Find this child!

By Jing Villamil

 

YOU are the mould from which your child was cast. Until he be the mould himself, from which his own, too, is cast. On and on the cycle, it ceases not. Of the smooth twists, dips and hollows and the sharp-angled roughs.

Your child may be the tinniest creature running around the house, but he is a tarsier! He has the widest eyes and the sharpest ears! He does not need to film on cam what he sees, or record on tape what he hears. He soaks the image and the sound, whether clearly understood or maudlin, and he sends these visuals these audios to his big bank of a brain up the stem, to be downloaded and filed, to be extracted as needed. Thus, do not dismiss him as “he is mere child” when he sees or hears something beyond his young years. He may be too young; but the process going through his nerve system is as ancient as when God created, not Adam, but Eve. Data filed in his head are meat, ingredients and spices in the making of a man. Or a woman. Or a beast, disguised as a man. Or a woman.

When the house splurges cash for food, drinks and other pleasures as if tomorrow shall never come, do you expect your child to elevate himself above what is flesh and material and emerge as the far-seeing and prudent one among his degenerating peers? Spoil the child and foil the sprouting of industry, resourcefulness, thrift to prep a future unknown. When a child grows up not really “seeing” the lesser of God’s children palming out for discards at the other side of the fastfood plateglass, how can you expect him, when worse comes to worst, to want to plow a field, to top it with seeds, to smell the skies for drought or flood, to walk and beam a torch at night between stalks among leaves for snails, rodents or bugs? The pittance he shall reap are grains barely enough to fill his plate, and yours, until next harvest comes.

Growing older, it would seem easier and lot less bother to bribe the bureaucracy, the board/bar examiners, the election commission and the courts; to be master magician and with just a wave of a cologne-scented hand to deceive the naive and to make the offensive disappear into thin air!

Find a child whose one or both parents are too free with the slap of their words and palms and kicks and cache of arms; you will find the beginnings of the adult who curses his makers, who has no second thoughts in abusing, torturing, maiming, killing those whose sin is sometimes as minute as daring to look straight into cold shaded eyes!

In their later years, you may find these undelightful ones lounging in corporate suits, stiff military uniforms, a hardened politician’s soft Barong-Tagalog or donning black shirts and bonnets with lidded eyes peering out the slits and into you. Morals-less, it is as easy as grabbing burgers from a drive-through to boss a country, a Congress, a drug syndicate; to lead a band of terrorists, to let-in visa-less Chinese for a huge pastilla, to rob three-banks same time, to cheat a relative a friend, to scam retirees, to kidnap a rich man or his child, a journalist, or a bunch of simpering tourists.

But if you search harder, further – you may also find a miracle. A child who had turned his back and away from his mould not good not godly; a child who refused to be cast by hands not of his own, not of his heart’s calling, not of God’s liking.

Find this child; you will find the few others. Miracles. Just like you.

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