Testing the Virtuous

Song of the Moment: The Golden Floor by Snow Patrol

12mn. It was the day after the 2004 elections. I was driving to Ateneo to take the midnight shift for NAMFREL QC's Quick Count. Obviously, not a lot of people wanted to take that shift. It was inconvenient. You'd have to take extra cups of coffee. You'd have to be more vigilant because the early morning hours can play tricks on you and your ability to decipher the canvassing sheets. You'd have to go to school in the middle of the month of May, which to most is a travesty of the concept of vacation. But I decided to sign up for it anyway. Because I was feeling nationalistic. This is my chance to concretely contribute to social development and Philippine governance.

I was about to take a turn into Shaw Blvd. from Rodriguez Street in Mandaluyong City. I was steadily inching up the road just outside the Archbishop's Palace. And between feeling nationalistic at midnight and making the sign of the cross next to the revered Archbishop's chapel, I witnessed a crime. 

A man, armed with a pocket knife, was pulling a young woman's shoulder bag. The woman was screaming, "Magnanakaw!" But the man was swifter than the wind. He was running down the street; the woman was running after him. He hailed a jeepney, and in a few seconds, one jeep stopped in front of him.   

And I was right there, frozen in fear and indecision. I imagined myself positioning my vehicle just a few meters forward, enough to block the jeep from getting away. I imagined myself alighting my car, and calling attention to the man who stole the bag. I imagined myself looking straight into the jeep's glaring headlights long enough to give the woman just enough time to catch up with the man, identify him as a criminal and allow the jeep's passengers to act on the crime as well.

I imagined all these in a few crucial seconds....

...and then I watched the jeep speed off.    

I went on my not-so-merry way, disturbed beyond explanation. I am supposed to be a religious, nationalistic woman. I believed I was actively virtuous --- someone who knew how to persecute wrongdoing and acknowledge righteousness given any situation. But in this case, my righteousness remained a thought process.

To make matters worse, after driving a good 500meters down Shaw Boulevard, I saw a police station right by the side of the road. I hesitated a bit, wondered if I should report what I saw. But I still didn't stop.

At that point, tears started to streak my cheeks. I felt so guilty, so small, so unworthy. Here I was, claiming to be a person of virtue by volunteering for the cause of nationalism and making a gesture of religious significance --- but I failed the test. Because it was inconvenient and my safety could have been jeopardized, I chose to turn a blind eye. Where it involved clear and present danger, I wasn't so virtuous after all.

This afternoon, coming from my Zen Meditation class, I drove past that very same street. In a split second, I vividly remembered the events of that night. And although I can't find a direct link between this sudden purging and this afternoon's Zen session, I'm glad that I found the heart to write about it now. I want to forgive myself for not being a hero that night. I want to comfort my guilty old self and tell her that it's okay and that perhaps, next time, I can find a more suitable situation to be more decisive in exercising integrity. And if anything, I can make up for the lost opportunity in other ways. 

There are memories we choose to hold on to, even if doing so will just make our baggage heavier than it should be. There are memories that we tried so hard to conceal but will find itself surfacing at the most inopportune time. So, there are memories that just have to be taken as a necessary evil, in order for something to be learned. There are memories of mistakes made that become correct decisions after all over time. There are memories that give us a fresh perspective on who we actually are, a window into the self we never knew we were. And then there are memories that are just meant to be forgiven, not forgotten, in order for one to carry on living in an endless cycle of pitfalls and recoveries.