, co-founder and President of ATR KimEng Financial Corporation and HBS alumnus batch 1982. The night’s discussion was aptly called “From Hindsight to Foresight: Lessons from 100 years of Market Volatility.”
“They are only the best and the brightest,” a fellow writer said after I had told him of my assignment to write about HBS alumni. “What’s there to write about them? The whole world knows that only exceptional men and women get into HBS. These are demi gods!”
“There’s nothing else for you to say,” another colleague had blurted out. And so, I felt stymied as I took on the task but take it, I did anyway, albeit reluctantly, because I wanted to feel what it was like to move in the same arena as them.
I walked around the room, observing gentlemen in smart suits—HBS alumni all—huddled in small groups and engaged in banter. I scouted around for an opportunity to eavesdrop, to catch a line, a gesture, an unguarded moment—anything—that would differentiate these men from the rest of us mortals who have not gone through the “Harvard experience.”
Well, for starters, they knew how to hold wine glasses (by the stem and nowhere else). No one chewed with his mouth open; none of them burped after hefty swallows; no one wore visibly scuffed shoes; and no one had a stained tie (the lighting was good so, yes, I did see very well). There were no shout-outs to waiters and no manic flailing of the arms to catch their attention; they were quite content to wait to be served.
Manuel Tordesillas: Before the evening’s program started, I was introduced by the HBS Club’s incoming President, Sheila Ramos of Batch ’93, to a couple of alumni, who were gracious enough to grant me short but insightful interviews.
Mr. Manuel Tordesillas of Batch ’82, 56 years old, is a co-founder and President of ATR KimEng Financial Corporation, a publicly-listed company which is one of the country’s leading diversified financial services group engaged in investment banking, corporate finance, securities brokerage, money brokerage, life insurance, mutual funds, asset management and property investments. He has over 30 years of investment banking experience in the Philippines and throughout Asia.
He seemed reluctant at first, when Ms. Ramos asked for the interview on my behalf. Still, he obliged, broke into a tentative grin, greeted me with a firm handshake, and led me to a quiet corner where we could converse undisturbed. I immediately told him that the interview was for a lifestyle feature, not for the business section, and that it was meant to be an informal and intimate recollection of his “Harvard experience.” He seemed to relax upon hearing this and once I threw him the first question, he never stopped talking. He was a journalist’s dream: eloquent and articulate without being overbearing and boorish. His eyes lit up each time he pulled out a specific incident from his HBS memory bank. Clearly, he looks upon those years as a student with much fondness and a hint of sentimentality, I dare say, especially when he spoke of how his family—young wife and children—supported him throughout those trying two years. “They were my life line of support.”
“It was a humbling experience,” Mr. Tordesillas admitted. “You see, we (first year enrollees) were excelling in our own fields before getting there but then we later found out that we were average because we were among the best. We realized none of us had all the answers so we had to learn to work together.” I asked him if completing the MBA program was, indeed, as tough as others make it to be. “Sure,” he said. “You must be driven; you must have the attitude that you will overcome anything, that you can do it because if you don’t, you will fail.”
He became even more animated in the succeeding minutes and to my last question which was, “Do you believe that a Filipino student from one of our local universities could make it into HBS?” he answered a resounding, “Of course! I came from LaSalle!”
Jerry Angping: It was fortunate that I had landed an interview with Mr. Jerry Angping, 53, of batch ’82, and outgoing President of HBS Club. He is Chairman of Geograce Resources Philippines, Inc., a real estate and cement distribution company. He is a dynamo, a firecracker, if you will. His effervescent personality had me on edge the entire time, anticipating his every line. Clever, would be an understatement of his take on life. Entertaining, would be a fair description of his delivery of anecdotes. Fun and enlightening would sum up the entire exchange with him.
“I was 24 when I entered HBS,” he started off. “I had the vigor of youth then, the yearning for excitement, and the hunger for education. I wanted to learn and at the same time have fun. The first year was all education; the second year was all fun and that’s because in the first year everyone takes the required courses. I was lucky; the first year was very, very tough. They have this rule where you hit the screen if you don’t perform well so you get kicked out after the first year. You have these gigantic egos competing against each other in the first year. In the second year, us mere mortals are resigned to our fate and those who cannot get the honors just go for the fun. If you get to the second year that means you’re alright.”
I then asked him if he had heard of the “Harvard Four Minute Rule,” some sort of urban legend obviously proliferated by Harvard rejects. It refers to the allegation that it takes, on average, four minutes, from the point of having been introduced to somebody (who happens to have graduated from Harvard) for that person to casually mention that he/she graduated from Harvard.
He chuckled and said, “That’s very interesting…very interesting. I guess it depends. It’s a very useful credential to drop but if used ostentatiously, can turn people off.” He chuckled a bit more and added, “When I came back from Harvard I went to teach in U.P. and the first thing I told my students was, ‘There’s MBA from Harvard but there’s DBA from Divisoria’ and I honestly, up to today, I think that the Divisoria Business Administration degree is more important that the MBA from Harvard. The Divisoria one is all about street smarts, how to deal with people, how to treat friends and foes alike, how to treat peers and how to manage laterally, and linearly, and vertically and that’s very important. Sometimes, if you are too bookish it’s not good. It’s never as important as what you learn when dealing directly with people in the real world.”
When we both stood up to bid each other goodbye, he said to me, “Nice red shoes.” I instinctively looked at my pumps and there they were: shiny and bright red, as red as my cheeks had probably gotten because of the nice gesture from that gentleman from Harvard. I shall not forget him.
Sheila Ramos: Still relishing the effects of that very engaging interview with Mr. Angping, I moved on to incoming HBS Club President, Ms. Sheila Ramos, 40, of batch ’93. The first thing I asked her was what her official job title was. When she said, “Transitioning,” she immediately captured my interest and then held it until the very end of the interview because of how forthcoming she was, how deliberate of speech, how clear-minded on what she wanted to do, and how definite her future plans were.
“I had been with Tokyo Tokyo (the family’s chain of fast food restaurants) for the longest time and now at 40, I figured I need to regroup and spend time with my family, helping each member find their passion in the way I did—a passion for work or play which carried me through my two years at HBS. It’s really for the kids. Although I don’t want to talk about them, it’s the age; they’re growing up too fast. I’m going on sabbatical for five years for them and then at 45, I’ll still be young enough to go back and do what I have to.”
I asked what was the most important thing she had learned in her two years at HBS. “It’s not what you learn but how you learn it,” she answered, clear-eyed and enthusiastic.
Ramos then spoke at length about the case study method, which is a powerful interactive learning process that brings the complex and dynamic realities of business analysis and decision making into the classroom. The Case Method is the cornerstone of the school’s renowned general management approach, which provides the student with skills, insights, and self-confidence required to meet the demands of real business situations.
“The first six months at HBS were tough for me. In fact on the very first day, I said to myself, ‘I’m gonna die.’ Class can be terrifying. I was 23 and quite lonely, plus I had come from a school, which was very traditional in teaching methods. It was rote learning, where one wasn’t allowed to think out of the box and to ask questions. At HBS that was mostly what we had to do—ask questions. We had to figure out answers by asking questions and analyzing given business situations. All HBS alumni go through around 500 case studies before they graduate.”
I then asked her to talk about her HBS classmates for a quick profile on what the people who make it there are like. “They were equally passionate outside school as they were inside. We had Olympic swimmers, singers, dancers, techies. At the end of the day, they are passionate people. That’s what makes them different.”
Quintin Doromal: Next, I sat down to speak with Mr. Quintin “King” Doromal of batch ’52, who, at 81, is the oldest member of the HBS Club. He is Executive Director of Bantayog ng Bayani, a foundation for those who were killed and incarcerated during Martial Law. It was a welcome change of pace as Mr. Doromal reminisced leisurely about his days at Harvard.
“Are you finding pleasure in retirement?” I asked him. He looked genuinely surprised. He then piped up, “Why, you’re retired? But you look young.” With wit as sharp as a knife I knew I was in for an exciting ride with Mr. Doromal. He continued, “My tuition then was only, $210 a year, can you imagine that? What is it now, $40,000? $50,000? Now we can both agree that I am the luckiest man in this room!”
I then asked him if he had always wanted to come back to the Philippines upon graduation and he answered, “Of course! I belong to a nationalistic generation. I had always known I was coming home right after school. My goal had always been to come back and do something for this country.”
Miguel Aguiluz: Next up was Mr. Amable Miguel Aguiluz IX, or Miguel for short, of batch 2005, who was kind enough to have given me a few moments of his time. He is CEO of the ACA Group of Companies and was enrolled under the HBS OMP program, which caters to business owners. He is known for winning the school’s business strategy competition, besting 149 other participants. The winning project, now operational in the country, is called “Ink for Less,” a printer ink refilling station.
I asked him, “Was there one definitive experience while at school that changed you?” “Well, there were many. The experiences I shared with my classmates for one, and what I had learned from them. Also the professors there are the best in the world, and of course, the lessons I learned, specifically in corporate strategy, which I have retained up to now, have improved my management style and my company.”
To lighten the mood a little, I ventured to ask Mr. Aguiluz if he had heard of the “Harvard Four Minute Rule.” He said no, so I explained to him the myth that it takes four minutes for someone to mention that he is a Harvard graduate. He let out a hearty chuckle upon hearing it and said, “That could be true but I always wait until I am asked.”
Manny Ayala: In the middle of the evening’s program, I espied an old friend, former media personality, Manuel “Manny” Ayala, 45, of batch ’92. Manny is currently Managing Director of IRG Limited, a specialist investment bank based in Hong Kong that focuses on the Telecoms, Media and Technology sectors in the Asia Pacific. Apart from advising clients in the region on Mergers & Acquisitions projects, he also spends quite a bit of time running and coaching companies that IRG has invested in. He currently oversees an animation outsourcing company that services the video game and film industries”
He was in conversation with incoming President, Ms. Sheila Ramos, so I went ahead and took the liberty of asking him for a printable quote about the Harvard experience. I knew I was going to get either the most controversial or the funniest one from him because whenever he sheds the serious image and lapses into his loveable clown mode, he never fails to bring the house down.
He then answered almost instantly with his trademark impish smirk, “HBS without the H is simply, BS. How’s that for a quote?” So I looked to Ms. Ramos for approval and she said with a big smile, “Sure, you can print that but please don’t fail to mention that the source is the muse of the Harvard Business School Club, Mr. Manny Ayala. “Done,” I said.
“Seriously though,” Manny added, back now in his usual business-like persona, “I thought HBS was one of the most intense, eye-opening intellectual experiences I’ve ever had...kind of like boot camp for capitalists. Having all those brilliant, type A personalities as classmates, you were constantly forced to raise your game and push your thinking to higher and higher levels of rigor.”
Aurelio “Gigi” Montinola: Right before leaving I spotted Mr. Aurelio “Gigi” Montinola III, 57, of batch ’77, President of Bank of the Philippine Islands (BPI) among the crowd and kindly asked him for a quote as well. He replied, “Give me five minutes,” and then turned pensive. It hadn’t even been two minutes when he turned back to me and said, “Here it is: I thought I was gifted but when I got there, it turned out I was ordinary.” We both contemplated that for a moment and it didn’t sit well because anybody but anybody in Manila’s business circle knows that Mr. Montinola is anything but ordinary.
So he came up with a better one in the next breath: “I didn’t speak much in class but I learned, through three cases a day, about business analysis by osmosis.”
Fred Ayala: In the process of writing this piece I remembered the one Harvard Business School alumnus that I have always admired since the first time I met him 27 years ago, Mr. Alfredo “Fred” Ayala, 47, of batch ’87, because of his old world charm and manners, his intelligence that never fails to enchant those who come across him, and the absence of arrogance that many in his stature easily fall prey to. He is currently CEO of Livelt Solutions, Inc., Ayala Corporation’s holding company for its investments in the BPO sector. He was gracious enough to humor me and here is what he said: “Harvard was a great catalyst for discovering what I really wanted to do, by exposing me to classmates, professors, and career opportunities that were much more diverse and inspirational than I had anticipated.”
Gathered in the Tower Club that evening were indeed leaders who make a difference in the world, true to their alma mater’s mission statement. But more than that, up close and personal, they are passionate men and women. They are cerebral warriors who battled their way into HBS, bastion of the world’s elite intelligentsia, where only one out of nine applicants ever gain access, and then labored for two years to finish what they had set out to do. They are highly intelligent, driven, inspired, and exceptional, but at once tempered by a keen sense of humor that seems to say to those they encounter, “C’mon, don’t take me too seriously, don’t be intimidated, I’m a regular guy.”
After spending several hours with these people I figured that the “Harvard Four Minute Rule” should be radically altered so that it refers to the average amount of time wherein one realizes that he is in the presence of a Harvard graduate.
I entered the Tower Club in Makati, the venue for the Centennial Dialogue of the Harvard Business School Club of the Philippines. The club, composed of HBS alumni based in the country, marked the school’s centennial with cocktails and a dialogue featuring HBS Professor Howard Stevenson, via live video conferencing, and Mr. Manuel Tordesillas, co-founder and President of ATR KimEng Financial Corporation and HBS alumnus batch 1982. The night’s discussion was aptly called “From Hindsight to Foresight: Lessons from 100 years of Market Volatility.”
“They are only the best and the brightest,” a fellow writer said after I had told him of my assignment to write about HBS alumni. “What’s there to write about them? The whole world knows that only exceptional men and women get into HBS. These are demi gods!”
“There’s nothing else for you to say,” another colleague had blurted out. And so, I felt stymied as I took on the task but take it, I did anyway, albeit reluctantly, because I wanted to feel what it was like to move in the same arena as them.
I walked around the room, observing gentlemen in smart suits—HBS alumni all—huddled in small groups and engaged in banter. I scouted around for an opportunity to eavesdrop, to catch a line, a gesture, an unguarded moment—anything—that would differentiate these men from the rest of us mortals who have not gone through the “Harvard experience.”
Well, for starters, they knew how to hold wine glasses (by the stem and nowhere else). No one chewed with his mouth open; none of them burped after hefty swallows; no one wore visibly scuffed shoes; and no one had a stained tie (the lighting was good so, yes, I did see very well). There were no shout-outs to waiters and no manic flailing of the arms to catch their attention; they were quite content to wait to be served.
Manuel Tordesillas: Before the evening’s program started, I was introduced by the HBS Club’s incoming President, Sheila Ramos of Batch ’93, to a couple of alumni, who were gracious enough to grant me short but insightful interviews.
Mr. Manuel Tordesillas of Batch ’82, 56 years old, is a co-founder and President of ATR KimEng Financial Corporation, a publicly-listed company which is one of the country’s leading diversified financial services group engaged in investment banking, corporate finance, securities brokerage, money brokerage, life insurance, mutual funds, asset management and property investments. He has over 30 years of investment banking experience in the Philippines and throughout Asia.
He seemed reluctant at first, when Ms. Ramos asked for the interview on my behalf. Still, he obliged, broke into a tentative grin, greeted me with a firm handshake, and led me to a quiet corner where we could converse undisturbed. I immediately told him that the interview was for a lifestyle feature, not for the business section, and that it was meant to be an informal and intimate recollection of his “Harvard experience.” He seemed to relax upon hearing this and once I threw him the first question, he never stopped talking. He was a journalist’s dream: eloquent and articulate without being overbearing and boorish. His eyes lit up each time he pulled out a specific incident from his HBS memory bank. Clearly, he looks upon those years as a student with much fondness and a hint of sentimentality, I dare say, especially when he spoke of how his family—young wife and children—supported him throughout those trying two years. “They were my life line of support.”
“It was a humbling experience,” Mr. Tordesillas admitted. “You see, we (first year enrollees) were excelling in our own fields before getting there but then we later found out that we were average because we were among the best. We realized none of us had all the answers so we had to learn to work together.” I asked him if completing the MBA program was, indeed, as tough as others make it to be. “Sure,” he said. “You must be driven; you must have the attitude that you will overcome anything, that you can do it because if you don’t, you will fail.”
He became even more animated in the succeeding minutes and to my last question which was, “Do you believe that a Filipino student from one of our local universities could make it into HBS?” he answered a resounding, “Of course! I came from LaSalle!”
Jerry Angping: It was fortunate that I had landed an interview with Mr. Jerry Angping, 53, of batch ’82, and outgoing President of HBS Club. He is Chairman of Geograce Resources Philippines, Inc., a real estate and cement distribution company. He is a dynamo, a firecracker, if you will. His effervescent personality had me on edge the entire time, anticipating his every line. Clever, would be an understatement of his take on life. Entertaining, would be a fair description of his delivery of anecdotes. Fun and enlightening would sum up the entire exchange with him.
“I was 24 when I entered HBS,” he started off. “I had the vigor of youth then, the yearning for excitement, and the hunger for education. I wanted to learn and at the same time have fun. The first year was all education; the second year was all fun and that’s because in the first year everyone takes the required courses. I was lucky; the first year was very, very tough. They have this rule where you hit the screen if you don’t perform well so you get kicked out after the first year. You have these gigantic egos competing against each other in the first year. In the second year, us mere mortals are resigned to our fate and those who cannot get the honors just go for the fun. If you get to the second year that means you’re alright.”
I then asked him if he had heard of the “Harvard Four Minute Rule,” some sort of urban legend obviously proliferated by Harvard rejects. It refers to the allegation that it takes, on average, four minutes, from the point of having been introduced to somebody (who happens to have graduated from Harvard) for that person to casually mention that he/she graduated from Harvard.
He chuckled and said, “That’s very interesting…very interesting. I guess it depends. It’s a very useful credential to drop but if used ostentatiously, can turn people off.” He chuckled a bit more and added, “When I came back from Harvard I went to teach in U.P. and the first thing I told my students was, ‘There’s MBA from Harvard but there’s DBA from Divisoria’ and I honestly, up to today, I think that the Divisoria Business Administration degree is more important that the MBA from Harvard. The Divisoria one is all about street smarts, how to deal with people, how to treat friends and foes alike, how to treat peers and how to manage laterally, and linearly, and vertically and that’s very important. Sometimes, if you are too bookish it’s not good. It’s never as important as what you learn when dealing directly with people in the real world.”
When we both stood up to bid each other goodbye, he said to me, “Nice red shoes.” I instinctively looked at my pumps and there they were: shiny and bright red, as red as my cheeks had probably gotten because of the nice gesture from that gentleman from Harvard. I shall not forget him.
Sheila Ramos: Still relishing the effects of that very engaging interview with Mr. Angping, I moved on to incoming HBS Club President, Ms. Sheila Ramos, 40, of batch ’93. The first thing I asked her was what her official job title was. When she said, “Transitioning,” she immediately captured my interest and then held it until the very end of the interview because of how forthcoming she was, how deliberate of speech, how clear-minded on what she wanted to do, and how definite her future plans were.
“I had been with Tokyo Tokyo (the family’s chain of fast food restaurants) for the longest time and now at 40, I figured I need to regroup and spend time with my family, helping each member find their passion in the way I did—a passion for work or play which carried me through my two years at HBS. It’s really for the kids. Although I don’t want to talk about them, it’s the age; they’re growing up too fast. I’m going on sabbatical for five years for them and then at 45, I’ll still be young enough to go back and do what I have to.”
I asked what was the most important thing she had learned in her two years at HBS. “It’s not what you learn but how you learn it,” she answered, clear-eyed and enthusiastic.
Ramos then spoke at length about the case study method, which is a powerful interactive learning process that brings the complex and dynamic realities of business analysis and decision making into the classroom. The Case Method is the cornerstone of the school’s renowned general management approach, which provides the student with skills, insights, and self-confidence required to meet the demands of real business situations.
“The first six months at HBS were tough for me. In fact on the very first day, I said to myself, ‘I’m gonna die.’ Class can be terrifying. I was 23 and quite lonely, plus I had come from a school, which was very traditional in teaching methods. It was rote learning, where one wasn’t allowed to think out of the box and to ask questions. At HBS that was mostly what we had to do—ask questions. We had to figure out answers by asking questions and analyzing given business situations. All HBS alumni go through around 500 case studies before they graduate.”
I then asked her to talk about her HBS classmates for a quick profile on what the people who make it there are like. “They were equally passionate outside school as they were inside. We had Olympic swimmers, singers, dancers, techies. At the end of the day, they are passionate people. That’s what makes them different.”
Quintin Doromal: Next, I sat down to speak with Mr. Quintin “King” Doromal of batch ’52, who, at 81, is the oldest member of the HBS Club. He is Executive Director of Bantayog ng Bayani, a foundation for those who were killed and incarcerated during Martial Law. It was a welcome change of pace as Mr. Doromal reminisced leisurely about his days at Harvard.
“Are you finding pleasure in retirement?” I asked him. He looked genuinely surprised. He then piped up, “Why, you’re retired? But you look young.” With wit as sharp as a knife I knew I was in for an exciting ride with Mr. Doromal. He continued, “My tuition then was only, $210 a year, can you imagine that? What is it now, $40,000? $50,000? Now we can both agree that I am the luckiest man in this room!”
I then asked him if he had always wanted to come back to the Philippines upon graduation and he answered, “Of course! I belong to a nationalistic generation. I had always known I was coming home right after school. My goal had always been to come back and do something for this country.”
Miguel Aguiluz: Next up was Mr. Amable Miguel Aguiluz IX, or Miguel for short, of batch 2005, who was kind enough to have given me a few moments of his time. He is CEO of the ACA Group of Companies and was enrolled under the HBS OMP program, which caters to business owners. He is known for winning the school’s business strategy competition, besting 149 other participants. The winning project, now operational in the country, is called “Ink for Less,” a printer ink refilling station.
I asked him, “Was there one definitive experience while at school that changed you?” “Well, there were many. The experiences I shared with my classmates for one, and what I had learned from them. Also the professors there are the best in the world, and of course, the lessons I learned, specifically in corporate strategy, which I have retained up to now, have improved my management style and my company.”
To lighten the mood a little, I ventured to ask Mr. Aguiluz if he had heard of the “Harvard Four Minute Rule.” He said no, so I explained to him the myth that it takes four minutes for someone to mention that he is a Harvard graduate. He let out a hearty chuckle upon hearing it and said, “That could be true but I always wait until I am asked.”
Manny Ayala: In the middle of the evening’s program, I espied an old friend, former media personality, Manuel “Manny” Ayala, 45, of batch ’92. Manny is currently Managing Director of IRG Limited, a specialist investment bank based in Hong Kong that focuses on the Telecoms, Media and Technology sectors in the Asia Pacific. Apart from advising clients in the region on Mergers & Acquisitions projects, he also spends quite a bit of time running and coaching companies that IRG has invested in. He currently oversees an animation outsourcing company that services the video game and film industries”
He was in conversation with incoming President, Ms. Sheila Ramos, so I went ahead and took the liberty of asking him for a printable quote about the Harvard experience. I knew I was going to get either the most controversial or the funniest one from him because whenever he sheds the serious image and lapses into his loveable clown mode, he never fails to bring the house down.
He then answered almost instantly with his trademark impish smirk, “HBS without the H is simply, BS. How’s that for a quote?” So I looked to Ms. Ramos for approval and she said with a big smile, “Sure, you can print that but please don’t fail to mention that the source is the muse of the Harvard Business School Club, Mr. Manny Ayala. “Done,” I said.
“Seriously though,” Manny added, back now in his usual business-like persona, “I thought HBS was one of the most intense, eye-opening intellectual experiences I’ve ever had...kind of like boot camp for capitalists. Having all those brilliant, type A personalities as classmates, you were constantly forced to raise your game and push your thinking to higher and higher levels of rigor.”
Aurelio “Gigi” Montinola: Right before leaving I spotted Mr. Aurelio “Gigi” Montinola III, 57, of batch ’77, President of Bank of the Philippine Islands (BPI) among the crowd and kindly asked him for a quote as well. He replied, “Give me five minutes,” and then turned pensive. It hadn’t even been two minutes when he turned back to me and said, “Here it is: I thought I was gifted but when I got there, it turned out I was ordinary.” We both contemplated that for a moment and it didn’t sit well because anybody but anybody in Manila’s business circle knows that Mr. Montinola is anything but ordinary.
So he came up with a better one in the next breath: “I didn’t speak much in class but I learned, through three cases a day, about business analysis by osmosis.”
Fred Ayala: In the process of writing this piece I remembered the one Harvard Business School alumnus that I have always admired since the first time I met him 27 years ago, Mr. Alfredo “Fred” Ayala, 47, of batch ’87, because of his old world charm and manners, his intelligence that never fails to enchant those who come across him, and the absence of arrogance that many in his stature easily fall prey to. He is currently CEO of Livelt Solutions, Inc., Ayala Corporation’s holding company for its investments in the BPO sector. He was gracious enough to humor me and here is what he said: “Harvard was a great catalyst for discovering what I really wanted to do, by exposing me to classmates, professors, and career opportunities that were much more diverse and inspirational than I had anticipated.”
Gathered in the Tower Club that evening were indeed leaders who make a difference in the world, true to their alma mater’s mission statement. But more than that, up close and personal, they are passionate men and women. They are cerebral warriors who battled their way into HBS, bastion of the world’s elite intelligentsia, where only one out of nine applicants ever gain access, and then labored for two years to finish what they had set out to do. They are highly intelligent, driven, inspired, and exceptional, but at once tempered by a keen sense of humor that seems to say to those they encounter, “C’mon, don’t take me too seriously, don’t be intimidated, I’m a regular guy.”
After spending several hours with these people I figured that the “Harvard Four Minute Rule” should be radically altered so that it refers to the average amount of time wherein one realizes that he is in the presence of a Harvard graduate.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Unleash Your Inner Bart Simpson
This business about growing up and staying grown-up has all but slaughtered the joy in men, don’t you think? A couple of weeks ago I wrote about joyless men who have turned whining into a sport. The piece had received much reaction from readers so I decided to push the envelope further and figure out what, in fact, leads men to this sorry state, and how, in practice, they can avoid it.
Yes, there is a world-wide economic recession; yes, global warming is a phenomenon that has finally descended upon us; yes, no definitive cure has been found for AIDS nor cancer; yes, terrorism remains a clear and present danger, but there is also this business called living in spite of all.
So how does one make the experience tolerable, if not fun? Laughter, I believe, and a little, if not a whole lot of mischief, from time to time, to make this mind-boggling concept and exercise called living a lot more palatable.
Watch little boys at play, in complete abandon, and oblivious to all that is unpleasant and threatening. Isn’t the image priceless? And isn’t it sad that they, one day, will have to grow up and turn into sourpusses, if they don’t watch it?
Let’s revisit the Peter Pan Syndrome for a minute, that which psychologists have coined to classify men who have never grown up because of a desire to remain young and not face the responsibilities of adulthood. Although it has gained a negative connotation in quasi-psychological use, it is, according to blogger Evan Bailyn of Never Grow Up: A Tribute to Peter Pan, “A normal part of the post adolescent mind set. It is the natural result of anyone who had a good childhood. If, however, the Peter Pan is to completely shun adult responsibilities, he can be said to be a “victim” of this syndrome.”
What of men who thrive in the adult world, of those who hold down responsibilities with efficiency, dependability, and dedication? What of those who are caught up in the daily grind of making ends meet, of feeding, clothing and housing families? And what of those who are vanguards of world peace, of those tasked with keeping the global economy from crashing down? Must they all suppress inner child, slay their Peter Pans?
I hope not. I think it is necessary to nurture it. I find it actually quite refreshing—this childlikeness in grown men, this sense of wonder, this playfulness, this ability to find delight in the corniest of things, this gift of looking at the brighter side when life gets gloomy.
In fact, I would wish for them to take it even a step further, to elevate it into what we shall refer to as the “Bart Simpson Syndrome.” It is that tiny pocket in time and space, where one could revert to a state of devilish menace, something so natural and spontaneous in little boys, as to temporarily unload the stress and the pressure brought on by adulthood.
Remember Bart Simpson, the fictional main character in the animated television series “The Simpsons?” Well, he is ten years old and is the eldest child and only son of Homer and Marge Simpson. His most prominent character traits are his mischievousness, rebelliousness, and disrespect for authority.
Bart has become so popular that TIME magazine named him one of the 100 most influential people of the 20th century. Richard Corliss writes in TIME, “Talk about the arrested development—this kid has been 10 for 11 years. And we hope he stays there. Deplorable, adorable, Bart is a brat for all ages. Bart knows right from wrong; he just likes wrong better. The reason for his appeal is that he’s so brilliant at being bad; his pranks have a showman’s panache…He is a complex weave of grace, attitude and personality…”
Grown men should, on occasion, unleash their inner Bart Simpson as they shed that suit and the tie and all the weight and baggage that come with it and, as the quote from Mark Twain goes, “Dance like nobody’s watching; love like you’ve never been hurt. Sing like nobody’s listening; and live like it’s heaven on earth.”
I have a friend—an articulate and eloquent businessman with a larger-than-life personality—who is simply in love with life. I am in perpetual wonder of how he can remain so positive in light of the disappointments and setbacks that besiege everyone’s life. Once, he was relaying how he had to confront an employee whom he suspected of embezzling money in the six-figure range, earmarked for a particular project. He said he was livid as he spoke to the person, but at that very moment of retelling, he was smiling and laughing at the whole situation. I had expected him to still be foaming in the mouth and fuming out of the ears and nostrils so I asked, “How could you laugh at such a time?” He replied, “Because I called him ugok!” So then, we both laughed. And he added, “It’s done and things won’t get better if I continue to be angry.” Then, he went on to deliver joke after joke after joke, flailing his arms and guffawing away as though there was nothing the matter with his day.
Another friend, a stockbroker this time, resorts to the good old karaoke as his de-stressor of choice. After a particularly trying day at the office, he would head over to his favorite karaoke joint and not only sing and hog the mike until the cows come home but sing rock songs and mimic drugged-out rock stars complete with the head banging and air guitaring and the enacted false exits and reentries to imagined encores. And then just as quietly as he slips off of the grown up, responsible man persona, he slips right back into it when the night is over. How’s that for wild abandon?
Another man, a friend’s friend, a computer engineer this time, plays pranks on his kids during weekends. He claims that he slaves in the office the entire week and looks forward to Saturdays when he can finally put into effect the plans he had been hatching in his mind all week long. He becomes Bart Simpson on weekends. His kids have come to expect the pranks and anticipate them, so their family’s weekend is a fun-filled and dramatic celebration of sorts for the week that was. He tells of his favorite moment, when he replaced an entire bottle of shampoo with honey. His ten-year-old son came rushing out of the bathroom in all his naked glory, dripping with honey from the head down. “Dad! Help!” they boy said, “It’s all sticky and gooey.” To which he answered, “That’s okay son, just ask Mom for pancakes to go with it.” And so later in the day, the son, who, of course, did not fall very far from the tree, ingeniously snuck into his Dad’s shower and liberally poured red powdered dye into the showerhead. So you can expect what happened next, right? This Stanford alumnus of a computer engineer, stepped out of his bathroom, as naked as the day he was born, covered in streaks of red, and still oozing droplets of blood-like liquid from the tips of his hair, literally screaming bloody murder. “And what did your son say?” I asked. He shook his head from side to side and with an impish grin answered, “He said, ‘But Dad, you started it.’” “You didn’t get pikon?” I asked him. “Are you kidding me?” he was laughing now, “Talo ang pikon. I’ll get him good next weekend.”
If simply reading these anecdotes makes you feel lighter, maybe it’s time to unleash your inner Bart Simpson, as long as you don’t hurt anyone and that you do it with a good measure of control. And so to borrow again from the late, great Mr. Twain, “Dance like nobody’s watching…”
Yes, there is a world-wide economic recession; yes, global warming is a phenomenon that has finally descended upon us; yes, no definitive cure has been found for AIDS nor cancer; yes, terrorism remains a clear and present danger, but there is also this business called living in spite of all.
So how does one make the experience tolerable, if not fun? Laughter, I believe, and a little, if not a whole lot of mischief, from time to time, to make this mind-boggling concept and exercise called living a lot more palatable.
Watch little boys at play, in complete abandon, and oblivious to all that is unpleasant and threatening. Isn’t the image priceless? And isn’t it sad that they, one day, will have to grow up and turn into sourpusses, if they don’t watch it?
Let’s revisit the Peter Pan Syndrome for a minute, that which psychologists have coined to classify men who have never grown up because of a desire to remain young and not face the responsibilities of adulthood. Although it has gained a negative connotation in quasi-psychological use, it is, according to blogger Evan Bailyn of Never Grow Up: A Tribute to Peter Pan, “A normal part of the post adolescent mind set. It is the natural result of anyone who had a good childhood. If, however, the Peter Pan is to completely shun adult responsibilities, he can be said to be a “victim” of this syndrome.”
What of men who thrive in the adult world, of those who hold down responsibilities with efficiency, dependability, and dedication? What of those who are caught up in the daily grind of making ends meet, of feeding, clothing and housing families? And what of those who are vanguards of world peace, of those tasked with keeping the global economy from crashing down? Must they all suppress inner child, slay their Peter Pans?
I hope not. I think it is necessary to nurture it. I find it actually quite refreshing—this childlikeness in grown men, this sense of wonder, this playfulness, this ability to find delight in the corniest of things, this gift of looking at the brighter side when life gets gloomy.
In fact, I would wish for them to take it even a step further, to elevate it into what we shall refer to as the “Bart Simpson Syndrome.” It is that tiny pocket in time and space, where one could revert to a state of devilish menace, something so natural and spontaneous in little boys, as to temporarily unload the stress and the pressure brought on by adulthood.
Remember Bart Simpson, the fictional main character in the animated television series “The Simpsons?” Well, he is ten years old and is the eldest child and only son of Homer and Marge Simpson. His most prominent character traits are his mischievousness, rebelliousness, and disrespect for authority.
Bart has become so popular that TIME magazine named him one of the 100 most influential people of the 20th century. Richard Corliss writes in TIME, “Talk about the arrested development—this kid has been 10 for 11 years. And we hope he stays there. Deplorable, adorable, Bart is a brat for all ages. Bart knows right from wrong; he just likes wrong better. The reason for his appeal is that he’s so brilliant at being bad; his pranks have a showman’s panache…He is a complex weave of grace, attitude and personality…”
Grown men should, on occasion, unleash their inner Bart Simpson as they shed that suit and the tie and all the weight and baggage that come with it and, as the quote from Mark Twain goes, “Dance like nobody’s watching; love like you’ve never been hurt. Sing like nobody’s listening; and live like it’s heaven on earth.”
I have a friend—an articulate and eloquent businessman with a larger-than-life personality—who is simply in love with life. I am in perpetual wonder of how he can remain so positive in light of the disappointments and setbacks that besiege everyone’s life. Once, he was relaying how he had to confront an employee whom he suspected of embezzling money in the six-figure range, earmarked for a particular project. He said he was livid as he spoke to the person, but at that very moment of retelling, he was smiling and laughing at the whole situation. I had expected him to still be foaming in the mouth and fuming out of the ears and nostrils so I asked, “How could you laugh at such a time?” He replied, “Because I called him ugok!” So then, we both laughed. And he added, “It’s done and things won’t get better if I continue to be angry.” Then, he went on to deliver joke after joke after joke, flailing his arms and guffawing away as though there was nothing the matter with his day.
Another friend, a stockbroker this time, resorts to the good old karaoke as his de-stressor of choice. After a particularly trying day at the office, he would head over to his favorite karaoke joint and not only sing and hog the mike until the cows come home but sing rock songs and mimic drugged-out rock stars complete with the head banging and air guitaring and the enacted false exits and reentries to imagined encores. And then just as quietly as he slips off of the grown up, responsible man persona, he slips right back into it when the night is over. How’s that for wild abandon?
Another man, a friend’s friend, a computer engineer this time, plays pranks on his kids during weekends. He claims that he slaves in the office the entire week and looks forward to Saturdays when he can finally put into effect the plans he had been hatching in his mind all week long. He becomes Bart Simpson on weekends. His kids have come to expect the pranks and anticipate them, so their family’s weekend is a fun-filled and dramatic celebration of sorts for the week that was. He tells of his favorite moment, when he replaced an entire bottle of shampoo with honey. His ten-year-old son came rushing out of the bathroom in all his naked glory, dripping with honey from the head down. “Dad! Help!” they boy said, “It’s all sticky and gooey.” To which he answered, “That’s okay son, just ask Mom for pancakes to go with it.” And so later in the day, the son, who, of course, did not fall very far from the tree, ingeniously snuck into his Dad’s shower and liberally poured red powdered dye into the showerhead. So you can expect what happened next, right? This Stanford alumnus of a computer engineer, stepped out of his bathroom, as naked as the day he was born, covered in streaks of red, and still oozing droplets of blood-like liquid from the tips of his hair, literally screaming bloody murder. “And what did your son say?” I asked. He shook his head from side to side and with an impish grin answered, “He said, ‘But Dad, you started it.’” “You didn’t get pikon?” I asked him. “Are you kidding me?” he was laughing now, “Talo ang pikon. I’ll get him good next weekend.”
If simply reading these anecdotes makes you feel lighter, maybe it’s time to unleash your inner Bart Simpson, as long as you don’t hurt anyone and that you do it with a good measure of control. And so to borrow again from the late, great Mr. Twain, “Dance like nobody’s watching…”
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Zeus Almighty
Do you ever wonder what drives rich, powerful men — these CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, these captains of industry, these rulers of the worlds’ superpowers? What makes them do what they do? What makes them engage in the struggle up the ladder of success?
Compared to other men who believe that there is an order to life, that certain energies rule the universe, and who are content to surrender themselves to this source from which they live and move and realize their being, competitive, driven men make their own rules and play high-stakes games in the arena of power.
Jean Shinoda Bolen, M.D., a Jungian analyst and clinical professor of psychology at the University of California at San Francisco, is the author of The God in Every Man. In this book, she draws portraits of masculine qualities embodied in the gods of Greek mythology and describes their manifestation in the modern man. In psychological terms, one might refer to a “god” or a “goddess” as an archetype.
I attended a three-day seminar on the “Exploration of the Self” premised on Jung and Bolen’s work and organized by the Friends of Jung Society in the Philippines. What I discovered was that understanding these Greek god archetypes gives one a better handle on the varied and diverse personalities of men.
Bolen says, “I see the archetype as possibility. It’s what can develop in the personality. It is laid down much in the way one would put a certain amount of, say, salt in a solution. The crystalline structure is inherent, but you don’t see it until there’s enough substance to make it crystallize. Under certain conditions, the inherent pattern will constellate. It’s the same in a human personality: given a certain life energy, a certain pattern, a certain experience, a certain culture, certain archetypes will constellate.”
Bolen’s archetypes are used as models to understand some of the powerful forces that move in our understanding of ourselves. But since a discussion of all the Greek god archetypes would take the length of an entire manuscript, I have chosen one to write about that I find most fascinating — good ol’ Zeus.
A word on the Greek god Zeus. He, along with his two brothers Poseidon and Hades, were the first generation of male Olympian gods. They divided the world among themselves, and each held dominion over his particular realm. Zeus ruled the heavens (sky); Poseidon, the sea; and Hades, the underworld. Zeus ruled the realm of power and thought; Poseidon, the realm of emotion and instinct; and Hades, the realm of the dim, feared world of unseen patterns.
Zeus was the god of gods; he ruled over all, and his personal attributes are those we equate with powerful fathers, kings, chief executives, officers of corporations or armies, top-dog alpha males, boss figures. His powers extended to both earth and sky and he is credited with having both a macro view of the world and an eagle eye giving him the ability to zoom in on the minutest of details — in other words, all the qualities of a great leader.
A Zeus archetype is intelligent, driven and self-motivated; he goes for what he wants in the way a hungry lion zeros in on its prey. But in spite of all the power, he is not arrogant. He does not wield it with malice or caprice. He is comfortable in his own skin and people respect him for his very reason: they listen to him and heed his call without question. He is enveloped in charisma and magnetism, which enables him to tame even the most disagreeable non-believer.
All these — wisdom, power, charisma — are not merely qualities that Zeus archetypes possess. It is who they are. It is synonymous with their being. And for a Zeus to thrive he must have a kingdom — and not just any kingdom, but a vast one that involves hundreds if not thousands of subjects. In the modern world this translates to vast economic or political holdings and a multitude of manpower or constituents.
Zeus’ kingdom defines him and the loss of it would be the death of him. This explains why men who fall under the Zeus archetype are not good with sharing power; they simply can’t. Doing so would negate their very being.
But as in all else, there is a downside to this larger-than-life phenomenon. A Zeus archetype, exactly like the Greek god himself, can never be faithful to one woman. Zeus, the Olympian, had numerous wives and liaisons with both goddesses and mortals who all bore him children. Because his very essence is tied up with his kingdom, a Zeus is incapable of loving another completely. He is unable to make intimate and personal connections with others. He is incapable of empathy.
The modern Zeus archetype usually has an official wife to whom he holds himself accountable, just as Zeus did with first wife, Hera. But he changes mistresses like he changes clothes. This for him is just a matter of course and for which he makes no apologies whatsoever.
Another downside to this archetype is that he cannot nurture Zeus sons because he is terrified of his power being usurped. In Greek mythology, Zeus led the revolt against his father, Cronus, and the dynasty of the Titans. Zeus defeated and banished them. He is, therefore, paranoid about that legacy reliving itself through his sons. Most often, the sons of Zeus archetypes do not quite measure up to their fathers for the very reason that they were not nurtured to be such.
Women are smitten with Zeus archetypes: the energy they radiate, the charisma they exude, and the power they wield is more aphrodisiac than one woman may need in her lifetime. So it is not a wonder that in our culture there are many rich and powerful men who, as much as they leave a lot to be desired in the looks department, have a succession of the most beautiful women draped on their arms. Women claim that it is next to impossible to resist a Zeus, unless, of course, they are a female version of the Zeus archetype. In that case, a male Zeus and a female Zeus must battle in a different arena altogether.
How does one know he is in the presence of a Zeus? One will know it instinctively; he or she will feel it. It is much too powerful to be ignored. A Zeus is a man who has a commanding and yet relaxed presence. And as Jean Shinoda Bolen puts it, “Being a Zeus archetype is not a matter of power, or of dominance. It is that magic that makes a man take a position in anything, based on his authenticity, and hold it.”
We all know of men who embody the Zeus archetype, probably even intimately in this age of instant information at our fingertips. I have met a few in my lifetime and, yes, they are the most charismatic creatures on earth, but up until recently, those I had encountered were not what we would generally consider good looking. But finally, I have met one who is Zeus personified, in looks and persona, and whose life almost reads like the biography of Zeus, god of Olympia. Simply fascinating, they can make the Greek archetype come to life. Do you know a Zeus out there?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Want Some Cheese With That Whine?
There may be nothing more tragic than a joyless, whining man. Each time I think of such a character, the following personas come to mind: literature’s Silas Marner, the protagonist in George Eliot’s novel of the same title, a recluse who exists only for work and his precious hoard of money; or Ebenezer Scrooge, the coldhearted, tight-fisted, selfish protagonist of Charles Dicken’s A Christmas Carol; or Diogenes, Greek mythology’s ascetic who gave up on the world, withdrew from the company of men to live a life of seclusion and hardship, and was said to have gone out with a lantern in hand to search of an honest man.
Unlike women, who can readily express themselves because, as children, they were socialized to do so, men generally keep their thoughts and emotions private and buried. They may have real and weighty grudges against other people and the world at large but because of their innate ability to compartmentalize, these are harbored in the deepest recesses of their interior lives and are hardly spoken of candidly or at random. They are only let out at the most opportune time, if at all. This is the reason they cringe when women drop the line, “We need to talk” — because it makes men feel cornered. Hence the New Age popular saying, “Men are emotionally constipated,” a sentiment obviously coined by a woman.
Then there are the men who whine. They don’t keep it inside, but let it leak out in joyless dribbles. Don’t get me wrong: my perception of men has always been favorable. I find them to be good company, period. While women, as soon as they congregate, tend to lapse into whining about their relationships and lives, men discuss interesting stuff like politics and sports, erupting compulsively into jokes and ribbing each other to lighten the mood. Their togetherness always seems jovial and effortless and this is why, when I chanced upon three different men who seemed to have a grudge against humanity and the entire universe — on three separate occasions within one week — I thought that the Big Guy in heaven was definitely sending me a message. At first I figured, shucks, this was probably my penance for having said some unflattering things about men in this column. But then again, no: there is no excuse for men publicly ranting and raving about random things. It simply isn’t… manly.
A year ago, when I finally settled quite nicely into middle age, I made a conscious decision to edit all the people with negative energy out of my life: the grumpy ones, the jealous ones, the intrigue and gossip fiends, the pessimists, the control freaks, the judgmental ones — those with a grudge against the world. I figured, my life is half over and I should live the rest of it in as much harmony as I could muster. But then, last week, like a magnet, I attracted three of the most negative people you could imagine into my force field. Just my luck! (Or was it karma?)
While doing my daily errands I bumped into three male friends — casual acquaintances whom I had never spoken with at any great length. One (let’s call him Mr. X) I saw while grocery shopping; the other, Mr. Y, let us say, was at a restaurant; and the third, Mr. Z, I bumped into while getting a haircut.
Mr. X spotted me first at the meat counter and courteously walked over to say hello. And as we waited for the butcher to gather our preferred cuts of beef and pork, he chatted me up. It wasn’t so bad in the beginning; he started off with the McCain/Obama US presidential race and then segued into lambasting Cindy McCain, then Hillary Clinton, then Madonna, and then several ladies we mutually knew. He talked about how one of them had gained too much weight and how she had started piling on too much makeup. Then he spoke of another lady friend who had decided to transfer her child to another school and how he thought the choice was disastrous and how incapable she was as a mother. And then he stepped in it: he proceeded to speak ill of a common male friend whom I just happen to be very fond of. He spewed out a litany of how he thought this friend of mine was too much into himself and how he was prone to grandstanding to compensate for his deficiency in the looks department. I so wanted to hand over my compact mirror to him so he could take a good look at himself and finally realize that “he ain’t no Brad Pitt” himself. How dare this dude, I seethed. How catty and downright barbaric he is to be talking ill of women this way and to another woman at that!
A couple of days later, I encountered Mr. Y at the vestibule of a restaurant, just as we were about to step out. He was dapper enough to hold the door open for me, even going as far as offering to stay until my car arrived as his vehicle had promptly pulled up. How gallant, I thought. But that thought was immediately banished when he began whining about the economy and started laying blame on specific individuals for the worldwide financial crisis. A discussion is one thing — a healthy exchange of ideas about specific issues — but whining and bitching is something else altogether. It is a juvenile temper tantrum, a mouthing off of one’s desperation and hopelessness — something pointless and destructive. It wasn’t a mild expression of concern; it was clearly some form of displaced anger. Mr. Y has serious problems and we didn’t know each other well enough for him to be taking such liberties, unleashing a rant in my personal space. It was one of the longest 15 minutes of my life and there was nothing I wanted more than to tell him to get a grip on himself and lighten up, since he still had his brand-new Range Rover and his new beach house in Batangas.
Then there was Mr. Z paying at the cashier when I walked into the hair salon. After he had paid, he pulled up a stool and sat alongside me as I waited for the hairdresser. His opening was predictable enough — he spoke of the weather, relentless rains alternating with overwhelming humidity. Then, out of the blue, he spoke of this 60-year-old woman whom we both knew and who runs a shop that we both patronize. He enumerated what he claimed were her personality flaws and then got down and dirty and personal by attributing these to her unhappy life, her unsatisfying relationships, and her looks. He then proceeded to talk about a dozen other acquaintances, men this time, in a similar vein — unflattering and accusatory. Mr. Z obviously is a very unhappy man. Everything he said about all the people he judged and criticized was exactly what I thought his problem to be.
Where was the joy in those three men, that quality which I find to be characteristic of their gender? The light-heartedness, the optimism, the sense of humor, the positive world view, the regal sense of fairness, the fighting spirit all ablaze, and the dislike for pedestrian gossip? Where was all that?
I don’t know why I didn’t walk out on them in a dramatic huff, heels smoking, just like in the Roadrunner cartoons, or why I didn’t tell them straight off about their unbecoming behavior, how they were giving men a bad name just by being the boors that they were, and how they were definitely going to be material for my next column. I could kick myself for not doing any of these — for simply standing there listening, and allowing them to make fools of themselves. Yes, my toes curled inside my shoes, smoke puffed out of my nostrils, and images of gruesome murder flashed in my mind, but all I did was stand there in the name of civility and good manners.
Yes, these are difficult times, but there is much to be grateful for. What else do we have to turn to if not good company? What else will sustain us if not our good humor and spirits? Discontent is perfectly fine, if it spawns action for reform and change; whining is not.
Unlike women, who can readily express themselves because, as children, they were socialized to do so, men generally keep their thoughts and emotions private and buried. They may have real and weighty grudges against other people and the world at large but because of their innate ability to compartmentalize, these are harbored in the deepest recesses of their interior lives and are hardly spoken of candidly or at random. They are only let out at the most opportune time, if at all. This is the reason they cringe when women drop the line, “We need to talk” — because it makes men feel cornered. Hence the New Age popular saying, “Men are emotionally constipated,” a sentiment obviously coined by a woman.
Then there are the men who whine. They don’t keep it inside, but let it leak out in joyless dribbles. Don’t get me wrong: my perception of men has always been favorable. I find them to be good company, period. While women, as soon as they congregate, tend to lapse into whining about their relationships and lives, men discuss interesting stuff like politics and sports, erupting compulsively into jokes and ribbing each other to lighten the mood. Their togetherness always seems jovial and effortless and this is why, when I chanced upon three different men who seemed to have a grudge against humanity and the entire universe — on three separate occasions within one week — I thought that the Big Guy in heaven was definitely sending me a message. At first I figured, shucks, this was probably my penance for having said some unflattering things about men in this column. But then again, no: there is no excuse for men publicly ranting and raving about random things. It simply isn’t… manly.
A year ago, when I finally settled quite nicely into middle age, I made a conscious decision to edit all the people with negative energy out of my life: the grumpy ones, the jealous ones, the intrigue and gossip fiends, the pessimists, the control freaks, the judgmental ones — those with a grudge against the world. I figured, my life is half over and I should live the rest of it in as much harmony as I could muster. But then, last week, like a magnet, I attracted three of the most negative people you could imagine into my force field. Just my luck! (Or was it karma?)
While doing my daily errands I bumped into three male friends — casual acquaintances whom I had never spoken with at any great length. One (let’s call him Mr. X) I saw while grocery shopping; the other, Mr. Y, let us say, was at a restaurant; and the third, Mr. Z, I bumped into while getting a haircut.
Mr. X spotted me first at the meat counter and courteously walked over to say hello. And as we waited for the butcher to gather our preferred cuts of beef and pork, he chatted me up. It wasn’t so bad in the beginning; he started off with the McCain/Obama US presidential race and then segued into lambasting Cindy McCain, then Hillary Clinton, then Madonna, and then several ladies we mutually knew. He talked about how one of them had gained too much weight and how she had started piling on too much makeup. Then he spoke of another lady friend who had decided to transfer her child to another school and how he thought the choice was disastrous and how incapable she was as a mother. And then he stepped in it: he proceeded to speak ill of a common male friend whom I just happen to be very fond of. He spewed out a litany of how he thought this friend of mine was too much into himself and how he was prone to grandstanding to compensate for his deficiency in the looks department. I so wanted to hand over my compact mirror to him so he could take a good look at himself and finally realize that “he ain’t no Brad Pitt” himself. How dare this dude, I seethed. How catty and downright barbaric he is to be talking ill of women this way and to another woman at that!
A couple of days later, I encountered Mr. Y at the vestibule of a restaurant, just as we were about to step out. He was dapper enough to hold the door open for me, even going as far as offering to stay until my car arrived as his vehicle had promptly pulled up. How gallant, I thought. But that thought was immediately banished when he began whining about the economy and started laying blame on specific individuals for the worldwide financial crisis. A discussion is one thing — a healthy exchange of ideas about specific issues — but whining and bitching is something else altogether. It is a juvenile temper tantrum, a mouthing off of one’s desperation and hopelessness — something pointless and destructive. It wasn’t a mild expression of concern; it was clearly some form of displaced anger. Mr. Y has serious problems and we didn’t know each other well enough for him to be taking such liberties, unleashing a rant in my personal space. It was one of the longest 15 minutes of my life and there was nothing I wanted more than to tell him to get a grip on himself and lighten up, since he still had his brand-new Range Rover and his new beach house in Batangas.
Then there was Mr. Z paying at the cashier when I walked into the hair salon. After he had paid, he pulled up a stool and sat alongside me as I waited for the hairdresser. His opening was predictable enough — he spoke of the weather, relentless rains alternating with overwhelming humidity. Then, out of the blue, he spoke of this 60-year-old woman whom we both knew and who runs a shop that we both patronize. He enumerated what he claimed were her personality flaws and then got down and dirty and personal by attributing these to her unhappy life, her unsatisfying relationships, and her looks. He then proceeded to talk about a dozen other acquaintances, men this time, in a similar vein — unflattering and accusatory. Mr. Z obviously is a very unhappy man. Everything he said about all the people he judged and criticized was exactly what I thought his problem to be.
Where was the joy in those three men, that quality which I find to be characteristic of their gender? The light-heartedness, the optimism, the sense of humor, the positive world view, the regal sense of fairness, the fighting spirit all ablaze, and the dislike for pedestrian gossip? Where was all that?
I don’t know why I didn’t walk out on them in a dramatic huff, heels smoking, just like in the Roadrunner cartoons, or why I didn’t tell them straight off about their unbecoming behavior, how they were giving men a bad name just by being the boors that they were, and how they were definitely going to be material for my next column. I could kick myself for not doing any of these — for simply standing there listening, and allowing them to make fools of themselves. Yes, my toes curled inside my shoes, smoke puffed out of my nostrils, and images of gruesome murder flashed in my mind, but all I did was stand there in the name of civility and good manners.
Yes, these are difficult times, but there is much to be grateful for. What else do we have to turn to if not good company? What else will sustain us if not our good humor and spirits? Discontent is perfectly fine, if it spawns action for reform and change; whining is not.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The Face of Guilt
It appears to be frozen. The expression registers for a few precious seconds, revealing a hodge-podge of emotions: surprise, anxiety, fear, and puzzlement at how one’s hand was caught in the proverbial cookie jar. Such is the face of a guilty man or woman.
It is ironic that there is such purity in it, how untainted and how unadulterated (pardon the pun) the face seems, for those few fleeting moments, when it reveals itself immediately after one is caught and confronted, showing guilt in its most organic form, before defensiveness and the instinct for self-preservation kicks in.
So behold that face, mark that expression, because in the next breath it will vanish and in its stead will rise something you might have to battle yet never slay.
Jardine Libaire, writing for Bestlife magazine, notes in her February 2007 article on the subject of infidelity: “In America, a lapse in monogamy ruins marriages, bankrupts couples, and condemns families to divorce court hell. In Europe and elsewhere, infidelity is considered a bump in the road, if it’s considered at all.”
She cites the example of American couple Jane and Thomas, high school sweethearts whose kids are currently in high school. Thomas, 47, a financial officer at a large corporation, suddenly started volunteering to take his son to soccer practice on Sunday mornings and began using his laptop at home.
Jane noticed he seemed to hide the computer from her, and he never used it in front of her. He sought excuses to be alone; she became uneasy. One night, he made a hushed phone call downstairs while she was in bed. When he came upstairs, she asked who it was. He hemmed and hawed, and then said it was no one; told her she was “hearing things” and said it must have been the TV. His denial was all she needed. She asked right then and there if he was having an affair. And then there was that face — the frozen face. Soon enough he admitted that he was. Their world came crashing down.
The other woman was a fellow employee who reported to him. She was 14 years Jane’s junior and possessed, in Jane’s words, “a Victoria’s Secret body.” Thomas agreed that he must end the affair, but over the course of four months the evidence said otherwise. Jane discovered cryptic text messages on her husband’s cell phone and there were regular hang-up calls from a blocked number. Jane considered telling the other woman’s husband about his wife’s affair, but then she realized the other woman — out of revenge — could sue Thomas for sexual harassment. This quandary had the potential to bankrupt the family. So would divorce. Mean-while, every time Thomas stayed late at work, Jane couldn’t help but accuse him — even if it was only in silent looks —of having been unfaithful again. In their own home, Jane and Thomas were now deadlocked in marital misery, fighting tearfully and viciously.
Does it have to be this way? Must an affair lead a couple inexorably to annulment court or bankruptcy? Do other cultures handle the circumstance of infidelity with different protocol and ethics?
Libaire cites another example, that of Ana, 30, a European with 1960s Italian art-film looks: an almost decadent face, a slim, curvy body in a tweed pencil skirt. One night, Henri, a Parisian client of Ana’s company, came to town for a professional event. They flirted unapologetically throughout the evening. When she invited people to her place for late-night drinks, Henri stayed behind. Before anything happened, he held up his finger, “You see I’m wearing this ring,” he said. Ana said she did. “You know nothing will change,” he continued. She answered that she did, indeed, understand that.
“It was adult,” Ana says. “It was respectful to me, in a way, and to his wife, to ask that, and to make that statement. The next morning he was sweet and relaxed. We hung out for hours. He didn’t run away in shame.”
Libaire says “Henri is the fairy-tale adulterer: European, sensual, guiltless. He is a figure we Americans look upon with wonder and terror, wanting to believe and desperately not wanting to believe that he (or she) exists.” She adds that when Americans engage in hanky-panky, “We go into hysterics and confess, bawling to our spouses. We enroll in specialized infidelity therapy. We hate ourselves. We fall apart.”
According to Pamela Druckerman, author of a book on infidelity, Lust in Translation, which is based on her survey of married couples conducted over a period of several years worldwide, “Americans are the worst, both at having affairs and dealing with the aftermath. Adultery crises in America last longer, cost more, and seem to inflict more emotional torture than they do of anyplace I visited.”
She had not only charted the international styles and frequency of cheating, but also looked at each country’s capacity for guilt and shame (or anger and vengeance, depending on the party’s role) regarding infidelity. It seems to her that no other population suffers the same magnificent lavish of anguish that Americans do. She claims that “The Russians regard affairs as benign vices, like cigars and scotch. The Japanese have institutionalized extramarital sex through clubs and salary man lifestyles.”
The French, who don’t cheat as much, according to Druckerman, prize discretion over the occasional lie. In sub-Saharan Africa, even the threat of HIV hasn’t created a strong taboo on cheating. She adds that, “Even God-fearing and devout Christians, Muslims and Jews are still cheating and having affairs, still double-parking on their spouses.”
Druckerman says that in the grand scheme of infidelity around the world, “The United States remains junior varsity. We have affairs at about the same numerical rate as the French.” According to the General Social Survey, the most recent statistical examination of marital infidelity, about four percent of married men polled claimed at least one sexual partner outside his marriage in the previous year; around three percent for married women. Compare this with Africa’s Ivory Coast, where a reported 36 percent of married men strayed.
“Why is the fallout so brutal?” Druckerman asks. “In most other countries, an occasional affair is tolerated and even sanctioned,” at least for men.
How about right here at home? How do we Filipinos handle infidelity? Do couples slug it out? Do the wives scream bloody murder and fight tooth and nail for what is rightfully theirs? I think not. There may be a few exceptions but the majority suffer in silence. They cry upon the bosom of their closest friends and endure the pain and the humiliation of the betrayal. Why? Because in our country, as in others — most of Asia and Africa — women have fewer rights. Men cheat and women have hardly any leverage to stop them or to complain. It is not a matter of tolerance but of unequal freedoms. Let us not forget that, in some countries, women are still stoned to death for adultery.
In America, relationships often collapse immediately under the weight of a discovered infidelity because it is considered an affront to the partnership, something that must be addressed and fixed. In this, they turn to professionals: counselors and therapists who espouse utter and unveiled transparency, which are necessary for trust to be rebuilt.
In the Philippines, infidelity is a non-issue. Most wives lick the wounds of their martyred selves; husbands, whose motto it is to deny the indiscretion unto death and who wouldn’t be caught dead seeing counselors and therapists, add another feather to their cap and probably pat themselves on the back, sometimes in secret, sometimes out in the open or in the company of buddies, as they gloat over and glorify their “invincibility.”
Druckerman would have found, had she investigated our people’s capacity for guilt and shame regarding infidelity, that there is close to none. Even our nation’s leaders do nothing to hide their affairs; no guilt there, no shame.
And yet in some rare instances, if one is lucky, one just might glean the face of guilt worn by the erring partner at his most unguarded moment — a look that is guileless and earnest; one that says, “I have done wrong and I shall placate and make amends.”
It is ironic that there is such purity in it, how untainted and how unadulterated (pardon the pun) the face seems, for those few fleeting moments, when it reveals itself immediately after one is caught and confronted, showing guilt in its most organic form, before defensiveness and the instinct for self-preservation kicks in.
So behold that face, mark that expression, because in the next breath it will vanish and in its stead will rise something you might have to battle yet never slay.
Jardine Libaire, writing for Bestlife magazine, notes in her February 2007 article on the subject of infidelity: “In America, a lapse in monogamy ruins marriages, bankrupts couples, and condemns families to divorce court hell. In Europe and elsewhere, infidelity is considered a bump in the road, if it’s considered at all.”
She cites the example of American couple Jane and Thomas, high school sweethearts whose kids are currently in high school. Thomas, 47, a financial officer at a large corporation, suddenly started volunteering to take his son to soccer practice on Sunday mornings and began using his laptop at home.
Jane noticed he seemed to hide the computer from her, and he never used it in front of her. He sought excuses to be alone; she became uneasy. One night, he made a hushed phone call downstairs while she was in bed. When he came upstairs, she asked who it was. He hemmed and hawed, and then said it was no one; told her she was “hearing things” and said it must have been the TV. His denial was all she needed. She asked right then and there if he was having an affair. And then there was that face — the frozen face. Soon enough he admitted that he was. Their world came crashing down.
The other woman was a fellow employee who reported to him. She was 14 years Jane’s junior and possessed, in Jane’s words, “a Victoria’s Secret body.” Thomas agreed that he must end the affair, but over the course of four months the evidence said otherwise. Jane discovered cryptic text messages on her husband’s cell phone and there were regular hang-up calls from a blocked number. Jane considered telling the other woman’s husband about his wife’s affair, but then she realized the other woman — out of revenge — could sue Thomas for sexual harassment. This quandary had the potential to bankrupt the family. So would divorce. Mean-while, every time Thomas stayed late at work, Jane couldn’t help but accuse him — even if it was only in silent looks —of having been unfaithful again. In their own home, Jane and Thomas were now deadlocked in marital misery, fighting tearfully and viciously.
Does it have to be this way? Must an affair lead a couple inexorably to annulment court or bankruptcy? Do other cultures handle the circumstance of infidelity with different protocol and ethics?
Libaire cites another example, that of Ana, 30, a European with 1960s Italian art-film looks: an almost decadent face, a slim, curvy body in a tweed pencil skirt. One night, Henri, a Parisian client of Ana’s company, came to town for a professional event. They flirted unapologetically throughout the evening. When she invited people to her place for late-night drinks, Henri stayed behind. Before anything happened, he held up his finger, “You see I’m wearing this ring,” he said. Ana said she did. “You know nothing will change,” he continued. She answered that she did, indeed, understand that.
“It was adult,” Ana says. “It was respectful to me, in a way, and to his wife, to ask that, and to make that statement. The next morning he was sweet and relaxed. We hung out for hours. He didn’t run away in shame.”
Libaire says “Henri is the fairy-tale adulterer: European, sensual, guiltless. He is a figure we Americans look upon with wonder and terror, wanting to believe and desperately not wanting to believe that he (or she) exists.” She adds that when Americans engage in hanky-panky, “We go into hysterics and confess, bawling to our spouses. We enroll in specialized infidelity therapy. We hate ourselves. We fall apart.”
According to Pamela Druckerman, author of a book on infidelity, Lust in Translation, which is based on her survey of married couples conducted over a period of several years worldwide, “Americans are the worst, both at having affairs and dealing with the aftermath. Adultery crises in America last longer, cost more, and seem to inflict more emotional torture than they do of anyplace I visited.”
She had not only charted the international styles and frequency of cheating, but also looked at each country’s capacity for guilt and shame (or anger and vengeance, depending on the party’s role) regarding infidelity. It seems to her that no other population suffers the same magnificent lavish of anguish that Americans do. She claims that “The Russians regard affairs as benign vices, like cigars and scotch. The Japanese have institutionalized extramarital sex through clubs and salary man lifestyles.”
The French, who don’t cheat as much, according to Druckerman, prize discretion over the occasional lie. In sub-Saharan Africa, even the threat of HIV hasn’t created a strong taboo on cheating. She adds that, “Even God-fearing and devout Christians, Muslims and Jews are still cheating and having affairs, still double-parking on their spouses.”
Druckerman says that in the grand scheme of infidelity around the world, “The United States remains junior varsity. We have affairs at about the same numerical rate as the French.” According to the General Social Survey, the most recent statistical examination of marital infidelity, about four percent of married men polled claimed at least one sexual partner outside his marriage in the previous year; around three percent for married women. Compare this with Africa’s Ivory Coast, where a reported 36 percent of married men strayed.
“Why is the fallout so brutal?” Druckerman asks. “In most other countries, an occasional affair is tolerated and even sanctioned,” at least for men.
How about right here at home? How do we Filipinos handle infidelity? Do couples slug it out? Do the wives scream bloody murder and fight tooth and nail for what is rightfully theirs? I think not. There may be a few exceptions but the majority suffer in silence. They cry upon the bosom of their closest friends and endure the pain and the humiliation of the betrayal. Why? Because in our country, as in others — most of Asia and Africa — women have fewer rights. Men cheat and women have hardly any leverage to stop them or to complain. It is not a matter of tolerance but of unequal freedoms. Let us not forget that, in some countries, women are still stoned to death for adultery.
In America, relationships often collapse immediately under the weight of a discovered infidelity because it is considered an affront to the partnership, something that must be addressed and fixed. In this, they turn to professionals: counselors and therapists who espouse utter and unveiled transparency, which are necessary for trust to be rebuilt.
In the Philippines, infidelity is a non-issue. Most wives lick the wounds of their martyred selves; husbands, whose motto it is to deny the indiscretion unto death and who wouldn’t be caught dead seeing counselors and therapists, add another feather to their cap and probably pat themselves on the back, sometimes in secret, sometimes out in the open or in the company of buddies, as they gloat over and glorify their “invincibility.”
Druckerman would have found, had she investigated our people’s capacity for guilt and shame regarding infidelity, that there is close to none. Even our nation’s leaders do nothing to hide their affairs; no guilt there, no shame.
And yet in some rare instances, if one is lucky, one just might glean the face of guilt worn by the erring partner at his most unguarded moment — a look that is guileless and earnest; one that says, “I have done wrong and I shall placate and make amends.”
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Who Wears The Pants?
“I’ll have you know, girls are stronger; we’re smarter and better and we can do way more things than you. We’re mothers and dancers and presidents and doctors and waitresses, and we’re prettier.” All this from the precocious 10-year-old classmate of my son, whom we had invited to a sushi dinner, and who sat directly across from him at the dinner table.
Everyone in our party had heard this and I held my breath expecting my son to return a cross-court, turnaround, backhanded, acute-angled volley. I was turning blue in the face thinking, C’mon, if he were really my son, he’d come back with something clever — a double entendre, maybe, nothing harsh, of course, but anything to make her grapple with the irresponsibility of generalizing gender differences for a few days.
But all he did was deliver an earnest, gurgling, shoulder-shaking chuckle. After which he said, “Really? You think so?” The cute girl replied emphatically, “Yes! I am the boss of you!”
At this point, I narrowed my eyes at my son in an effort to get this message across: Claim your kingdom, son, and hoist the flag! Still, all he did was smile, both at me and at his classmate, who now sat smugly, face contorted in a satisfied smirk.
He shoved a block of spicy tuna roll in his mouth, then leaned over to me, and whispered, through the blobs of raw fish and rice swirling around his mouth, “Dzzzon’t whozzzy, Mom…” “Stop,” I said to him. “Finish chewing that please, then talk.” After a few seconds and a caveman swallow, he turned back to me and said, “I said, don’t worry, Mom, I just let her think that so I can enjoy my sushi in peace.” And then with a wink and a flash of a toothy smile at me and at the girl across from him, he popped another wedge of sushi in his mouth and chewed away.
Heck, where did he get that? From TV? The Internet? His friends? Maybe. But I think it is something that’s hard-wired in the brain of all men from the time of conception.
I remembered an interview I caught on the E! Channel with the newly married Hollywood actor, Jay Mohr. When asked about married life, he answered, “Everything’s perfect.” He was then asked what his formula was for a happy marriage and he said, “Happy wife, happy life. Just keep ‘em happy and you’re good.”
Is it really true, do you think — this conspiracy of the male species to fool us all into believing we’ve got the upper hand, when in fact, they hold all the puppet strings? We’ve all heard the Machiavellian motto — It’s better to be feared than loved — and many a great man down through the centuries has applied this by enthroning a woman and endowing her with powers to rule alongside him as a buffer for the people’s discontent and resentment. Truly cunning. Think of the late strongman, Ferdinand Marcos, or of the former Argentinean military junta leader, Juan Peron — same mentality, same principle.
What then of all these seemingly flattering, popular sayings descriptive of the prized position of women in their partner’s lives — “the power behind the throne”; “wind beneath my wings”; Rasputin; St. Peter at the gates? Notice that in every clause, the allusion to the woman is never on equal footing with the man; she is either behind him or in front of him as the first line of defense against the mob. Go figure.
A friend of mine, a venture capitalist, joked about how domestic matters are settled between him and his wife. He jested, “When she badgers me about needing to have her way once in a while in the home, when she gripes about her opinion weighing nothing, I always remind her as I have stated from the very beginning that I take care of all the minor decisions that concern our family and she gets to decide on all the major ones. But so far, no major ones have come up yet, so there.” Really sly.
So who really wears the pants? Over a bottle of wine at a café yesterday, I sat with Lindy, a stunning, worldly, street-smart, 19-year-old Columbian/Bulgarian/Australian, and a daughter’s friend. Men of all shapes and sizes surrounded us, finding every excuse to get close to her; but she sat there like mighty Aphrodite, knowing exactly how to handle herself. I asked what she thought about this matter between men and women. She said, “Men are stupid sometimes, but we women, we’re manipulative. Ooohhh, aren’t we? We take things, flip them on their heads, and spin them around. We’re bad. We can play with minds.” Very forthcoming.
As I worked my way to the rest room, I chanced upon a man along the hallway, red in the face and glassy-eyed, hand cupped over a phone receiver, speaking loudly into his mobile, obviously to his significant other. “I remember clearly telling you that I was going out tonight… one beer, just one… an hour, tops… We’re all boys… Of course, I’m sure… You wanna talk to George… I said about an hour, hour-and-a-half, maybe, tops…”
It was too much of a temptation and, of course, I couldn’t resist. So, playfully and in the spirit of the moment, I stopped in front of him, wagged a finger, and clucked my tongue, “Tsk, tsk.” He looked at me stunned. I gave him a wink and ambled on.
Perhaps, in synch with the spinning of the earth along its axis, the universe contrives to shift ascendancy between both genders. Equally? In time and billing? Who’s to know? In the meanwhile, let’s make each other think so. In my 10-year-old son’s words, “For the sake of peace.”
Everyone in our party had heard this and I held my breath expecting my son to return a cross-court, turnaround, backhanded, acute-angled volley. I was turning blue in the face thinking, C’mon, if he were really my son, he’d come back with something clever — a double entendre, maybe, nothing harsh, of course, but anything to make her grapple with the irresponsibility of generalizing gender differences for a few days.
But all he did was deliver an earnest, gurgling, shoulder-shaking chuckle. After which he said, “Really? You think so?” The cute girl replied emphatically, “Yes! I am the boss of you!”
At this point, I narrowed my eyes at my son in an effort to get this message across: Claim your kingdom, son, and hoist the flag! Still, all he did was smile, both at me and at his classmate, who now sat smugly, face contorted in a satisfied smirk.
He shoved a block of spicy tuna roll in his mouth, then leaned over to me, and whispered, through the blobs of raw fish and rice swirling around his mouth, “Dzzzon’t whozzzy, Mom…” “Stop,” I said to him. “Finish chewing that please, then talk.” After a few seconds and a caveman swallow, he turned back to me and said, “I said, don’t worry, Mom, I just let her think that so I can enjoy my sushi in peace.” And then with a wink and a flash of a toothy smile at me and at the girl across from him, he popped another wedge of sushi in his mouth and chewed away.
Heck, where did he get that? From TV? The Internet? His friends? Maybe. But I think it is something that’s hard-wired in the brain of all men from the time of conception.
I remembered an interview I caught on the E! Channel with the newly married Hollywood actor, Jay Mohr. When asked about married life, he answered, “Everything’s perfect.” He was then asked what his formula was for a happy marriage and he said, “Happy wife, happy life. Just keep ‘em happy and you’re good.”
Is it really true, do you think — this conspiracy of the male species to fool us all into believing we’ve got the upper hand, when in fact, they hold all the puppet strings? We’ve all heard the Machiavellian motto — It’s better to be feared than loved — and many a great man down through the centuries has applied this by enthroning a woman and endowing her with powers to rule alongside him as a buffer for the people’s discontent and resentment. Truly cunning. Think of the late strongman, Ferdinand Marcos, or of the former Argentinean military junta leader, Juan Peron — same mentality, same principle.
What then of all these seemingly flattering, popular sayings descriptive of the prized position of women in their partner’s lives — “the power behind the throne”; “wind beneath my wings”; Rasputin; St. Peter at the gates? Notice that in every clause, the allusion to the woman is never on equal footing with the man; she is either behind him or in front of him as the first line of defense against the mob. Go figure.
A friend of mine, a venture capitalist, joked about how domestic matters are settled between him and his wife. He jested, “When she badgers me about needing to have her way once in a while in the home, when she gripes about her opinion weighing nothing, I always remind her as I have stated from the very beginning that I take care of all the minor decisions that concern our family and she gets to decide on all the major ones. But so far, no major ones have come up yet, so there.” Really sly.
So who really wears the pants? Over a bottle of wine at a café yesterday, I sat with Lindy, a stunning, worldly, street-smart, 19-year-old Columbian/Bulgarian/Australian, and a daughter’s friend. Men of all shapes and sizes surrounded us, finding every excuse to get close to her; but she sat there like mighty Aphrodite, knowing exactly how to handle herself. I asked what she thought about this matter between men and women. She said, “Men are stupid sometimes, but we women, we’re manipulative. Ooohhh, aren’t we? We take things, flip them on their heads, and spin them around. We’re bad. We can play with minds.” Very forthcoming.
As I worked my way to the rest room, I chanced upon a man along the hallway, red in the face and glassy-eyed, hand cupped over a phone receiver, speaking loudly into his mobile, obviously to his significant other. “I remember clearly telling you that I was going out tonight… one beer, just one… an hour, tops… We’re all boys… Of course, I’m sure… You wanna talk to George… I said about an hour, hour-and-a-half, maybe, tops…”
It was too much of a temptation and, of course, I couldn’t resist. So, playfully and in the spirit of the moment, I stopped in front of him, wagged a finger, and clucked my tongue, “Tsk, tsk.” He looked at me stunned. I gave him a wink and ambled on.
Perhaps, in synch with the spinning of the earth along its axis, the universe contrives to shift ascendancy between both genders. Equally? In time and billing? Who’s to know? In the meanwhile, let’s make each other think so. In my 10-year-old son’s words, “For the sake of peace.”
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Mismatched
Do opposites really attract? Don’t we ask ourselves this question every time we see couples with stark aesthetic differences? Never mind the slight disparities in height, weight, or facial features— these are normal, maybe even expected. But we speak here of extremes, of the comically incongruous, of the downright absurd and incomprehensible, of those that make our jaws drop and make us think, “What the heck?”
One classic example would be the five-year-marriage of blonde bombshell Marilyn Monroe and cerebral, Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright, Arthur Miller in the ‘50s. When pressed for a reason for her hookup with Miller, Monroe said she valued his intelligence and sensitivity. Miller, on the other hand, cited her “enormous sense of play, inventiveness and unexpectedness.” In other words, as many claimed, he couldn’t get over the fact that he got the girl.
Another example would be the pairing up of ‘80s supermodel Paulina Porizkova, who looks like an incarnation of the goddess Aphrodite, and Ric Ocasek, front man for the pop group The Cars, who may best be described as alien-like. However disconcerting their union might be, it is obviously founded on solid ground because, 24 years and two children later, they remain happily married. So men can go on scratching their heads about these two; they shall remain tightly bonded.
Then there was the Claudia Schiffer and David Copperfield hookup that almost sent the entire male population up in arms in the ‘90s. How the nerdy conjurer won the supermodel is a feat a million times more impressive than his celebrated stunts — walking through the Great Wall of China or making the Statue of Liberty disappear.
And just how a low-key, mumbling country singer like Lyle Lovett with his Brill-O pad hairdo snagged America’s sweetheart, Julia Roberts, will forever remain a mystery and a sore point for the entire universe to ponder.
And finally, in recent years, Latin singer Marc Anthony has proven that lightning does strike twice.
This skinny Grammy-award winning artist was married to former Miss Universe Dayanara Torres (no stranger to the Philippines) and is now remarried to Hollywood superstar, Jennifer Lopez and is father to their twins.
True, such couplings confound most people’s aesthetic sensibilities, but it’s nowhere near as disturbing as when the personalities of those involved are polar opposites. It is more logically acceptable for two people to be mismatched in physical attributes because they may actually converge on the very basic level of compatibility — something they need at the very least to sustain the relationship. They may happen to share the same hobbies, or be passionate about the same sports; or, on a more elevated level, they may truly stimulate each other mentally or spiritually; and in the most romantic sense, they may possess a deep affection for each other. These factors are definitely fuel for any relationship and they can turbo-charge unions for very long periods.
Let’s take the case of a friend — a whip-smart, high-powered, good-looking businessman, to whom success came very early, sometime in his mid-20s — and not because of luck but because of sheer genius. He had a long-time girlfriend who was a summa cum laude graduate of the same business school he went to and was, in fact, his equal in looks and smarts.
So it was to the surprise of all concerned when he turned around and married a very unassuming lady with a simple mind and an uncomplicated life — okay, boring, basically.
I asked him about this because I couldn’t contain my bafflement: “Why her?”
He answered: “Because being with the other one was just too stressful. I don’t want to come home to someone who will engage me in mental sparring. I do that all day at work. I want peace and quiet at home. Besides, I don’t want to live the rest of my life in mortal fear.”
“Fear of what?” I asked, still confused.
“Of being found out,” he explained. “Of her proving one day that she is ultimately better than me.”
And what of couples, who are like night and day when it comes to appetites for adventure? I know of one in which the husband is an avid extreme sportsman and the wife is an introvert who prefers to sit at home and cross-stitch. They spend weeks apart: he chasing after the high of cheating death yet again; she stoking the hearth and counting the minutes to his return.
This venture into the realm of mismatched couples was instigated by something I had witnessed at a formal dinner dance recently. We shared a table with this couple that, from the very beginning, seemed as ill-fitted to one another as a clown suit on a skinny man. The husband, resplendent as a thousand-watt bulb and dapper in a cream tuxedo, enveloped us immediately in a warm, electric, highly charged vibe. He was handsome and had an aura of menace about him — a definite chick magnet. He had a wild crop of salt and pepper hair, a sharp sense of humor, and a shoulder span as wide as an Olympic swimmer’s. The wife, on the other hand, was pleasant enough to look at, but her endless fidgeting and nervous demeanor cancelled out all the charm she may have had. She spent the entire evening monitoring all of her husband’s moves. Her eyes were glued fast to him and she held her breath in anticipation of all his actions.
It was puzzling because he did ask her to dance several times, but she refused over and over again. She craned her neck to follow his steps across the expanse of the dance floor each time he found some other partner to boogie with. I sat quietly and observed her, fascinated by the neurosis that seemed to drive this woman, who, from time to time, seemed to be teetering at the edge of sanity. Every time her husband smiled or waved — something he did almost all night — she would snap her head toward whatever direction his gesture had been thrown. If it was directed at a woman, she would give her the evil eye. I could feel hear her breathing heavily and could see her eyes afire with malice and her fists balled by her sides like a woman scorned. Sheesh, I thought to myself, how could someone make herself that miserable? Didn’t she want to boogie and have as much fun as her husband was clearly having?
Once, when the husband exited — to visit the restroom, I presumed — she bolted out of her chair and dashed out to follow him. I, consumed with curiosity, figured that that opportunity to use the restroom was as good a time as any, so I did. I bumped into her pacing the lobby, highly agitated, and darting from one corner of the place to the other. “Looking for your husband?” I asked.
It was an almost-innocent question, but she took it the wrong way. “Of course not!” she scoffed. “Oh,” I continued, “I bet you just want to work off the big dinner you ate,” then I scampered away from her line of fire.
Back at the table, I saw her husband, comfortably seated in his chair. So I asked him where he had been because his wife had been looking frantically for him.
He chuckled and said, “I went for a smoke. Pardon the Gestapo — oh, I mean the wife — she gets that way all the time.”
“What way?” I said, feigning ignorance.
“You, know, that way — like a rabid, jealous wife, wanting to poke her nose into everything I do.”
“And this is okay with you?” I pried, since he seemed all too willing to spill it out.
“Yeah, no sweat.”
“Oh, you like the dance; this little tango you play with her?”
He guffawed. “Well, now that you’ve put it in such an interesting way, yes, I do.” He guffawed some more.
I spent the rest of the evening contemplating the state of their union: a party animal of a husband, and a miserable, nosy wife, running after her own tail, haunted by her own ghosts.
I asked my companion that evening, who had witnessed all of it as well, what he thought of this entire business of mismatched couples, especially the one right beside us. I said to him, “How can that man stay married to someone like that? She gives women a bad name — all that sleuthing and snooping.” In his infinite wisdom, he answered, “What else is there to say? It makes for an interesting life.”
One classic example would be the five-year-marriage of blonde bombshell Marilyn Monroe and cerebral, Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright, Arthur Miller in the ‘50s. When pressed for a reason for her hookup with Miller, Monroe said she valued his intelligence and sensitivity. Miller, on the other hand, cited her “enormous sense of play, inventiveness and unexpectedness.” In other words, as many claimed, he couldn’t get over the fact that he got the girl.
Another example would be the pairing up of ‘80s supermodel Paulina Porizkova, who looks like an incarnation of the goddess Aphrodite, and Ric Ocasek, front man for the pop group The Cars, who may best be described as alien-like. However disconcerting their union might be, it is obviously founded on solid ground because, 24 years and two children later, they remain happily married. So men can go on scratching their heads about these two; they shall remain tightly bonded.
Then there was the Claudia Schiffer and David Copperfield hookup that almost sent the entire male population up in arms in the ‘90s. How the nerdy conjurer won the supermodel is a feat a million times more impressive than his celebrated stunts — walking through the Great Wall of China or making the Statue of Liberty disappear.
And just how a low-key, mumbling country singer like Lyle Lovett with his Brill-O pad hairdo snagged America’s sweetheart, Julia Roberts, will forever remain a mystery and a sore point for the entire universe to ponder.
And finally, in recent years, Latin singer Marc Anthony has proven that lightning does strike twice.
This skinny Grammy-award winning artist was married to former Miss Universe Dayanara Torres (no stranger to the Philippines) and is now remarried to Hollywood superstar, Jennifer Lopez and is father to their twins.
True, such couplings confound most people’s aesthetic sensibilities, but it’s nowhere near as disturbing as when the personalities of those involved are polar opposites. It is more logically acceptable for two people to be mismatched in physical attributes because they may actually converge on the very basic level of compatibility — something they need at the very least to sustain the relationship. They may happen to share the same hobbies, or be passionate about the same sports; or, on a more elevated level, they may truly stimulate each other mentally or spiritually; and in the most romantic sense, they may possess a deep affection for each other. These factors are definitely fuel for any relationship and they can turbo-charge unions for very long periods.
Let’s take the case of a friend — a whip-smart, high-powered, good-looking businessman, to whom success came very early, sometime in his mid-20s — and not because of luck but because of sheer genius. He had a long-time girlfriend who was a summa cum laude graduate of the same business school he went to and was, in fact, his equal in looks and smarts.
So it was to the surprise of all concerned when he turned around and married a very unassuming lady with a simple mind and an uncomplicated life — okay, boring, basically.
I asked him about this because I couldn’t contain my bafflement: “Why her?”
He answered: “Because being with the other one was just too stressful. I don’t want to come home to someone who will engage me in mental sparring. I do that all day at work. I want peace and quiet at home. Besides, I don’t want to live the rest of my life in mortal fear.”
“Fear of what?” I asked, still confused.
“Of being found out,” he explained. “Of her proving one day that she is ultimately better than me.”
And what of couples, who are like night and day when it comes to appetites for adventure? I know of one in which the husband is an avid extreme sportsman and the wife is an introvert who prefers to sit at home and cross-stitch. They spend weeks apart: he chasing after the high of cheating death yet again; she stoking the hearth and counting the minutes to his return.
This venture into the realm of mismatched couples was instigated by something I had witnessed at a formal dinner dance recently. We shared a table with this couple that, from the very beginning, seemed as ill-fitted to one another as a clown suit on a skinny man. The husband, resplendent as a thousand-watt bulb and dapper in a cream tuxedo, enveloped us immediately in a warm, electric, highly charged vibe. He was handsome and had an aura of menace about him — a definite chick magnet. He had a wild crop of salt and pepper hair, a sharp sense of humor, and a shoulder span as wide as an Olympic swimmer’s. The wife, on the other hand, was pleasant enough to look at, but her endless fidgeting and nervous demeanor cancelled out all the charm she may have had. She spent the entire evening monitoring all of her husband’s moves. Her eyes were glued fast to him and she held her breath in anticipation of all his actions.
It was puzzling because he did ask her to dance several times, but she refused over and over again. She craned her neck to follow his steps across the expanse of the dance floor each time he found some other partner to boogie with. I sat quietly and observed her, fascinated by the neurosis that seemed to drive this woman, who, from time to time, seemed to be teetering at the edge of sanity. Every time her husband smiled or waved — something he did almost all night — she would snap her head toward whatever direction his gesture had been thrown. If it was directed at a woman, she would give her the evil eye. I could feel hear her breathing heavily and could see her eyes afire with malice and her fists balled by her sides like a woman scorned. Sheesh, I thought to myself, how could someone make herself that miserable? Didn’t she want to boogie and have as much fun as her husband was clearly having?
Once, when the husband exited — to visit the restroom, I presumed — she bolted out of her chair and dashed out to follow him. I, consumed with curiosity, figured that that opportunity to use the restroom was as good a time as any, so I did. I bumped into her pacing the lobby, highly agitated, and darting from one corner of the place to the other. “Looking for your husband?” I asked.
It was an almost-innocent question, but she took it the wrong way. “Of course not!” she scoffed. “Oh,” I continued, “I bet you just want to work off the big dinner you ate,” then I scampered away from her line of fire.
Back at the table, I saw her husband, comfortably seated in his chair. So I asked him where he had been because his wife had been looking frantically for him.
He chuckled and said, “I went for a smoke. Pardon the Gestapo — oh, I mean the wife — she gets that way all the time.”
“What way?” I said, feigning ignorance.
“You, know, that way — like a rabid, jealous wife, wanting to poke her nose into everything I do.”
“And this is okay with you?” I pried, since he seemed all too willing to spill it out.
“Yeah, no sweat.”
“Oh, you like the dance; this little tango you play with her?”
He guffawed. “Well, now that you’ve put it in such an interesting way, yes, I do.” He guffawed some more.
I spent the rest of the evening contemplating the state of their union: a party animal of a husband, and a miserable, nosy wife, running after her own tail, haunted by her own ghosts.
I asked my companion that evening, who had witnessed all of it as well, what he thought of this entire business of mismatched couples, especially the one right beside us. I said to him, “How can that man stay married to someone like that? She gives women a bad name — all that sleuthing and snooping.” In his infinite wisdom, he answered, “What else is there to say? It makes for an interesting life.”
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
The Eternal Boy
We have all met this type of man, this eternal boy. Most of us may have known him fairly intimately as the philandering partner, the irresponsible son, the black sheep sibling, the friend who is always the life of the party, or the elusive boyfriend one just can’t let go of, and yet have never been quite able to touch on his mercurial behavior. He is the perpetual adolescent who is dashing and exciting, and who likes to live dangerously. He has perfected the art of sweeping women off their feet but is totally unable to commit to a relationship. He is Peter Pan. He is James Bond. He is George Clooney. He is the late John-John Kennedy (not John F. Kennedy Jr. as he later came to be known in his adult life) or “Peter Pan with pecs,” as some American pop culture specialists had christened him.
I had gotten to know more of this eternal boy in theory and concept when I attended a workshop conducted by the Friends of Jung Society Philippines on Exploring the Self. Jungian analyst, Marie Louise von Franz (1915-1998), luminary disciple of Carl Jung for 30 years, called this, Puer Aeternus, latin for eternal boy.
This man remains a perpetual 17 or 18-year-old in adulthood, who, despite having everything: financial security; fulfilling job; perfect companion, is afflicted with a vague but discontent. It is a general dissatisfaction that, when verbally expressed, comes out as, “Nothing…but…” in answer to the question, “What’s wrong?” When outsiders assess his life, they ask themselves, “Why can’t he seem to settle down, he’s got everything?” Women, whom the eternal boy attracts in droves because of his extraordinary charm, delude themselves into thinking that they just might be the chosen ones to finally tame him into domesticity. But sooner or later, when the bored and anxious multi-headed monster inside the eternal boy finally surfaces, the stress and the frustration shred the women’s self-esteem because of failure to pin him down and make an honest man out of him.
Filipino society, which remains conservative in the matter of domestic arrangements, where church marriages remain the norm, and cohabitations and casual long-term liaisons are still frowned upon, the slippery eternal boy has been labeled a deviant. This elusiveness has been called a “problem” by older people; a personality disorder by some professionals; or commitment phobia by women who are after an engagement ring. His mother may quickly come to his defense by saying, “Oh, he just hasn’t found the right girl, yet,” depending on the degree of her attachment to him. If she is the rabid sort of Pinoy mother, who has made managing her son’s affairs her vocation in life, she may the one personally responsible for shooing away all the women who may be prospective partners.
Parents and friends of women he has wronged have condemned the eternal boy by tagging him playboy, or pabling, or even gago. What we may not be aware of is that the phenomenon of the eternal boy is deeply rooted in his relationship with his mother. He may not be inherently bad. He is simply trapped in what we have come to know as the Mama’s Boy syndrome. And since his mother has orchestrated this dysfunctional relationship since the eternal boy’s birth, his fate has been completely out of his control. In other words he did not have a choice; he did not bring this upon himself.
This phenomenon happens when a mother fails to find emotional fulfillment from her own husband. Her tendency is to redirect these needs to her son. Both become emotionally welded to each other in the process. The son becomes the mother’s emotional husband, thus the term “Emotional Incest,” which has come out of late as a more graphic description of the dysfunctional alliance. This results in the son’s inability to relate to women his own age and to sustain meaningful relationships.
When he grows up, every time an eternal boy zeroes in on a woman of choice, he projects his mother’s image on to her and does everything in his capacity to win her. But the moment he has taken possession of her, he disengages, because the nagging feeling of the what else is there syndrome or the is this all there is syndrome sets in, yet again.
Jungian analysis shows that the eternal boy has been made to feel special very early on either by his mother, or by himself. This latter phenomenon happens when a boy is neglected, making him resort to creating his own fantasy of being special. Whichever the case, the underlying concept is the feeling of being special. However, the self-inflicted mode of thinking is said to be more harmful than that instilled by the mother because the latter is a form of delusion.
Everything for the eternal boy is provisional and temporary. He is unable to commit to any long-term relationship because of the fear that the situation is ultimately not where he wants to be. This attitude may last an entire lifetime. He is said to have a Messianic or Savior complex. He enjoys the feeling of saving someone helpless from a problematic situation. He immediately assumes the role of gallant knight in shining armor only for the rescued damsel to realize very soon that this knight will gallop away shortly after the rescue, never to return again.
The eternal boy has a fascination with danger as a form escaping reality, which to their thinking is harsh and confining. He turns to extreme sports—sky diving, racing, mountain climbing, etc.—as his ticket to getting as far away from earth as possible. He is infamously impatient and easily bored, so to avoid boredom, he turns his entire life into a game. He cannot deal with mundane matters and the tedium of the everyday. He is incapable of grounding himself in real life and is therefore not equipped to deal with family matters—playing the role of husband and father and raising children. He may try to settle down into married life but all odds point to his, one day, walking out without a care. He might have spurts of intense interest and manic performance in certain projects but for limited periods of time and this, just as easily, wanes. Holding a 9 to 5 job will be the death of him.
We may wonder why many women are attracted to the eternal boy even with all his glaring flaws, but the truth is, he is extremely hard to resist. There is always something otherworldly about him. He is charming and effervescent like champagne and one gets heady and giddy in his company. When he speaks, he sounds very mature and full of empathy, which is misleading because he is not in touch with his true self.
The question that needs to be addressed then is, “Is there redemption for the eternal boy?” Jungian psychology has always been about transformation and individuation so, yes, there is. Self-awareness is key. If the eternal boy becomes fully aware of his plight, he can start his own transformation by stepping away from his mother’s clutches. In other societies, military service is a viable option that will have profound effects. While our own culture doesn’t make it easy for men to become adults because of the “doting Filipina mother” syndrome and the “live at home until you’re married no matter how long it takes” syndrome, sending a son to study abroad or in another city—anything that involves physical separation—will do the job.
The task will be a bloody one. Imagine having to extricate oneself from a mother who follows a toddler son’s every step, who lovingly wipes his brow and inserts a lampin under his shirt to absorb sweat, who spoon-feeds him and bathes him long after he has learned to do so himself, who provides him with a yaya, who becomes the surrogate in her brief absences, who demands calls or text messages from him several times a day, and who refuses to send him away for vacation or for studies because she might die of loneliness but masks it as concern for his safety.
But there is good news: even if the mother refuses to let her eternal boy go, he may save himself by completely disengaging and moving somewhere far from her reaches.
There is that cliché, “A boy can only grow up once he breaks his mother’s heart,” that may have been coined precisely for this situation. But for this to be consummated, once the son disengages, the mother, in her devastation, must acknowledge the offense and the hurt. There is an anecdote on how one stubborn mother tried desperately to cling to his son. He intentionally committed indiscretions to cut her apron strings and in one confrontation blurted out to her, “I keep trying to break your heart but you keep forgiving me!”
So mothers, let go! Give up the mother-son drama and help make this world a better place by doing this singular, divine act of thoroughly and unconditionally letting go.
I had gotten to know more of this eternal boy in theory and concept when I attended a workshop conducted by the Friends of Jung Society Philippines on Exploring the Self. Jungian analyst, Marie Louise von Franz (1915-1998), luminary disciple of Carl Jung for 30 years, called this, Puer Aeternus, latin for eternal boy.
This man remains a perpetual 17 or 18-year-old in adulthood, who, despite having everything: financial security; fulfilling job; perfect companion, is afflicted with a vague but discontent. It is a general dissatisfaction that, when verbally expressed, comes out as, “Nothing…but…” in answer to the question, “What’s wrong?” When outsiders assess his life, they ask themselves, “Why can’t he seem to settle down, he’s got everything?” Women, whom the eternal boy attracts in droves because of his extraordinary charm, delude themselves into thinking that they just might be the chosen ones to finally tame him into domesticity. But sooner or later, when the bored and anxious multi-headed monster inside the eternal boy finally surfaces, the stress and the frustration shred the women’s self-esteem because of failure to pin him down and make an honest man out of him.
Filipino society, which remains conservative in the matter of domestic arrangements, where church marriages remain the norm, and cohabitations and casual long-term liaisons are still frowned upon, the slippery eternal boy has been labeled a deviant. This elusiveness has been called a “problem” by older people; a personality disorder by some professionals; or commitment phobia by women who are after an engagement ring. His mother may quickly come to his defense by saying, “Oh, he just hasn’t found the right girl, yet,” depending on the degree of her attachment to him. If she is the rabid sort of Pinoy mother, who has made managing her son’s affairs her vocation in life, she may the one personally responsible for shooing away all the women who may be prospective partners.
Parents and friends of women he has wronged have condemned the eternal boy by tagging him playboy, or pabling, or even gago. What we may not be aware of is that the phenomenon of the eternal boy is deeply rooted in his relationship with his mother. He may not be inherently bad. He is simply trapped in what we have come to know as the Mama’s Boy syndrome. And since his mother has orchestrated this dysfunctional relationship since the eternal boy’s birth, his fate has been completely out of his control. In other words he did not have a choice; he did not bring this upon himself.
This phenomenon happens when a mother fails to find emotional fulfillment from her own husband. Her tendency is to redirect these needs to her son. Both become emotionally welded to each other in the process. The son becomes the mother’s emotional husband, thus the term “Emotional Incest,” which has come out of late as a more graphic description of the dysfunctional alliance. This results in the son’s inability to relate to women his own age and to sustain meaningful relationships.
When he grows up, every time an eternal boy zeroes in on a woman of choice, he projects his mother’s image on to her and does everything in his capacity to win her. But the moment he has taken possession of her, he disengages, because the nagging feeling of the what else is there syndrome or the is this all there is syndrome sets in, yet again.
Jungian analysis shows that the eternal boy has been made to feel special very early on either by his mother, or by himself. This latter phenomenon happens when a boy is neglected, making him resort to creating his own fantasy of being special. Whichever the case, the underlying concept is the feeling of being special. However, the self-inflicted mode of thinking is said to be more harmful than that instilled by the mother because the latter is a form of delusion.
Everything for the eternal boy is provisional and temporary. He is unable to commit to any long-term relationship because of the fear that the situation is ultimately not where he wants to be. This attitude may last an entire lifetime. He is said to have a Messianic or Savior complex. He enjoys the feeling of saving someone helpless from a problematic situation. He immediately assumes the role of gallant knight in shining armor only for the rescued damsel to realize very soon that this knight will gallop away shortly after the rescue, never to return again.
The eternal boy has a fascination with danger as a form escaping reality, which to their thinking is harsh and confining. He turns to extreme sports—sky diving, racing, mountain climbing, etc.—as his ticket to getting as far away from earth as possible. He is infamously impatient and easily bored, so to avoid boredom, he turns his entire life into a game. He cannot deal with mundane matters and the tedium of the everyday. He is incapable of grounding himself in real life and is therefore not equipped to deal with family matters—playing the role of husband and father and raising children. He may try to settle down into married life but all odds point to his, one day, walking out without a care. He might have spurts of intense interest and manic performance in certain projects but for limited periods of time and this, just as easily, wanes. Holding a 9 to 5 job will be the death of him.
We may wonder why many women are attracted to the eternal boy even with all his glaring flaws, but the truth is, he is extremely hard to resist. There is always something otherworldly about him. He is charming and effervescent like champagne and one gets heady and giddy in his company. When he speaks, he sounds very mature and full of empathy, which is misleading because he is not in touch with his true self.
The question that needs to be addressed then is, “Is there redemption for the eternal boy?” Jungian psychology has always been about transformation and individuation so, yes, there is. Self-awareness is key. If the eternal boy becomes fully aware of his plight, he can start his own transformation by stepping away from his mother’s clutches. In other societies, military service is a viable option that will have profound effects. While our own culture doesn’t make it easy for men to become adults because of the “doting Filipina mother” syndrome and the “live at home until you’re married no matter how long it takes” syndrome, sending a son to study abroad or in another city—anything that involves physical separation—will do the job.
The task will be a bloody one. Imagine having to extricate oneself from a mother who follows a toddler son’s every step, who lovingly wipes his brow and inserts a lampin under his shirt to absorb sweat, who spoon-feeds him and bathes him long after he has learned to do so himself, who provides him with a yaya, who becomes the surrogate in her brief absences, who demands calls or text messages from him several times a day, and who refuses to send him away for vacation or for studies because she might die of loneliness but masks it as concern for his safety.
But there is good news: even if the mother refuses to let her eternal boy go, he may save himself by completely disengaging and moving somewhere far from her reaches.
There is that cliché, “A boy can only grow up once he breaks his mother’s heart,” that may have been coined precisely for this situation. But for this to be consummated, once the son disengages, the mother, in her devastation, must acknowledge the offense and the hurt. There is an anecdote on how one stubborn mother tried desperately to cling to his son. He intentionally committed indiscretions to cut her apron strings and in one confrontation blurted out to her, “I keep trying to break your heart but you keep forgiving me!”
So mothers, let go! Give up the mother-son drama and help make this world a better place by doing this singular, divine act of thoroughly and unconditionally letting go.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Hijacked in a Hardware Store
I thought that if I walked into a hardware store, it would be like entering a dungeon, some sort of subterranean underbelly,where strange, mystical things happened. I don’t know where this preconception came from. It could have sprouted from the unfortunate fact that I am mechanically challenged. I am clueless about how things work and don’t really care. If something broke down, I figure I could call on a man to fix it. I know: how primitive an outlook for someone tasked with spotlighting gender differences. Well, I grew up in a household where the male members—fast Eddies all—fixed everything before I could even figure out what had actually broken down.
The concept of hardware stores carries a kind of mystique for women, I imagine, something akin to how any man would view a lingerie store. We all know what’s in there, we’re just not quite sure if we want to enter, and if we actually do step in, how we might be viewed by the insiders, and how we might handle the entire experience. Lets’ face it, the hardware store is more the realm of the male species, just like the lingerie store is more the female’s. So that having to cut across boundaries is often met with hesitation--even trepidation, perhaps. Put more directly, I have yet to meet a woman who says that she is happiest and most comfortable in a hardware store.
I had just moved to another house and had been, quite harshly, thrust into the world of hardware merchandise. While everybody else has been consumed with the more daunting tasks of sourcing wood, tiles, and paint, and supervising teams of workmen, I have had to deal with the smaller things: hunting for sturdy floor mops, dust rags that actually work, disinfectants, kitchen drawer dividers, spice racks, etc. Predictably, I had not a clue on where to start looking for these. I asked a friend and he, mortified at my major blonde moment, snapped, “At any hardware, of course!” “What? Hardware?” I blurted out. Unwilling to implicate myself even more, I called up my brother, who had a rip-roaring laugh on the other line. “You? Hardware store?” He guffawed. “Okay,” I told him, “Now that I’ve entertained you for a few precious minutes, can you please pay back with information on hardware stores?”
So he gave me all the tips I needed, in between chuckles, and I went about the task. It wasn’t as I had expected. It was not a male bastion with free-floating testosterone in every aisle. There were, to my surprise, women: cashiers, but that’s all. There were no female sales staff and no female customers except for myself. It might have been too early in the day, I thought to myself; it was 10 am, women were probably mothering and housekeeping still before they embarked on their other errands. I speak here of homemakers because the gallant women in the corporate world were already on their desks, changing the world.
The place was actually quite pleasant, like any grocery store, well organized and well lit. There were no dusty bins filled with rusty screws and nails and creep-crawly spiders like I had anticipated. It took some time for me to make peace with the fact that I had actually made it in there. And now, more than a dozen pairs of male eyes were waiting for my next move. But I really didn’t know whether I wanted help just yet, unwilling to give away how totally clueless I was. But they, of course, knew, the moment I walked in, that I was in for the slaughter.
“Where can I find a good glass cleaner?” it finally came out of me. “In the glass cleaner aisle,” one of the red-vested men answered me emphatically. Duh, I thought. I don’t know if I was imagining it but he seemed to be gloating. Oh, he probably had a fight with his wife and was getting back on the entire species by acting out at me. I moved along in search of the glass cleaner walking down the wide center aisle. I looked back after several steps and found the same number of eyes trailing me down and closing in, like tunnel vision syndrome. It’s like the walk of shame, I told myself. I scurried on and after a few twists and turns, found what I was looking for.
Poised smack in the middle was a diminutive man in that regulation red vest, looking like a Christmas elf. “May, I help you, Ma’am?” he asked immediately. “I’m looking for a good glass cleaner, something to take smudges off, you know.” He then came back to me in rapid fire, “What kind of glass, Ma’am? Regular, tempered, frosted, etched, tinted, bulletproof? One fourth inch, half, three fourths, one inch, or more? Local or imported? Window glass or table top?”
I was in shock, horrified at my own ignorance on something that seemed like a matter of life and death to this gentleman. “Ah, just ordinary glass, any glass.” He was obviously disappointed at my inability to provide the information he needed to work with. He jerked his eyebrows upward and said, “Hooo-kaaay, let’s see, here are your options” He snatched several bottles from the shelf and presented them one by one. The bottle with the blue liquid was the first one he held out. “This,” he lectured, “is good, very good but it has a good percentage of ammonia so it will do the job but it will emit fumes and it is harsh on the hands.” I grunted. He then lifted up the orange one. “This has a nice orange scent, has very little ammonia, but you will need a lot to erase many smudges.” And then he sort of shook his head several times and muttered under his breath, “since you’re not giving me much here…I don’t know what you’re trying to fix, one smudge, many smudges, what kind of smudge, who made the smudge…” I remained verbally constipated. He then lifted the purple one, “This you might like because the color is pretty, and purple is my mother’s favorite color.” Not wanting to annoy him further, I just said, “Okay, the purple then, I’ll take the purple.” Then, he asked, “Is there anything else?” “Yes,” I answered, “Since I’m already here and you might have it, I’m not sure, do you carry oven mitts?” “Sure,” he answered, his eyes twinkling again. “You follow me. What kind do you like: quilted, double-sided, saddle-stitched, reinforced, lined? With asbestos pads, cotton, polyester, compound fabric, flame retardant, silicone? Wrist, mid-arm, or elbow length? Printed, plain, floral? We have a special on denim.” The barrage of information was too much for me to handle. I felt like I was defensive husband, who was a few hours late for dinner, and was being grilled by a possessive wife. “Well, if you were me, what would you pick?” I asked. Without a moment’s hesitation he said, “The denim. It’s on sale; it has flame retardant and not as hot and heavy as the one with asbestos. It’s a good color, it won’t make your hands look fat.” Amen!
I think I walked of there a tiny bit wiser. You know how women often complain that men don’t talk. Well, that’s because they’re not interested in the subject. But engage them with something up their alley--gadgets, sports, politics, the economy, etc.--they probably wouldn’t stop.
Hardware store salesmen are like competent doctors who save us from the horrors of domestic decay. Mechanical queries get their blood rushing. Of course, we can clean your glass. Certainly, we can stop your door from squeaking. And no, the washing machine doesn’t need a quadruple bypass, just a change of hose. The fellow who assisted me was like a paramedic. Ours was a typical hardware store conversation, a cry for help from the heart of suburbia from a clueless female. He, being male, wanted to fix it, simply because he could.
The concept of hardware stores carries a kind of mystique for women, I imagine, something akin to how any man would view a lingerie store. We all know what’s in there, we’re just not quite sure if we want to enter, and if we actually do step in, how we might be viewed by the insiders, and how we might handle the entire experience. Lets’ face it, the hardware store is more the realm of the male species, just like the lingerie store is more the female’s. So that having to cut across boundaries is often met with hesitation--even trepidation, perhaps. Put more directly, I have yet to meet a woman who says that she is happiest and most comfortable in a hardware store.
I had just moved to another house and had been, quite harshly, thrust into the world of hardware merchandise. While everybody else has been consumed with the more daunting tasks of sourcing wood, tiles, and paint, and supervising teams of workmen, I have had to deal with the smaller things: hunting for sturdy floor mops, dust rags that actually work, disinfectants, kitchen drawer dividers, spice racks, etc. Predictably, I had not a clue on where to start looking for these. I asked a friend and he, mortified at my major blonde moment, snapped, “At any hardware, of course!” “What? Hardware?” I blurted out. Unwilling to implicate myself even more, I called up my brother, who had a rip-roaring laugh on the other line. “You? Hardware store?” He guffawed. “Okay,” I told him, “Now that I’ve entertained you for a few precious minutes, can you please pay back with information on hardware stores?”
So he gave me all the tips I needed, in between chuckles, and I went about the task. It wasn’t as I had expected. It was not a male bastion with free-floating testosterone in every aisle. There were, to my surprise, women: cashiers, but that’s all. There were no female sales staff and no female customers except for myself. It might have been too early in the day, I thought to myself; it was 10 am, women were probably mothering and housekeeping still before they embarked on their other errands. I speak here of homemakers because the gallant women in the corporate world were already on their desks, changing the world.
The place was actually quite pleasant, like any grocery store, well organized and well lit. There were no dusty bins filled with rusty screws and nails and creep-crawly spiders like I had anticipated. It took some time for me to make peace with the fact that I had actually made it in there. And now, more than a dozen pairs of male eyes were waiting for my next move. But I really didn’t know whether I wanted help just yet, unwilling to give away how totally clueless I was. But they, of course, knew, the moment I walked in, that I was in for the slaughter.
“Where can I find a good glass cleaner?” it finally came out of me. “In the glass cleaner aisle,” one of the red-vested men answered me emphatically. Duh, I thought. I don’t know if I was imagining it but he seemed to be gloating. Oh, he probably had a fight with his wife and was getting back on the entire species by acting out at me. I moved along in search of the glass cleaner walking down the wide center aisle. I looked back after several steps and found the same number of eyes trailing me down and closing in, like tunnel vision syndrome. It’s like the walk of shame, I told myself. I scurried on and after a few twists and turns, found what I was looking for.
Poised smack in the middle was a diminutive man in that regulation red vest, looking like a Christmas elf. “May, I help you, Ma’am?” he asked immediately. “I’m looking for a good glass cleaner, something to take smudges off, you know.” He then came back to me in rapid fire, “What kind of glass, Ma’am? Regular, tempered, frosted, etched, tinted, bulletproof? One fourth inch, half, three fourths, one inch, or more? Local or imported? Window glass or table top?”
I was in shock, horrified at my own ignorance on something that seemed like a matter of life and death to this gentleman. “Ah, just ordinary glass, any glass.” He was obviously disappointed at my inability to provide the information he needed to work with. He jerked his eyebrows upward and said, “Hooo-kaaay, let’s see, here are your options” He snatched several bottles from the shelf and presented them one by one. The bottle with the blue liquid was the first one he held out. “This,” he lectured, “is good, very good but it has a good percentage of ammonia so it will do the job but it will emit fumes and it is harsh on the hands.” I grunted. He then lifted up the orange one. “This has a nice orange scent, has very little ammonia, but you will need a lot to erase many smudges.” And then he sort of shook his head several times and muttered under his breath, “since you’re not giving me much here…I don’t know what you’re trying to fix, one smudge, many smudges, what kind of smudge, who made the smudge…” I remained verbally constipated. He then lifted the purple one, “This you might like because the color is pretty, and purple is my mother’s favorite color.” Not wanting to annoy him further, I just said, “Okay, the purple then, I’ll take the purple.” Then, he asked, “Is there anything else?” “Yes,” I answered, “Since I’m already here and you might have it, I’m not sure, do you carry oven mitts?” “Sure,” he answered, his eyes twinkling again. “You follow me. What kind do you like: quilted, double-sided, saddle-stitched, reinforced, lined? With asbestos pads, cotton, polyester, compound fabric, flame retardant, silicone? Wrist, mid-arm, or elbow length? Printed, plain, floral? We have a special on denim.” The barrage of information was too much for me to handle. I felt like I was defensive husband, who was a few hours late for dinner, and was being grilled by a possessive wife. “Well, if you were me, what would you pick?” I asked. Without a moment’s hesitation he said, “The denim. It’s on sale; it has flame retardant and not as hot and heavy as the one with asbestos. It’s a good color, it won’t make your hands look fat.” Amen!
I think I walked of there a tiny bit wiser. You know how women often complain that men don’t talk. Well, that’s because they’re not interested in the subject. But engage them with something up their alley--gadgets, sports, politics, the economy, etc.--they probably wouldn’t stop.
Hardware store salesmen are like competent doctors who save us from the horrors of domestic decay. Mechanical queries get their blood rushing. Of course, we can clean your glass. Certainly, we can stop your door from squeaking. And no, the washing machine doesn’t need a quadruple bypass, just a change of hose. The fellow who assisted me was like a paramedic. Ours was a typical hardware store conversation, a cry for help from the heart of suburbia from a clueless female. He, being male, wanted to fix it, simply because he could.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Freudian Slip
The conversation was about relationships. A cousin-in-law was recounting how his teenage daughter had started asking him about his past relationships, demanding specifics at certain points. “Just how much information do I give her?” he asked us, a group of middle-aged women.
“As little as possible!” we all rang out in a chorus.
His brother, who was well within earshot, swiveled his chair to face us and butted in, “Play safe, just follow the golden rule, bro, you know, the rule of three. Tell her you had three girlfriends—three relationships ranging from three months to three years. Don’t be the genius that you are and mention the three-day one.”
“Listen to your brother,” the women said, “He seems to know what he’s talking about.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “So I’ll just tell my daughter that I had three wholesome, monotonous relationships. No! MONOGAMOUS! I meant monogamous!”
He immediately realized the faux pas but his efforts to redeem himself the whole night were unsuccessful. All 18 dinner guests had rip-roaring fun at his expense.
A Freudian slip, or parapraxis, according to Wikipedia, is an error of speech, memory, or physical action, that is believed to be caused by the unconscious mind. Sigmund Freud (1856-1939), the famous Austrian physician who founded the psychoanalytical school of psychology, would have risen from his grave if he could that night, for yet another triumph over the accuracy of his theory on the subliminal mind—the deepest, darkest, most latent thoughts and desires of humans—and how it manifests itself subconsciously.
Freudian slips are what such involuntarily spoken words have come to be known because Freud believed that verbal slips come from repressed desires. These are very telling mistakes that compromise the speaker in different ways, sometimes costing him so much more than just earning clown status for a few hours.
Freud is best known for his theories on the unconscious mind and on the defense mechanism of repression. He is also known for his redefinition of sexual desire as the primary motivational energy of human life. He believed that man’s psyche is saturated with only two types of thoughts: sex and death, and that its most intricate workings are fueled solely by these two concepts. As civilization advanced, boundaries of propriety were defined and the open expressions of these were pronounced taboo, so that man has had to bury them in the recesses of his mind. But from time to time, at man’s most unguarded moments, these potent thoughts surface. In more simple terms, Freudian slips are words that are consciously repressed but unconsciously released. Freud had described such thoughts, as being very faithful to a man’s frame of mind and emotions, as violently as he may disown them.
And so, going back to the previous conversation, did my cousin-in-law just reveal his most secret thoughts on how monogamous relationships are indeed monotonous? Absolutely!
I can say with confidence that those who have been in exclusive relationships for long periods of time agree with this, as bold a statement as might be. In fact, it takes hard work to sustain the excitement in any long-term union. A friend who likes to improvise and whose wife guards him like a hawk, prefers to call it "hard labor in a maximum security facility," and based on the same premise, refers to himself a “lifer.”
One of my favorite authors, Pulitzer-prize winner Jhumpa Lahiri, through one of her short stories said that, “When couples get married, the relationship disappears.” This may not be very far from the truth. The tedium of the everyday just about murders whatever magic there might be in any relationship be it subliminal or otherwise. Those who have partners who snore like dying cows; who pick their noses compulsively as though it were their sole purpose in life; who shower the world profusely with saliva every time they speak; who, not only refuse to open doors, but beat you to entering once you open it yourself; who think they look like Brad Pitt, when in fact, Will Ferrel in Blades of Glory or Seth Rogen in Knocked Up might be the more realistic look-alike; whose idea of a stimulating conversation is a quick exchange on how Manny Pacquiao should spend his millions; who give you dried-flower arrangements instead of fresh cut flowers for your birthday so they last forever and expect a pat on the back for practicality, know exactly what I’m talking about.
Cautionary tales have been disseminated time and again by the experienced, older generation to the young ones who contemplate marriage but has there ever been a concrete and concerted effort to truly catalogue what lies in store, several years down the road, when monotony, may in fact, describe the relationship more accurately than monogamy?
A wise female professor, who is now in her sixties, pointed out how truly incongruous the mentality of men and women are. “We are on completely different planes,” she said. She hadn’t reinvented the wheel with this statement but she went on to explain that this disparity between the sexes doesn’t get as clear as when couples reach the golden years. “When a man hits 6o years old, he looks forward to retiring, to slowing down, and to finally spending time at home with family. But the wife, who at around this age—well within the menopause years—is raring to go forth and conquer the world. You see,” she went on, “During menopause, a woman’s center of procreation is literally shut down, so all the energy for creation must be channeled somewhere else. This is why every menopausal woman suddenly busies herself with all sorts of projects. The last thing she wants is to stay home and be idle. That’s how incongruous it is.”
I had a moment of clarity after she said all that. Things suddenly became clear, a bit skewed and all—yes, but clear nonetheless. Taking these two arguments together, it may be reasonable to say that we get bored with our respective partners until we hit sixty, and then we finally have legitimate biological and chemical reasons to strike out on our own. Not funny; I know, but it was quite liberating to actually say so.
Back to monogamy and monotony. Have we finally come upon the real reason why men huddle together and migrate to one side of the room at parties and women on the other? That it’s because they find their relationships monotonous? Well, we’ll have them know that the reason women clump together as a formidable group at such occasions is to discuss them: how their very own loud snores rouse them into rude awakenings; how their feet stink so much that they make dead rats smell like a botanical garden; and how they break wind every time they crouch to put on their trousers because their tummies get squished in the process, releasing all the trapped air. So mean; yes, I know. But that’s what happens when women get bored. What about when men get bored, what do they do? Sometimes they simply talk; at others, they do! But let’s not go there.
So what must men and women do until they hit 60? Laugh at ourselves, at each other, and the world at large, I guess. And what of those who don’t have a sense of humor? Well, there’s not much choice but to grin and bear it!
“As little as possible!” we all rang out in a chorus.
His brother, who was well within earshot, swiveled his chair to face us and butted in, “Play safe, just follow the golden rule, bro, you know, the rule of three. Tell her you had three girlfriends—three relationships ranging from three months to three years. Don’t be the genius that you are and mention the three-day one.”
“Listen to your brother,” the women said, “He seems to know what he’s talking about.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “So I’ll just tell my daughter that I had three wholesome, monotonous relationships. No! MONOGAMOUS! I meant monogamous!”
He immediately realized the faux pas but his efforts to redeem himself the whole night were unsuccessful. All 18 dinner guests had rip-roaring fun at his expense.
A Freudian slip, or parapraxis, according to Wikipedia, is an error of speech, memory, or physical action, that is believed to be caused by the unconscious mind. Sigmund Freud (1856-1939), the famous Austrian physician who founded the psychoanalytical school of psychology, would have risen from his grave if he could that night, for yet another triumph over the accuracy of his theory on the subliminal mind—the deepest, darkest, most latent thoughts and desires of humans—and how it manifests itself subconsciously.
Freudian slips are what such involuntarily spoken words have come to be known because Freud believed that verbal slips come from repressed desires. These are very telling mistakes that compromise the speaker in different ways, sometimes costing him so much more than just earning clown status for a few hours.
Freud is best known for his theories on the unconscious mind and on the defense mechanism of repression. He is also known for his redefinition of sexual desire as the primary motivational energy of human life. He believed that man’s psyche is saturated with only two types of thoughts: sex and death, and that its most intricate workings are fueled solely by these two concepts. As civilization advanced, boundaries of propriety were defined and the open expressions of these were pronounced taboo, so that man has had to bury them in the recesses of his mind. But from time to time, at man’s most unguarded moments, these potent thoughts surface. In more simple terms, Freudian slips are words that are consciously repressed but unconsciously released. Freud had described such thoughts, as being very faithful to a man’s frame of mind and emotions, as violently as he may disown them.
And so, going back to the previous conversation, did my cousin-in-law just reveal his most secret thoughts on how monogamous relationships are indeed monotonous? Absolutely!
I can say with confidence that those who have been in exclusive relationships for long periods of time agree with this, as bold a statement as might be. In fact, it takes hard work to sustain the excitement in any long-term union. A friend who likes to improvise and whose wife guards him like a hawk, prefers to call it "hard labor in a maximum security facility," and based on the same premise, refers to himself a “lifer.”
One of my favorite authors, Pulitzer-prize winner Jhumpa Lahiri, through one of her short stories said that, “When couples get married, the relationship disappears.” This may not be very far from the truth. The tedium of the everyday just about murders whatever magic there might be in any relationship be it subliminal or otherwise. Those who have partners who snore like dying cows; who pick their noses compulsively as though it were their sole purpose in life; who shower the world profusely with saliva every time they speak; who, not only refuse to open doors, but beat you to entering once you open it yourself; who think they look like Brad Pitt, when in fact, Will Ferrel in Blades of Glory or Seth Rogen in Knocked Up might be the more realistic look-alike; whose idea of a stimulating conversation is a quick exchange on how Manny Pacquiao should spend his millions; who give you dried-flower arrangements instead of fresh cut flowers for your birthday so they last forever and expect a pat on the back for practicality, know exactly what I’m talking about.
Cautionary tales have been disseminated time and again by the experienced, older generation to the young ones who contemplate marriage but has there ever been a concrete and concerted effort to truly catalogue what lies in store, several years down the road, when monotony, may in fact, describe the relationship more accurately than monogamy?
A wise female professor, who is now in her sixties, pointed out how truly incongruous the mentality of men and women are. “We are on completely different planes,” she said. She hadn’t reinvented the wheel with this statement but she went on to explain that this disparity between the sexes doesn’t get as clear as when couples reach the golden years. “When a man hits 6o years old, he looks forward to retiring, to slowing down, and to finally spending time at home with family. But the wife, who at around this age—well within the menopause years—is raring to go forth and conquer the world. You see,” she went on, “During menopause, a woman’s center of procreation is literally shut down, so all the energy for creation must be channeled somewhere else. This is why every menopausal woman suddenly busies herself with all sorts of projects. The last thing she wants is to stay home and be idle. That’s how incongruous it is.”
I had a moment of clarity after she said all that. Things suddenly became clear, a bit skewed and all—yes, but clear nonetheless. Taking these two arguments together, it may be reasonable to say that we get bored with our respective partners until we hit sixty, and then we finally have legitimate biological and chemical reasons to strike out on our own. Not funny; I know, but it was quite liberating to actually say so.
Back to monogamy and monotony. Have we finally come upon the real reason why men huddle together and migrate to one side of the room at parties and women on the other? That it’s because they find their relationships monotonous? Well, we’ll have them know that the reason women clump together as a formidable group at such occasions is to discuss them: how their very own loud snores rouse them into rude awakenings; how their feet stink so much that they make dead rats smell like a botanical garden; and how they break wind every time they crouch to put on their trousers because their tummies get squished in the process, releasing all the trapped air. So mean; yes, I know. But that’s what happens when women get bored. What about when men get bored, what do they do? Sometimes they simply talk; at others, they do! But let’s not go there.
So what must men and women do until they hit 60? Laugh at ourselves, at each other, and the world at large, I guess. And what of those who don’t have a sense of humor? Well, there’s not much choice but to grin and bear it!
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