A belated elegy to Lina Espina-Moore 05-10-23

	NORDIS WEEKLY October 23, 2005
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A belated elegy to Lina Espina-Moore (1919 — 2000)
By JHOANNE LYNN B. CRUZ We were going around in circles. The rent-a-car driver did not seem too eager to make another U-turn. I had thought it would be easy to find the house of Lina Espina-Moore in Cebu City. I had imagined that everyone in the vicinity would know where she lives. After all, she is Lina Espina-Moore, multi-awarded fictionist in Cebuano and English. But I really should have taken it as a sign when the driver had never heard of her. We tried to follow the instructions carefully, but instead found the cemetery and the Muslim quarter, and had to knock on four brown gates before hitting the right house. None of the people who came to answer the wrong gates knew who she was. After having written 11 novels in Cebuano, two in English, and a collection of stories, I could not believe that she lived in obscurity. I wondered what I would have to do to achieve fame in my neighborhood. Ms. Moore already possessed the 1989 Southeast Asian Writers (SEAWRITE) award, a distinguished alumna award from the University of Southern Philippines, an outstanding achievement award in the field of literature from Cebu, and the 1992 Gawad Pambansang Alagad ni Balagtas for English fiction from the Unyon ng mga Manunulat ng Pilipinas (UMPIL). Maybe a great writer does not need the kind of recognition I expected. I had come to Cebu City to photograph Lina Espina-Moore, a task that I expected to be easy, because I knew how to do it. But when we finally met, she was adamant: “No photographs.” Even when I told her that I had traveled all the way from Baguio City just to take her picture, and that I had already been paid, she said, “No photographs.” Her voice was small and weak, like it was a struggle even to breathe. She had a neck brace on and she could not get up from her bed. Her room smelled strongly of soiled adult diapers. I wanted to weep. I had read all the stories in Cuentos (1985) and this was not the woman whom I imagined wrote them. She asked me to summon her private nurse. I wondered how she could still chair the Cebu PEN chapter, sit on the board of the International PEN’s Philippine Center, and be on the board of editors of The Quill, journal of the Asian Writer’s League. Maybe the data I had was outdated. Born May 20, 1919, Ms. Moore was now almost 80, and anyone who reached that age deserved the right to do nothing. She, particularly, has earned it. Soon the nurse came to give us strawberry ice cream. “Eat,” Ms. Moore told me. “This is all I can eat now. My grandson likes it.” I recalled that she had only one son by her husband, Climpson “Kip” Moore. I noticed that a picture of him in his US army captain uniform was displayed on her bedside table. “I will lend you a picture of me, you choose,” she said, then handed me a shoebox. When I opened the box, it was all I could do to keep from palpitating. It was filled with sepia photographs of Lina Espina-Moore when she was a young woman, beautiful and vibrant. There was a photo of her parents, Gerundio and Yrinea. And there she was, at Far Eastern University, studying law, all smiles because it was the first time she had gone to a school outside of Cebu. She had a picture in Malacañang while she worked at the Press Office and wrote for some magazines. There was even a photo of her when she was only 12 years old, in a play based on Rizal’s life, “Rizalina”, which she wrote and starred in. I cringed, thinking of how young she was when she started writing. Her first story, “Just Like Any Dream,” was written when she was 18, and published in Graphic in 1940. She also had a picture with a group of people at a Chinese restaurant. She explained that it was an informal group of writers that met at the Wah Hing Restaurant, so they called it Wah Hing Group. “Like The Veronicans?” I asked. She merely shrugged her shoulders, as if none of it mattered. Another photo showed her receiving a prize from Commonwealth magazine for her second short story. “They gave me 10 pesos for that,” she explained. I set aside the photo showing her sulking, with her arms folded on top of her typewriter at the Manila Chronicle where she worked as a staff member. Her cat’s eye spectacles flattered her heart-shaped face and Chinese eyes. I admired her other pictures: posing like a glamorous Hollywood movie star in a shimmering gown, then reclining seductively in a swimsuit. I finally chose a sedate portrait which she could have used on the back flap of any of her novels in English: Heart of the Lotus (1970) or A Lion in the House (1980). But I thought a more dramatic photo was required by the novels in Cebuano, judging by the titles she had given them: Inday Ko (1957); Hain Kutob ang Kalipay (How Long Will Happiness Last?) (1957-1958); Ikaw Pa Gayud (1958); Paghalad (Offering); Pagbasol (Regrets); Paghigugma(Love) (1959); Bunga (1960); Ikalimang Sugo (1966); Ang Inahan ni Mila (1969-1970); Ang Balay nga Baraha (1973); and Sila Karon Kinadto…Kita? (They’re Lovers Now, Were We Before?” (1978). I wondered whether the same woman wrote an elegant story about adultery like “The Chieftest Mourner” and a novel with a tawdry title like “How Long Will Happiness Last?” There was something incongruous about Ms. Moore that I found difficult to accept, both as a woman and as a writer. It was a privilege to meet Lina Espina-Moore. But being in that dark, heavy room with a woman who refuses to believe that she was never going to die because of what she had accomplished in her life made me regret losing the image I had of her. I told her that she was even more beautiful now than fifty years ago, but she did not believe me. I told her to be strong, like when she joined the guerillas during World War II and when she was arrested by the Japanese military, but she said, “Tell Isagani (Cruz) and Marjorie (Evasco) to visit me now because I’m dying. I’m dying.” I left Cebu City a failed photographer, a reluctant writer, and nostalgic for my dead grandmother. In the plane, I munched on my dried mangoes absently. Looking out the little window, I saw what I thought was an “inverted” rainbow, but soon realized that rainbows are not really arcs, they are circles. I made myself a mental note to tell my sister that the pot of gold is a lie. Then hesitated. I needed more time to understand why rainbows must come in circles. # (Note: This essay was written in 1998 and somehow never saw print. Also read Austregelina: A Story of Lina Espina-Moore’s Life and Selected Works by Edna Zapanta-Manlapaz (2000), published by Anvil Publishing.)
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	NORDIS WEEKLY October 23, 2005
Home \| To bottom	Previous \| Next
A belated elegy to Lina Espina-Moore (1919 — 2000)
By JHOANNE LYNN B. CRUZ We were going around in circles. The rent-a-car driver did not seem too eager to make another U-turn. I had thought it would be easy to find the house of Lina Espina-Moore in Cebu City. I had imagined that everyone in the vicinity would know where she lives. After all, she is Lina Espina-Moore, multi-awarded fictionist in Cebuano and English. But I really should have taken it as a sign when the driver had never heard of her. We tried to follow the instructions carefully, but instead found the cemetery and the Muslim quarter, and had to knock on four brown gates before hitting the right house. None of the people who came to answer the wrong gates knew who she was. After having written 11 novels in Cebuano, two in English, and a collection of stories, I could not believe that she lived in obscurity. I wondered what I would have to do to achieve fame in my neighborhood. Ms. Moore already possessed the 1989 Southeast Asian Writers (SEAWRITE) award, a distinguished alumna award from the University of Southern Philippines, an outstanding achievement award in the field of literature from Cebu, and the 1992 Gawad Pambansang Alagad ni Balagtas for English fiction from the Unyon ng mga Manunulat ng Pilipinas (UMPIL). Maybe a great writer does not need the kind of recognition I expected. I had come to Cebu City to photograph Lina Espina-Moore, a task that I expected to be easy, because I knew how to do it. But when we finally met, she was adamant: “No photographs.” Even when I told her that I had traveled all the way from Baguio City just to take her picture, and that I had already been paid, she said, “No photographs.” Her voice was small and weak, like it was a struggle even to breathe. She had a neck brace on and she could not get up from her bed. Her room smelled strongly of soiled adult diapers. I wanted to weep. I had read all the stories in Cuentos (1985) and this was not the woman whom I imagined wrote them. She asked me to summon her private nurse. I wondered how she could still chair the Cebu PEN chapter, sit on the board of the International PEN’s Philippine Center, and be on the board of editors of The Quill, journal of the Asian Writer’s League. Maybe the data I had was outdated. Born May 20, 1919, Ms. Moore was now almost 80, and anyone who reached that age deserved the right to do nothing. She, particularly, has earned it. Soon the nurse came to give us strawberry ice cream. “Eat,” Ms. Moore told me. “This is all I can eat now. My grandson likes it.” I recalled that she had only one son by her husband, Climpson “Kip” Moore. I noticed that a picture of him in his US army captain uniform was displayed on her bedside table. “I will lend you a picture of me, you choose,” she said, then handed me a shoebox. When I opened the box, it was all I could do to keep from palpitating. It was filled with sepia photographs of Lina Espina-Moore when she was a young woman, beautiful and vibrant. There was a photo of her parents, Gerundio and Yrinea. And there she was, at Far Eastern University, studying law, all smiles because it was the first time she had gone to a school outside of Cebu. She had a picture in Malacañang while she worked at the Press Office and wrote for some magazines. There was even a photo of her when she was only 12 years old, in a play based on Rizal’s life, “Rizalina”, which she wrote and starred in. I cringed, thinking of how young she was when she started writing. Her first story, “Just Like Any Dream,” was written when she was 18, and published in Graphic in 1940. She also had a picture with a group of people at a Chinese restaurant. She explained that it was an informal group of writers that met at the Wah Hing Restaurant, so they called it Wah Hing Group. “Like The Veronicans?” I asked. She merely shrugged her shoulders, as if none of it mattered. Another photo showed her receiving a prize from Commonwealth magazine for her second short story. “They gave me 10 pesos for that,” she explained. I set aside the photo showing her sulking, with her arms folded on top of her typewriter at the Manila Chronicle where she worked as a staff member. Her cat’s eye spectacles flattered her heart-shaped face and Chinese eyes. I admired her other pictures: posing like a glamorous Hollywood movie star in a shimmering gown, then reclining seductively in a swimsuit. I finally chose a sedate portrait which she could have used on the back flap of any of her novels in English: Heart of the Lotus (1970) or A Lion in the House (1980). But I thought a more dramatic photo was required by the novels in Cebuano, judging by the titles she had given them: Inday Ko (1957); Hain Kutob ang Kalipay (How Long Will Happiness Last?) (1957-1958); Ikaw Pa Gayud (1958); Paghalad (Offering); Pagbasol (Regrets); Paghigugma(Love) (1959); Bunga (1960); Ikalimang Sugo (1966); Ang Inahan ni Mila (1969-1970); Ang Balay nga Baraha (1973); and Sila Karon Kinadto…Kita? (They’re Lovers Now, Were We Before?” (1978). I wondered whether the same woman wrote an elegant story about adultery like “The Chieftest Mourner” and a novel with a tawdry title like “How Long Will Happiness Last?” There was something incongruous about Ms. Moore that I found difficult to accept, both as a woman and as a writer. It was a privilege to meet Lina Espina-Moore. But being in that dark, heavy room with a woman who refuses to believe that she was never going to die because of what she had accomplished in her life made me regret losing the image I had of her. I told her that she was even more beautiful now than fifty years ago, but she did not believe me. I told her to be strong, like when she joined the guerillas during World War II and when she was arrested by the Japanese military, but she said, “Tell Isagani (Cruz) and Marjorie (Evasco) to visit me now because I’m dying. I’m dying.” I left Cebu City a failed photographer, a reluctant writer, and nostalgic for my dead grandmother. In the plane, I munched on my dried mangoes absently. Looking out the little window, I saw what I thought was an “inverted” rainbow, but soon realized that rainbows are not really arcs, they are circles. I made myself a mental note to tell my sister that the pot of gold is a lie. Then hesitated. I needed more time to understand why rainbows must come in circles. # (Note: This essay was written in 1998 and somehow never saw print. Also read Austregelina: A Story of Lina Espina-Moore’s Life and Selected Works by Edna Zapanta-Manlapaz (2000), published by Anvil Publishing.)
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