IN THE EYES OF A CHILD

In the eyes of a child

MY FAVORITE MOVIE

By Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

The Philippine Star 03/29/2006

The author, 28, is an undergraduate of a Medicine course. He is working as a medical indexer in Makati.

"Momma always said life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get."

This is one of the memorable lines in the 1994 film Forrest Gump. Forrest Gump (Tom Hanks) spoke the words with the innocence of a child.

I admit I am no sucker for tearjerkers, but watching Forrest Gump made me ponder, in between laughing and holding back tears, that there’s a grain of truth in the words of this fictional character who gives the impression that he’s a sage masquerading as a retardate because of the words of wisdom he imparts.

Watching Forrest Gump is like seeing the world through the eyes of a babe. Named after General Nathan Bedford Forrest, an American Civil War officer and leader of the notorious Ku Klux Klan, he never lived to his namesake’s reputation. Instead, he found a brother in an Afro-American, the shrimp-obsessed Benjamin Buford "Bubba" Blue (Mykelti Williamson).

Forrest remained unaffected by his encounters with John Lennon whom he inspired to write Imagine; Elvis Presley who learned his trademark gyrations from the young Forrest and his meetings with three American Presidents.

Forrest’s presence in significant and turbulent chapters in American history did not bloat his ego. In the Vietnam War, he earned the Congressional Medal of Honor, the highest award in the US military. He placed a phone call upon witnessing the historic break-in at the Watergate Hotel that precipitated the downfall of Richard Nixon. Forrest was a success in American football and actively participated in Uncle Sam’s ping pong diplomacy with China. He enjoyed a windfall from his business ventures and had well-publicized three-year marathon across the breadth of the continental US. Yet he remained humble through all these.


"You have to do the best with what God gave you," is sound advice from somebody whose I.Q. is 75. Bereft of superior intellect and endowed only with ordinary looks, Forrest’s success story could be attributed to this nugget of wisdom. He built a mound of achievements with the little he was given, contrary to the popular belief that you have to be richly blessed to outshine your more ordinary brethren.

The film’s choice of an overachieving simpleton for a hero is highly effective in debunking the popular belief that one should be his own slave driver to attain his goals. Forrest intoned another unforgettable and mushy line, "I may not be a smart man, but I know what love is," for his childhood friend and object of affection, Jenny Curran (Robin Wright-Penn), who degenerated from wholesome country lass to full-fledged hedonist and junkie before she succumbed to a relatively unknown disease that resembled AIDS.

Forrest taught me that love could be more elusive than wealth and success and the last refuge for a broken body and soul is the warm bosom of a beloved.

Another case of love in the movie was the heart-warming bond between the sagely and affectionate Mrs. Gump (Sally Field) and her son. Aware of her child’s mental handicap, she never bore on him the full weight of his condition and shielded him from snide remarks about his unique state.

Forrest Gump may not be my standard movie fare, but the treasure trove of wisdom and the gamut of valuable lessons about life it gave me are not to be forgotten. Besides the cast’s magnificent performance, the sometimes biting humor, the charming story of innocence and true love, Forrest Gump amazes me because it tells an unforgettable fairy tale of an honest, decent man who views the world not through a cynical adult’s eyes, but through the untainted vision of a child.

Heroes

Heroes

By Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Note: I wrote this essay after Manny Pacquiao humbled Erik Morales in February 2006.

Two pictures published days apart on the Inquirer’s front page caught my interest. Both depicted heroes, but it was the only characteristic that they shared. One showed Manny Pacquiao atop an ornate float, waving to legions of applauding fans that lined the route of his homecoming parade. His ardent admirers had braved the elements just to get to glimpse of the sports icon, and Manny reciprocated their adulation. The event was a fitting tribute for a man from humble beginnings who had brought immense honor to our country and had achieved a feat that pedigreed and grizzled politicians could only dream of: unite the whole nation behind him.
Another picture published three days earlier had another hero as its subject. But there was no army of adoring fans; the hero did not ride on a gilded float- he was not even in the picture-and the desolate landscape made the photograph bleaker. Only the wreckage of an OV-10 Bronco attack aircraft protruding from a murky fishpond marked Captain Aniano Amatong's temporary grave. The scene reminded me of rifles, fixed with bayonets, erected on shallow mounds as ersatz tombstones for fallen soldiers.
While the whole nation watched The Pacman pummel Erik Morales to submission, only a few souls witnessed Captain Amatong maneuver his obsolete and crippled warplane, sans his copilot whom he ordered to eject, past a residential area before he crashed it on an open field with no loss of civilian life. They recovered his body nearby, but they did not held it aloft before the world like the hero that he was. There were no effusive expressions of gratitude or nationwide keening. Apathy accompanied the tragic demise of a good man.
The righteous pounding of chests and political grandstanding that I anticipated over the loss of another antiquated aircraft and experienced pilot did not materialize. National security took a backseat to boxing while politics regained its enviable position in the front when two controversial political figures mounted the ring after the referee proclaimed Pacquiao the winner. It would make anybody mourn to believe that another hero has died in vain.
Captain Amatong's heroic death only merited minutes of television airtime and broadsheets devoted less than a page to his story - squeezed between snippets of the Pacquiao saga and politics, of course - before the media switched to the more pressing matter of covering the boxing sensation's itinerary, which included and television appearances and photo sessions with politicians who badly needed him to prop up their abyssal popularity ratings and deodorize their stinking reputations.
I understand that the country has an insatiable thirst for heroes, and Heaven sent us two in a span of days. But our proclivity to be star-struck, to prefer the blinding klieg lights of fame to anonymity, made us only see one hero, and ignore the other who has done the nobler deed. I also understand that aside from our affinity to celebrities, we also possess a nasty penchant to vilify. Now, imagine if Captain Amatong followed his copilot in bailing to safety. We would have tagged him a heel and crucified him for letting others die.
I am grateful to Manny Pacquiao for lifting our sagging national pride, for dissipating the filthy air of politics and making us breathe the fresh air of national unity even for a few hours, making us believe that, pound for pound, the Filipino is a peerless fighter and could beat the world's best - Mexico's best in Manny's case – and proudly waving our flag before the world.
But I doff my hat off to Captain Amatong. He did not only redeem the sullied honor of his brothers-in-arms, he also reminded me that the Filipino is still capable of immense sacrifice for love of country and his fellowmen at a time when he is plagued with doubts about the nobility of his character. The fearless captain may have soared into the sky as a pilot, but it was his self-sacrifice that brought him to the heavens.