The Balacat heritage

IN THE Capampangan language, the prefix ma- means “full of” or “teeming with.” Thus, a number of towns were presumably named for what was common to the place: Masantol, for the many "santol" trees; Macabebe, for the "cabibi" or shellfish; Magalang, for its very respectful citizens.

While I long assumed that Mexico was named after that other Spanish colony on the other side of the Pacific with which Islas Filipinas had the galleon trade because the timber for those ships came from here, I was told that the name actually evolved from the old Masico. That name conjures two visions though: the town once teemed with chico trees – "sico" to the elderly Capampangans, or the flagrant use of the elbow – "sico" too in the local language – as representative symbol for the way disputes were settled among the "baracos" and "pusacals" in the town.

Then there is Mabalacat. What the heck is "balacat" after which the town was named? With the longevity of the mayor there and the number of his kin in public office, someone who looked like the witty Perry Pangan once said the municipality would have been more appropriately named Mamorales. And he was only half joking.
So "balacat" is a tree. It is to Engineer Rox Pena of Recyclers Foundation Inc. (RFI) and the 2004 Most Outstanding Kapampangan Awardee in the field of environmental protection that we owe our knowledge of this fact. And more.
With the scientific name Zizyphus talanai (Blanco) Merr., the tree that once made a lush forest in the place – thus, Mabalacat – was most valued commercially for its large, long and straight trunk which, Rox said, reached up to a diameter of one meter and a height of 30 meters.
Balacat timber was used for general construction, as in house posts as well as for the masts of ships; furniture and sash, tool handles, turnery, household utensils, baseball bats, among a host of other goods. The branches were also used as sticks in the Filipino martial arts arnis.
With such expansive, and presumably lucrative, commercial use, coupled with the need for land for cultivation and habitation by the early settlers, the depletion of the forest of balacat trees came not long after, said Rox.
Thus it came to pass that succeeding generations of the townspeople forgot all about their heritage tree. Why, even the name they affixed unto themselves – Mabalaqueños – altogether dropped the slightest reference to their town’s origin. The town’s name is not Mabalac, so why must its people be called Mabalaquenos? Should it not be Mabalacateños? Got to consult my seminary brother Robby Tantingco of the Center of Kapampangan Studies on this.
So, where can we find a balacat tree in Mabalacat, I asked Rox.
There is one in front of the Our Lady of Grace Parish Church, he said. But it would not be long before the town will be lush with the balacat trees again, Rox promised.
Already a memorandum of agreement has been signed among the municipality of Mabalacat, the DENR, and RFI to save and propagate the vanishing species through the Balacat Greening Project.
An inventory of the remaining trees has been undertaken along with seed sourcing and propagation. For his part Mayor Boking Morales is set to establish a municipal balacat forest park and will urge the sangguniang bayan to pass a municipal ordinance declaring the balacat as the municipal tree.
Yes, it would not be long for Mabalacat to regain its core essence.

MABALACAT HAS since become a city – after the above piece came out here on Jan. 7, 2008. The forever puede pa Mayor Boking ingloriously unseated in 2017 for overstaying, soundly defeated in his vice mayoralty bid in 2019, and buried in ignominy in his comeback try in 2022.

With Mayor Cris Garbo, reverberated in the city a new mantra – puede pala, as much as for the can-do as for the can-serve kind of local governance he impacted not only upon the city but in other LGUs far and near. More of this in a future feature.

This balacat heritage bit found relevance anew with the announcement this week of an eponymous festival in lieu of the Morales-era Caragan Festival held in the city every February.

Lest it be misconstrued as downgrading if not revising the Aeta part in Mabalacat’s history, or of expunging what still remains of the Boking legacy, the Balacat Festival is – in the words of both purveyors and proponents – a case of righting wrong impression on Mabalacat’s very core essence – the very words with which I closed the short essay above.

The erudite Robby Tantingco – whom I invoked in the story – summed it best: FROM CARAGAN FESTIVAL TO BALACAT FESTIVAL. The change intends to correct the wrong impression created by the previous festival name—that Aetas are the ancestors of the people of Mabalacat.

The change will also bring the focus back to what makes Mabalacat great—the beauty of the land and the strength and resilience of the people, as symbolized by the balacat tree.

Thus, Balacat Festival celebrates the city’s real origin, which is not the Aeta chieftain, but the balacat tree. There is no other place anywhere in the country or the world named after this tree.

Balacat Festival also has a greater name recall, because it comes from the city’s name itself. In addition, Balacat Festival is more inspirational because it resonates more with the people of Mabalacat themselves, not their Aeta brothers and sisters.

Balacat is more than just a tree. Balacat is fortitude, stability and resilience. Balacat is the heart and soul of the city. Balacat is the spirit of its people rising to the sky.

When you say “Mabalacat,” you are not just referring to a place that is full of balacat trees, but to someone who is full of fortitude, stability and resilience. Thus: Capampangan cu. Mabalacat cu. I am a Capampangan. I am a Mabalacat. Masican cu. Matatag cu. Mabalacat cu.

 

      

Past that age

 

GETTING TO 50 was the pits.

The body enters the Age of Pain – the blood pressure shoots up, the head spins, the fingers stiffen, the knee joints creak, the back aches, and it takes longer and harder to get out of bed – irreversibly rushing into an Era of Don’ts, when all the sweetness, the salt, and the spice of life become a forbidden lot.

As though these were not enough a painful infliction, there is yet the most insufferable of all – the quenching of the fire that once ran amuck in one’s loins.

Sans Pfizer’s petrifier, sex at 50 starts becoming mostly a matter of gender, least of lust.

Here though, that biblical passage of the willing spirit, readily giving in to weak flesh assumes a different dimension, if not a higher meaning. Far from, aye, the very opposite of what it has been interpreted to convey – of the frailties of the human body rampaging over any sanctified wish, benevolent intention, noble goal.

Here, it is the grace of spirit that trumps and triumphs over weak, worldly flesh.

Something of an epiphany when I turned 50: with the ebbing of bodily strength, the keenness in matters of the spirit – not necessarily translating to religious revival – suddenly inhered in me.

My daily walk at the village green, transformed from an exhausting physical exercise to an ecstatic spiritual experience, indeed become a joyous occasion for worship.  

The rays of the early morning sun, the canopy of trees, the singing birds perched on their branches, the fluttering butterflies among the wild flowers, all living testaments to the goodness of my God. And for these and all other blessings, I thank you, Lord.     

Songs stir the soul even more – mournful strains as those of Schindler’s List invariably draw – along with a torrent of tears – images of the least of God’s children, in the Sudan, in Somalia, in Syria. Sharing – albeit spiritually – their sufferings, solidarity with them in their sorrows, is an enrichment to the soul.

So, is it not written, “As ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me”?

Weddings become more than mere organized events for fellowship and food but actual partaking, a communion, in the celebration of love. Ah, how they make me cry, even when it’s not my kids, nephews and nieces being wedded. Copious tears of joy, For All We Know and Sunrise, Sunset always bring.

The fullness of love before the altar renews, refreshes all that is reposited in my heart, seeking an expression of its own through sharing, most especially with the unloved.

So, who was it who said: “The love in your heart was not put there to stay. Love isn’t love till you give it away”? As good a thought there on one’s birthday as on Valentine’s Day. 

As in weddings, more so in funerals – tears. A sign of the cross, a tear or two for the loss, a short silent prayer for the repose of his/her soul at each encounter with a funeral procession. That I don’t even know the dead matters not. All that counts is a fellow human being having passed, and the hope that God judged him/her worthy of His kingdom.             

Commencing at 50, the sense of one’s mortality has taken greater intensity and frequency in me as I turned 51, 52, 53…onto this, the last year before my euphemized “dual citizenship.”

More than the legacy I shall leave behind – neither much nor great, in the first place – it is that which I shall take along that concerns me. That which I shall present before the mercy and compassion of my God. For His judgment, I shall most surely fail. So, His forgiveness I most humbly plead.

Getting to 50 is the pits, in ways and means of the world.

On another plane, aptly named is 50 as the Golden Age – in which to pass through the crucible of spirituality to earn a rightful passage to the Diamond Age where celebrated the purity of the soul.

With the grace of God, how I long to come to that dazzling threshold.       

WOW, this was published under the title Leaving the golden years on Feb. 11, 2013, my last year as a quinquagenarian. Ten years hence – with me now at the cusp of septuagenaria – it seems that time stood still through my 60s. Only the hair – more salt than pepper now – gives away the ravage of age.  A good life, thank God. And yes, what a way to reflect this Ash Wednesday, Feb. 22, 2023.