This story originally appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer on November 11, 2000.
To his peers, Mang Procopio was probably an everyman. He was a respected journalist, a prize-winning writer and poet, and a union organizer.
In the 1970s, while raising a family, Mang Proc organized a labor union in the newspaper company he was working for and criticized Ferdinand Marcos and his regime in his column “The Passing Scene.” He also bagged some literary awards around this time.
His fight against the Marcos regime continued in the 1980s. At the start of the decade, Mang Proc was imprisoned for being a subversive.
But the same decade also saw him become a professor of journalism, a full-fledged judo black-belter, president of the National Press Club and founder of a union of journalists.
The 1990s was an even more significant decade for Mang Proc. He held a position in an international organization of journalists that made all his katoto proud. In effect, the decade also shaped and defined Mang Proc.
I never really knew him well. We got acquainted only five years ago when I was invited to join him in Prague, Czech Republic, where he was assigned. There I had the privilege of looking into his soul.
In that part of the world, Mang Proc lived alone. He wore a beard. There were a couple of lines etched on his forehead. He looked mellowed and tired. Coupled with his gray and thinning hair, one would have thought he was in his 60s. But, Mang Proc was only 51 at the time.
Being alone in a cold country never bothered the old man. Probably because the Czech Republic touched him like no other country did. He would muse about the place and its history. Although he had traveled quite a great deal, nothing compared to his attachment to the place. It reminded him so much of his college years, he said.
In his humble abode, Mang Proc lent my sister and me the master’s bedroom. He himself slept in a place that I thought he found more restful-a room full of books and piles of report papers.
Every morning, a broken “Leron-Leron Sinta” played on the harmonica was what woke us up. When the old man grew tired of playing the instrument, he would play his selections of revolutionary songs, from ”Inang Laya” to early Gary Granada hits, while reading the morning papers. Save for weekends, it was a daily practice that would end only when Mr. Jaros, his driver, arrived to take him to his office.
In between his work at the organization, Mang Proc would walk down the cobbled streets of Prague, stopping once in a while for a cup of cappuccino on a sidewalk cafe‚ or to visit a humble antique shop around the corner.
At no time did he go home without a purchase, and so his home on Rybna Street was filled with books, paintings, figurines and vases. His favorites were a copy of the original “Red Book,” a painting of a pregnant Virgin Mary, vintage typewriters, to name a few. While others would brag about such find, Mang Proc shared his collections with his friends. After work, Mang Proc would meet with other journalists to exchange ideas. What amazed me on such occasions was how effortlessly he would maneuver the conversation to include the plight of Third World journalists.
Hearing him speak sometimes made me conclude that he was far too idealistic for his age. But his resolution always made sense. And when he gave his word, we all somehow felt sure it would be done.
Before retiring to bed, he would cap the night with a discussion over an odd combination of Russian vodka and the finest pastries. With a faint smile, he would recount the life that he led. He never regretted the decisions he had made. But I was sorry that some people were hurt because of those decisions.
I never saw this side of Mang Proc until we had this big fight over family. Pride got the better of me, and I went on a hunger strike. He fumed and sought solace with my sister Aleta.
In the days that followed, Mang Proc would apply his journalistic skills to drive his point home. I decided to rest my case. If truth be told, it did not matter because I knew what he was trying to say. Nonetheless, it was a joy to hear him give the assurance that he would fix things in due time.
He had a very clear idea of the kind of life he would lead after his term of office ended. All he had to do was wait for the day.
Mang Proc never lived that long. A few months before his retirement, he complained to his friends of severe stomach pains. On Oct. 12, 1997, he was rushed to the state hospital of Prague. He was hemorrhaging and was diagnosed with cancer of the liver. The doctor told him he had only one more month to live.
Mang Proc never had the chance to rectify what needed rectifying or to say goodbye to his loved ones. He passed away the following day.
It was quite a shock to the world he moved in. It took two weeks of waiting before we were able to pay our last respects to Mang Proc. His friends and foes gathered at his funeral and gave him their highest accolade. But my brother, sisters and I perhaps gave him the best accolade ever. While everybody remembered him as a poet, writer, journalist or union organizer, we chose to remember him as our father.
Will I miss the hands that held mine when I was a kid? Yes-very much. When I touched his cold hands, I realized that we had lost him again and this time forever. It was an unfair end. But, at a pace at which his life was coming to a close, it was enough for me that he was able to look back at his past. It was enough for me that he had plans to mend things with us.
Indeed Mang Proc was an everyman. He lived, he learned, he loved and made a legacy. We are his legacy.
