My Body is Holding Onto…

these.

hugs, the tight, never-let-me-go ones that can make everything feel all right and safe and better. the hugs where i let go of all of my worries and just be in the moment, when everything fits. when two heartbeats keep in time and each other’s breath rise and falls in sweet synchronicity. i know i still hug people, but these hugs, i’m holding on to them for now.

my hands. i can find handholds and footholds, i can carry my own weight. i can pick myself up from the ground (had a lot of practice with that, God knows how many times I have fallen). but oh, for a hand to hold! to know the wonder of that impossible symmetry of how our fingers thread each other’s perfectly (paraphrased from a poem by Colin Tan). still waiting.

ghost aches of mended heartbreaks. of memories. these twinges on the left side of my chest, the stomaches, the goose pimples that break out when a touch calls to a memory from long ago. i want to let them go, but my body likes holding onto to these to remind me that they did happen. and i’m still alive.

this hunger. i want it insatiable, spiritual, but physically felt. my whole body shudders with the hunger to know more of my Lord. every twinge, and everytime my strength is flagging, i take it as a sign that i need more of Him. my body is holding onto this. and this is one hunger that will never be filled until i go home to Him.

It seems
We apologize so often for ourselves
We catch ourselves carefully constructing
our actions
keep the love steady
the acceptance strong
the understanding in place
I want to give it up
fall out of line
allow the way it goes
telling the truth is like exposing
the underside of our wings– we see
that part only when we fly.
we all have to show up for our own
lives. we all at our own age have to
claim something, even if it is only our own confusion

let this space be a place
you can lay down the
tangled questions.

(Sabrina Ward Harrison)

Ok guys, ready? Remember, you don’t have to directly answer the question, you could just be “inspired” by it. but better if you do directly address the prompt/question. remember the mechanics:

1. Every Thursday, i will post a question or a prompt on this blog and participants will write something that answers the question or was inspired by it. (or post pictures or artworks!)
2. Participants who wrote something for that Thursday must leave a link on the comment box of that day’s prompt to let people know that they have posted.
3. TRUTH THURSDAY must be on the Title of your entry, followed by the question (so people will know).
4. This does not have to be emo– although these things tend to be a bit on the emo side, but TRUTH THURSDAYS are meant to be a fun way to bond through blog, and to get people writing and posting something meaningful and real. (disclaimer: this isn’t to say that you’re not doing so already!)
5. No pressure. Just be inspired and post something!
6. Be TRUTHFUL!

Our first chapter will be on IDENTITY, so we start here:

“We are all carrying so many things in our life, and inside ourselves… Where do you place the questions you carry? The sadness and the epiphanies? The quiet worries? Where can you put down the truth, as messy and new and raw as it sometimes feel?” (Sabrina Ward Harrison)

so, i was thinking. i want to write my story– to make sense of this mess, and to celebrate it, in a way. i want to probe into the deep dark recesses of my being, and bring out words and stories and verses into the light. and i don’t want to do it alone. would you like to go with me? are you brave enough, and have the strength and energy enough to dig deep down into yourself too?

well, if you just want to write, that’s enough.

anyways, i am proposing TRUTH THURSDAYS (if you have a problem with the name, tough). i have this journal (The True and the Questions by Sabrina Ward Harisson) that i got last year with a bunch of questions that are really hard to answer. i’ve already done a few posts with it here, here, here, and here. i figure that we can start from these questions. so here are the mechanics of TRUTH THURSDAYS:

1. Every Thursday, i will post a question or a prompt on this blog and participants will write something that answers the question or was inspired by it. (or post pictures or artworks!)
2. Participants who wrote something for that Thursday must leave a link on the comment box of that day’s prompt to let people know that they have posted.
3. TRUTH THURSDAY must be on the Title of your entry, followed by the question (so people will know).
4. This does not have to be emo– although these things tend to be a bit on the emo side, but TRUTH THURSDAYS are meant to be a fun way to bond through blog, and to get people writing and posting something meaningful and real. (disclaimer: this isn’t to say that you’re not doing so already!)
5. No pressure. Just be inspired and post something!
6. Be TRUTHFUL!

So. yeah. you guys game? watch out for the first question this Thursday.

this is Bono. and he is a rockstar.

_________________________

Bono: Grace over Karma
book excerpt
posted 08/08/05

The following exchange between Bono and Assayas took place just days after the Madrid train bombings in March 2004, an act of terrorism that left 191 dead and more than 1,800 wounded. The two men were discussing how terrorism is often carried out in the name of religion when Bono turned the conversation to Christianity, expressing his preference for God’s grace over “karma,” offering an articulate apologetic for the deity of Christ, and giving a clear presentation of the gospel message.

Bono: My understanding of the Scriptures has been made simple by the person of Christ. Christ teaches that God is love. What does that mean? What it means for me: a study of the life of Christ. Love here describes itself as a child born in straw poverty, the most vulnerable situation of all, without honor. I don’t let my religious world get too complicated. I just kind of go: Well, I think I know what God is. God is love, and as much as I respond [sighs] in allowing myself to be transformed by that love and acting in that love, that’s my religion. Where things get complicated for me, is when I try to live this love. Now that’s not so easy.

Assayas: What about the God of the Old Testament? He wasn’t so “peace and love”?

Bono: There’s nothing hippie about my picture of Christ. The Gospels paint a picture of a very demanding, sometimes divisive love, but love it is. I accept the Old Testament as more of an action movie: blood, car chases, evacuations, a lot of special effects, seas dividing, mass murder, adultery. The children of God are running amok, wayward. Maybe that’s why they’re so relatable. But the way we would see it, those of us who are trying to figure out our Christian conundrum, is that the God of the Old Testament is like the journey from stern father to friend. When you’re a child, you need clear directions and some strict rules. But with Christ, we have access in a one-to-one relationship, for, as in the Old Testament, it was more one of worship and awe, a vertical relationship. The New Testament, on the other hand, we look across at a Jesus who looks familiar, horizontal. The combination is what makes the Cross.

Assayas: Speaking of bloody action movies, we were talking about South and Central America last time. The Jesuit priests arrived there with the gospel in one hand and a rifle in the other.

Bono: I know, I know. Religion can be the enemy of God. It’s often what happens when God, like Elvis, has left the building. [laughs] A list of instructions where there was once conviction; dogma where once people just did it; a congregation led by a man where once they were led by the Holy Spirit. Discipline replacing discipleship. Why are you chuckling?

Assayas: I was wondering if you said all of that to the Pope the day you met him.

Bono: Let’s not get too hard on the Holy Roman Church here. The Church has its problems, but the older I get, the more comfort I find there. The physical experience of being in a crowd of largely humble people, heads bowed, murmuring prayers, stories told in stained-glass windows …

Assayas: So you won’t be critical.

Bono: No, I can be critical, especially on the topic of contraception. But when I meet someone like Sister Benedicta and see her work with AIDS orphans in Addis Ababa, or Sister Ann doing the same in Malawi, or Father Jack Fenukan and his group Concern all over Africa, when I meet priests and nuns tending to the sick and the poor and giving up much easier lives to do so, I surrender a little easier.

Assayas: But you met the man himself. Was it a great experience?

Bono: … [W]e all knew why we were there. The Pontiff was about to make an important statement about the inhumanity and injustice of poor countries spending so much of their national income paying back old loans to rich countries. Serious business. He was fighting hard against his Parkinson’s. It was clearly an act of will for him to be there. I was oddly moved … by his humility, and then by the incredible speech he made, even if it was in whispers. During the preamble, he seemed to be staring at me. I wondered. Was it the fact that I was wearing my blue fly-shades? So I took them off in case I was causing some offense. When I was introduced to him, he was still staring at them. He kept looking at them in my hand, so I offered them to him as a gift in return for the rosary he had just given me.

Assayas: Didn’t he put them on?

Bono: Not only did he put them on, he smiled the wickedest grin you could ever imagine. He was a comedian. His sense of humor was completely intact. Flashbulbs popped, and I thought: “Wow! The Drop the Debt campaign will have the Pope in my glasses on the front page of every newspaper.”

Assayas: I don’t remember seeing that photograph anywhere, though.

Bono: Nor did we. It seems his courtiers did not have the same sense of humor. Fair enough. I guess they could see the T-shirts.

Later in the conversation:
Assayas: I think I am beginning to understand religion because I have started acting and thinking like a father. What do you make of that?

Bono: Yes, I think that’s normal. It’s a mind-blowing concept that the God who created the universe might be looking for company, a real relationship with people, but the thing that keeps me on my knees is the difference between Grace and Karma.

Assayas: I haven’t heard you talk about that.

Bono: I really believe we’ve moved out of the realm of Karma into one of Grace.

Assayas: Well, that doesn’t make it clearer for me.

Bono: You see, at the center of all religions is the idea of Karma. You know, what you put out comes back to you: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, or in physics—in physical laws—every action is met by an equal or an opposite one. It’s clear to me that Karma is at the very heart of the universe. I’m absolutely sure of it. And yet, along comes this idea called Grace to upend all that “as you reap, so you will sow” stuff. Grace defies reason and logic. Love interrupts, if you like, the consequences of your actions, which in my case is very good news indeed, because I’ve done a lot of stupid stuff.

Assayas: I’d be interested to hear that.

Bono: That’s between me and God. But I’d be in big trouble if Karma was going to finally be my judge. I’d be in deep s—. It doesn’t excuse my mistakes, but I’m holding out for Grace. I’m holding out that Jesus took my sins onto the Cross, because I know who I am, and I hope I don’t have to depend on my own religiosity.

Assayas: The Son of God who takes away the sins of the world. I wish I could believe in that.

Bono: But I love the idea of the Sacrificial Lamb. I love the idea that God says: Look, you cretins, there are certain results to the way we are, to selfishness, and there’s a mortality as part of your very sinful nature, and, let’s face it, you’re not living a very good life, are you? There are consequences to actions. The point of the death of Christ is that Christ took on the sins of the world, so that what we put out did not come back to us, and that our sinful nature does not reap the obvious death. That’s the point. It should keep us humbled… . It’s not our own good works that get us through the gates of heaven.

Assayas: That’s a great idea, no denying it. Such great hope is wonderful, even though it’s close to lunacy, in my view. Christ has his rank among the world’s great thinkers. But Son of God, isn’t that farfetched?

Bono: No, it’s not farfetched to me. Look, the secular response to the Christ story always goes like this: he was a great prophet, obviously a very interesting guy, had a lot to say along the lines of other great prophets, be they Elijah, Muhammad, Buddha, or Confucius. But actually Christ doesn’t allow you that. He doesn’t let you off that hook. Christ says: No. I’m not saying I’m a teacher, don’t call me teacher. I’m not saying I’m a prophet. I’m saying: “I’m the Messiah.” I’m saying: “I am God incarnate.” And people say: No, no, please, just be a prophet. A prophet, we can take. You’re a bit eccentric. We’ve had John the Baptist eating locusts and wild honey, we can handle that. But don’t mention the “M” word! Because, you know, we’re gonna have to crucify you. And he goes: No, no. I know you’re expecting me to come back with an army, and set you free from these creeps, but actually I am the Messiah. At this point, everyone starts staring at their shoes, and says: Oh, my God, he’s gonna keep saying this. So what you’re left with is: either Christ was who He said He was—the Messiah—or a complete nutcase. I mean, we’re talking nutcase on the level of Charles Manson. This man was like some of the people we’ve been talking about earlier. This man was strapping himself to a bomb, and had “King of the Jews” on his head, and, as they were putting him up on the Cross, was going: OK, martyrdom, here we go. Bring on the pain! I can take it. I’m not joking here. The idea that the entire course of civilization for over half of the globe could have its fate changed and turned upside-down by a nutcase, for me, that’s farfetched …

Bono later says it all comes down to how we regard Jesus:

Bono: … [I]f only we could be a bit more like Him, the world would be transformed. …When I look at the Cross of Christ, what I see up there is all my s— and everybody else’s. So I ask myself a question a lot of people have asked: Who is this man? And was He who He said He was, or was He just a religious nut? And there it is, and that’s the question. And no one can talk you into it or out of it.

ok. so i may not look like this anymore… (lost a little weight! yey!)– one of the great things of being stuck in the hospital. har har. but this is not to impugn on cardinal santos’ hospital food– the meals were surprisingly good, too bad mom can’t say the same about their canteen. but well, i’m sure they’re working on it.

i didn’t get dengue like the bro. it was a viral infection that lowered my platelet count. i hated having my left hand hooked to an IV drip, but it helped. after four days of high fever at home, and two more in the hospital, i started feeling better and getting better sleep (cardinal santos’ hospital blankies are so soft and warm, but bring your own pillows because their pillows, not so soft). their nurses are nice.

while in there, God had once again reinforced my faith in Him– that He always work things out for the good of those who love Him, despite the suckiness of the present situation. i’m especially grateful that He let me see the good in my situation immediately and still have the sense of humor to laugh about it.

i’m really grateful for my parents– my dad, who was willing to pay extra for a nicer and bigger room (to accommodate our friends who came to visit); my mom, who stayed with me throughout, even when she had just gotten out of UST hospital with my bro; sherie and jorem who visited and ate the food i couldn’t eat; anj, who knows i love her because she was everything i needed in a friend while i was in the hospital; deus! my ticklebear, who was with me while i was sick (even at home); ian, who risked scandal when he came to visit me; micah, who turned down 2 Star Cinema directors just so he could watch TV with us in my hospital room; and the other people who visited– rommel, tita lorna and tita minda, my mom and dad’s friends, and even the old nun who dropped by a couple of times to make small talk. and rainier, who called and understood immediately why i couldn’t make it to my own preaching in station one (thanks for the resked) and prayed. can i get a recording of your message last night?

anyways. i’m glad i’m home and feeling better than i have been for a few weeks now. well, here’s to healthier days ahead.

marti got dengue. and was in the hospital for seven days. we had to cart in people to donate blood for him (and out of a dozen, only three made it to the cut). but thank you so much for the people who came and almost came to donate! he is now home, lost weight and needing a bath, but better!

and yesterday, i literally got struck down with fever and flu-like symptoms while visiting the bro in the UST hospital with deus, rory and benj. seriously. i was in pain. i was feeling horrible nearly all week prior to this one but i never had a fever to go with it. to my embarassment, i burst into tears in front of my friends because i really couldn’t handle the pain anymore. my mom stuck a thermometer under my armpit to confirm, that yes, i had a fever.

we managed to get home with benj driving until makati and deus going home with me to imus to make sure i didn’t pass out on the road and crash my dad’s nice car. now, i’m sentenced to bed rest and lots of fluids, and round-the-clock medication.

but yeah. i need this rest. and when God saw that body ache wasn’t enough to stop me. He brought on the flu. so i will use this time to reflect on His Word, my life, and mapping out that new healthy lifestyle somebody’s been bugging me about.

ok. woozy now. bye.

Gone are the days
when you could walk on water.
When you could walk.

The days are gone.
Only one day remains,
the one you’re in.

The memory is no friend.
It can only tell you
what you no longer have:

a left hand you can use,
two feet that walk.
All the brain’s gadgets.

Hello, hello.
The one hand that still works
grips, won’t let go.

That is not a train.
There is no cricket.
Let’s not panic.

Let’s talk about axes,
which kinds are good,
the many names of wood.

This is how to build
a house, a boat, a tent.
No use; the toolbox

refuses to reveal its verbs;
the rasp, the plane, the awl,
revert to sullen metal.

Do you recognize anything? I said.
Anything familiar?
Yes, you said. The bed.

Better to watch the stream
that flows across the floor
and is made of sunlight,

the forest made of shadows;
better to watch the fireplace
which is now a beach.

Margaret Atwood

can see me? can you hear me?

no. i suppose not.

(this is stef invisible.)

This is Mark. I got an unfortunate glimpse of his belly when i first saw him a couple of weeks back. He was scratching it, his red shirt lifted for everyone to see. I was reading my book at the waiting area of the neurologist my mom told me to see about my back. I looked up because he was loud and very caustic to this old lady, whom i assumed was his grandmother. i couldn’t abide with rudeness, much more with the elderly. i shook my head in disgust and went back to my book.
People moved seats all the time in waiting rooms. I don’t really like doing it as long as i’m within earshot from the door. since i was one of the three people who were there early, i had already secured a spot beside the door. I had a couple of newly vacant spots beside me and Mark and his mother took them. The grandmother had come back from the restroom and she saw that she didn’t have a seat anymore. i waited for Mark to stand up and offer his seat to her. after several beats, he didn’t. i started getting up to give her my seat, but the old lady found a spot further down the hall. i sniffed in disgust and scooted a few centimeters away from Mark. he smelled of stale cigarettes and rudeness.

what are you reading? he asked. I looked up, he was talking to me.

without looking at him, i showed him the cover. A Case for Faith by Lee Strobel. Awesome book, and i didn’t want to be interrupted.

what is it about?

i sighed inwardly and smiled as politely as i could (fake). it’s about all the arguments about the existence of God. i said in halting Tagalog. it’s really intellectual, but it’s good. my tagalog embarassed me so i stopped talking.

he didn’t say anything more and i thankfully went back to my reading.

“talk to him.” the still small voice in my head said.

“argh. why?”

“because. you can’t keep on saying that everyone’s got a story and not take the time to hear it from the person himself. Smellyrude guy’s got a story.”

“but… but…he smells bad! he’s rude! look, he just spit on his shirt! there’re obviously something wrong with him!”

“just talk to him. you don’t have to do the whole gospel presentation. but hear him out.”

“but i’m not good at talking to people!”

“good grief. you do it for a living! now go!”

i closed my book again and turned to mark. he was staring at me. creepy. i forced a smile and casually asked, do you believe in God?

he nodded his head. of course he does.

ok. i didn’t have follow up questions.

are you a patient? he asked.

i nodded.

me too.

really?

you sound like you don’t believe me.

no, i just thought the doctor only sees older people. he’s my lolo’s neurologist, i’m just here about my back. it’s been weird lately.

i just need to see him about getting into rehab, he said quite casually.

oh. i stopped. and before i could think, i blurted out, rehab for what?

for drugs.

oh.

they won’t let him in without an endorsement from a psychiatrist. his mother said, leaning forward to talk to me. Dr. M– is a psychiatrist too.

i nodded. i fidgeted on my seat because Mark was staring at me again. i blinked and focused my attention to his mom. she had frizzy, peroxide bleached hair. she must have married young, or she just dressed young for her age. she wore a tank top and skinny clam diggers. she had silver rings on each finger on her left hand, a few bangles on each wrist.

he’s been in and out of addiction for three years. she said. she seemed glad to have someone to talk to. she continued, i should have taken him to rehab first instead of Home Care. shabu is hard to shake off. i nodded and tried to remember my report on drug abuse and addiction back in junior year in high school.

He’s my youngest. she said.

I looked at Mark, who was still staring creepily at my face. i wished i hadn’t worn a tanktop to the doctor’s. i asked him how old he was. I thought I was 26, he said, but only because i had forgotten my birthday.

He’s 29, his mom answers for him. Whenever he got out of Home Care, he would be sober for a month before going back to drugs. But he’s been clean for two months now.

That’s great. I didn’t know what Home Care was, but it sounded different from a real rehabilitation center. I smiled at Mark, who didn’t look all that clean.

We have to lock him up in the house. He has a room with the metal bars around it. He used to have everything in there– a TV, an electric fan, a bed. But he’s wrecked it all. It’s hard when you’re addicted to shabu pala.

I nodded. I remembered the drug widrawal symptoms I had read about over a decade ago. beside me, Mark spat on the floor. he reminded me off a child who wasn’t all that aware of his surroundings, more less standard public protocols, such as one should not spit on the waiting area floor.

But he goes in there willingly, Mark mother hurriedly adds, handing Mark a handkerchief and looking so apologetic for her son’s behavior. When we get home later, he will just go in and tell me to lock the door and not listen to him when he wants to get out. Before, he would plead, and cry, and i would let him out and he’d come back high on drugs again. He’s the one who told me to get him into rehab.

that’s good. i said lamely, feeling like a response was required of me.

his mom talked about the cost of a private rehab center vs. the DOH one in Tagaytay. about the activities that would help Mark get clean. I just listened to her while Mark kept on staring at me.

when his mom paused for breath, i patted his shoulder and said, “I’ll pray for you.”

Are you from abroad?

I laughed, embarassed, i mumbled, “sometimes.” which was a fib. i don’t really go out of the country that often to count as “sometimes.” that was when i remembered that i didn’t even know his name. i asked and introduced myself.

just then the nurse called Mark into the office. i shook hands with him and his mom. i smiled at his grandmother who had stood up from her seat from the down the hall. mark sat back down again and kept on staring at me. his mom, his lola and the doctor’s assistant were waiting by the doorway.

you’re pretty. Mark said. and i forced a smile.obviously, drugs had damaged his brain. he finally stood up and went in.

ok. that was over. i sat back on my seat and prayed for Mark as promised. after a few minutes, the family stepped out of the doctor’s office. that was fast. Mark’s mom was smiling, they got the endorsement for his rehab.

It was my turn with the doctor. I shook hands with Mark who assured me that I shouldn’t be scared of the doctor even if he has a loud voice. that’s just how he is. His mom started to ask for my number. i hesitated for a second, and the assistant called my name for the second time.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Mark’s mom, I never even got her name. “God bless you.” I’ll be praying for Mark, i said. I patted Mark on the shoulder again and said good bye.

i have no idea where Mark is now. likely he’s at the rehab in tagaytay.

i hope he’s ok.

i wish i had gotten his mom’s number.

i still pray for him once in a while.

i wonder how he is now.

I got a text message from Bibsy Carballo today inviting me to a memorial mass for Toti on Tuesday.

It took me several seconds to acknowledge the words, “Toti’s cremated ashes in Chicago. Don’t have details if will be brought to Manila.” and the tears came.

I met Toti Fuentes, one of the kindest gentlemen and gifted musicians I’ve ever had the opportunity to meet, when People Asia sent assigned me to interview him two years ago. It wasn’t one of those usual assignments where I only had an hour with the subject and I was in and out of the photo shoot. This one required me to go with him to Cagayan de Oro to watch his benefit concert at his old alma mater. For the first time, I had three days with my subject, and while we only got to talk for thirty minutes on tape, I had the whole trip to get to know him and see him in action.

At that time, he was already taking six kinds of pain medication, and i remember when i first met him at the airport, he told me had just come out of the hospital because they had to drain fluid from his lungs.

Sherie got her first People Asia gig with his photos too. I didn’t like the photos that the photographer from CDO took so i talked to Jacs about letting Sherie have a go at it– if they didn’t like her photos they don’t have to pay her. hehe

I still think that Toti’s portraits were one of her best works. I remember Toti playing a song on the keyboard while Sherie shot him. the music made sherie and i all teary-eyed.

since then, every time Toti came to the Philippines, Bibsy, his manager, would text us and put us on the guest list on one of his shows. The last time we saw him was at Merk’s in November 8 last year (according to my twitter archives) and he wasn’t looking well at all.

Well, he was terminally ill already since I met him, I just thought we’d have more time with him… I will miss him a lot.

A video by Damien Fuentes, Toti’s son, playing one the last songs his dad wrote.

Here’s the unedited version of the article I wrote for Toti:

Where Dreams May Come
(title was changed to “Unchained Melody”)

By Stef Juan

How does one describe the first encounter with Toti Fuentes’ music?

No matter how much you have prepared yourself for it, the music just takes you by surprise. Just like the light pattering of a ballerina’s feet. It tiptoes to the edge of the stage and takes you by her graceful hand. Strong and quiet, the music builds up and sweeps you off your feet, even as you are just sitting there in the dark with your eyes closed and your hands clasped together under your chin.

The maestro behind the keyboard seems oblivious to his audience all this time. His fingers dance up and down the black and ivory keys until the music swells and ends in a triumphant climax. He stands up, opens his arms to the sky unmindful of the applause that comes after a second of breathless silence.

This is how it is when Toti plays. Whenever he places his hands on the piano keyboard, the music takes over. And all the exaggeration and theatricality that comes after is swallowed up by the sheer awesomeness of his music. Now you understand how he came to play with the likes of Sergio Mendes, the Platters, the Lettermen, Natalie Cole and Aretha Franklin.

And you just might be able forget that the he is terminally ill with cancer.

Toti’s life is characterized by a series of dreams and triumphs over seemingly insurmountable odds. He was born in 1952 in Cagayan de Oro City where he also grew up. “Undeniably a small town, compared to the towns in the U.S.” Toti says fondly of his hometown. At the age of seven he was already making music on his mother’s piano, and that was the start of his love affair with music that has taken him from his hometown to international fame.

He knows all about the power of dreams. Toti simply summarizes his rise to fame this way, “When I was young, I had a band called HG and the Trumps in 1964. But I dreamed that I could learn more and perform more music if I go to Manila. So after high school, I went to Manila in 1969. stayed in Manila until 1978. Around ’76 I started to dream again, to make it even bigger. My dream was to be a conductor and I conducted the Manila Symphony Orchestra and the Manila Philharmonic Orchestra. I’ve worked with the biggest stars in the Philippines such as Pilita Korales. It all happened, all those dreams came true. But I had one dream back in ’66, it was with Sergio Mendez & Brasil ’66. So in ’78 I went to the United States to look for Sergio Mendes. To make the long story short, in 1988 I worked with Sergio. It took me ten years. But it happened!”

It wasn’t as easy as it sounds. There were detours along the way, and Toti has a handicap that fully manifested itself when he was studying music in the University of Sto. Tomas. He has dyslexia, a reading disorder that made it difficult for him to understand what he is reading. “I’ve never read a book in my entire life,” he confesses, “I am not a sight reader. I memorize all of my musical pieces.” Sheer hard work and his photographic memory make up for this handicap.

When he left for the United States, it was not only in pursuit of his dream to play with Sergio Mendes and Brasil, but it was also to find his wife—who, in the midst of the famous people he wanted to work with, appeared in his dreams. It was a vivid dream, “I visualized her and she has a gap in her teeth,” he smiles as he continues his story, “I found Joni in Chicago in 1979. When I saw her I said, ‘You have a missing tooth.’ And she said, ‘Yes I do.’ I told her, ‘You’re going to have my children someday.’ And she told me that I was crazy.” He laughs in recollection. “We lived in different worlds. But 27 years later we’re still together.”

He refers to his love life with his wife, as “my foundation.” Except for this latest trip to the Philippines wherein he has his eldest son, Demien, in tow, his wife has always traveled with him to his shows, supporting him and his music all the way.

Three years ago, Toti was diagnosed with a rare form of stomach cancer—so rare, only four out of a million cancer patients have it—and it was already at its late stages. The prognosis was not good. He only had three more months to live. Toti, who was once a hefty man weighing 270 lbs. lost half his weight drastically because of his cancer. He and his family were living in the Philippines at that time.

Toti took his family back to the U.S. to get treatment for his cancer in John Stroger hospital in Cook County. “That’s where I met the best oncologist, Dr. Lily Hussein. She was the one who asked me if I was willing to go through an experimental treatment.” By that time, he was already bedridden. With nothing to lose and everything to gain, he submitted himself for the treatment. Three days later, he was able to get up from his bed and even go to the bathroom by himself.

“When you know that you’re going to die you prepare yourself,” he says. “In a way, it’s good that you know when you’re going to die.” But when a year has passed since his doctors gave him his supposed-deadline with his cancer and he was still alive, he decided to continue with his music.

However, tragedy still wasn’t done with his family. The following year upon his recovery, his daughter, Xara, succumbed to her depression and committed suicide. A wave of sadness passes over his face before he says, with all the wisdom that came from his experience, “When you’re not in that situation, you think that you can’t survive. But you can survive. You will become stronger, because you had to survive because you have two more kids and a wife. You have to think of them. You have to live longer and survive pain.”

He pauses for a moment before stating, with all the strength of will and conviction that has taken him from obscurity in his small town to international renown and made his dreams come true, “My music is the one that’s surviving me now.” But now, he uses his music to raise money for people who need it, especially cancer patients.

This is also why he went back to his Cagayan de Oro to hold a fund-raising concert for his alma mater last June. “I made a promise to Father Demetrio back in 1992 to help raise funds to help the Xavier University Museum,” Toti explains. Unfortunately, Father Demetrio passed away five years ago, before Toti could fulfill his promise. This weighed heavily on Toti’s mind until earlier this year he talked with an old friend from his childhood in Cagayan de Oro, Attorney Rufus Rodriguez—who regularly produces shows in their hometown—about holding a concert for the benefit of the museum.

A week before he was set to go to Cagayan de Oro, Toti was rushed to the hospital because of fluid in his lungs, from his travel fatigue. The fluid was drained by inserting a needle in between his rib cage and into his right lung. It looked like he wouldn’t be able to make it to the concert at all. His doctors wanted to keep him in the hospital at least until Friday that week, and the concert was already on Saturday.

Come Thursday morning, Toti was at the airport, all set to go. He mentioned in passing about the surgery on his right side. On Friday morning, he played for a hundred of students for free in Xavier University, and inspired them to go after their dreams, because if he can do it, they can too. On Saturday, he played his music to hundreds of his fellow Cagayanos. Toti knew he was living on borrowed time and was not the one to waste any of it.

In between songs at his big concert, he looked like the cancer-patient that he is—in pain from the fresh wound from his recent surgery. But once the music started, the maestro and performer took the place of this strong, battered survivor and dreamer, and once more carried his audience to where dreams may come, where death can never come near.