...he prefers to live miserable and indolent, rather than play the part of the wretchedbeast of burden. —From ‘The Indolence of the Filipino,’ Jose Rizal
Where in the world is Juan Tamad?
Do the young people still know who Juan Tamad is?
At a glance
Do the young people still know who Juan Tamad is? Few characters in Philippine folklore are closer to our national identity, especially when supported by such historic documents as Jose Rizal’s “The Indolence of the Filipino.”
Not that Rizal’s essay says it’s true. In fact, I’d say it is unfortunate that the essay is so titled. I find it misleading, if only because I’m confident that while so many are familiar with the essay’s title, so few have read as much as its first paragraph.
But growing up, I had this selfnotion that I was lazy. In those days, or at least in my family, and at that age, hard work was if you could be relied on with some household chores. Did I wash the dishes? Only when my mother made me. Did I like it? As a matter of fact, I sometimes did, given a certain mood. If I did, trust that not only would the glassware and the flatware gleam and sparkle, so would the sink and every square inch of tile that surrounded it. But I guess I left my bed unmade too often that prompted enough adults around me, my mother included, to call me tamad (lazy).
I would spend days on end hunkered on my desk writing poems, short stories, or novellas, but maybe that did not count, not when I was in grade school and what I was doing was for pure pleasure, not for grades, not for a school activity, not to meet some academic standard. I can’t fault them entirely: I did find it such a chore to do what others asked of me, parents, teachers, aunts and uncles, and the parish priest.
I spent my childhood reading books, but maybe that did not count, too, not when I was in bed, lost in the pages, or sprawled on the sofa in the living room, or swinging to and fro in a hammock on the terrace. Come to think of it, that was so like Juan Tamad lying under a tree waiting for a fruit to fall, especially when the adults around me would rather I do something else, like scrubbing the floor or cleaning the windows. Rizal did say in his exploration of what others claimed to be our slothful character that it must be the weather. “An hour’s work under that burning sun, in the midst of pernicious influences springing from nature in activity, is equal to a day’s work in a temperate climate,” he wrote. So if, say, the Japanese, touted to be among the most hardworking of the world’s peoples, happened to be right where we are, where there are only two seasons—sunny and sunnier with brief interruptions of violent rain or calamitous storms— would they be as sluggish and lackadaisical?
“A hot climate requires of the individual quiet and rest, just us the cold incites to labor and action.” That’s yet another quote from the essay and I dare say it is very true. In cases of brownout, for instance, especially in the summer months, when the temperature could climb as high as the 40s, I’d sure try to limit my movement to a flutter of the lashes, or else I would be reduced to sweat.
“But Filipinos are not lazy,” said an Indian man I met in Hong Kong, only an hour away from Manila by plane but has all the seasons—winter, spring, summer, and fall—we would have enjoyed if our islands moved just a few thousand square kilometers away from the equator. He was the limousine driver assigned to me during one of my trips.
Before you heave a sigh of relief, that was not all he said. The complete sentence was “But Filipinos are not lazy, only the men are.” His observation was drawn from what little he knew about the plight of our domestic helpers, our heroes in Hong Kong. What a hasty generalization!
But have you seen our OFWs gather on a Sunday, on their day off, around the Mandarin Oriental Hong Kong in Central, just outside Chanel, where they have moved many years ago after the Indonesians took over Victoria Park in Causeway Bay? I sure must have seen men, but they have by far been overshadowed by the women writing love letters on wrinkled yellow paper to their husbands at home, who between trips to the bank to collect the remittances would drink away the loneliness of being away from their wives, along with some, if not most, of the money, at the street corner store. That’s not just a figment of my imagination, is it? I’m trying to be as hasty in my generalization here as the man I met in Hong Kong, but maybe more of us have learned to sit back and not feel guilty about it. No longer is it called laziness, but a simple, forgotten pleasure, one we have chosen to deprive ourselves of in our pursuit of success that generations ago meant pleasing an employer who might just make all our dreams come true.
In my small circle of 40 friends-since-college, if I may illustrate the point, at least six have had the luxury of retiring at 40 or younger, half of them men, who are now just doing business on the side of their main occupation that is living the life, being fathers and husbands, and let’s not forget having a siesta in the sweltering tropical afternoons this side of paradise while recalling the highlights of their brief stints in the rat race.
I used to think that hard work was overrated. I mean, no matter how industrious a chicken coop cleaner or a limousine driver is, no matter how diligent and dutiful, and no matter how long he stays on in the job, he still has to be exceptionally, if impossibly lucky, to be successful, as we used to define “successful” back in the day, meaning a job that eventually got you a corner office along with a house, a car, money in the bank, and a retirement fund with which you could travel the world in your old age.
Now that I’m older, I translate hard work to passion or to commitment, which is essential in the pursuit of happiness that is at least for some of us no longer synonymous with success. Either that or the acceptance that not all of us can be flying planes for a living or the head of state or the inventor of the next big thing or tomorrow’s superstar.
If we all could be “successful,” who’s going to pick up the garbage, who’s going to stand in the sun or rain directing traffic, who’s going to clean the public toilets? Who’s going to take care of all those children while their parents are away pursuing “success?”
Who’s to say, after all, that the woman who does a fine job playing banana mascot to attract crowds to a smoothie kiosk is any less happy than a top government official bungling the job? Besides, we never know: Matthew McConaughey was the chicken coop cleaner I mentioned, Brad Pitt was the limo driver, and Megan Fox was the banana mascot.
That’s no Hollywood BS (except that it’s still Hollywood). Still, to paraphrase Picasso, yes, there is such a thing as luck, but it has to find you working—and very hard (and preferably elsewhere).