Earlier this morning, I went to the funeral of Ben Fajardo, a family friend and the former mayor of my town, Glendale Heights. I went to middle school and high school with his son Tony, and my mom helped Mr. Fajardo's daughter get through nursing school. Suffice to say, almost every Filipino in the community has a connection with the Fajardo family.
Although I didn't know the Fajardo family personally, I admire and respect Ben as a model Filipino-American. An immigrant from the Philippines, he was the first Asian to hold mayoral office in DuPage County history. His term lasted from 1997 to 2001, until he suffered a debilitating stroke that caused him to not seek reelection. Confined to a wheelchair, over the years I saw him slowly regain the use of his legs and his speech become clearer. Ultimately, however, it was cancer that further deteriorated his health. As a leader, he established several parks and war memorials in the community. Mr. Fajardo reconditioned several aging recreational centers and the library. In addition, he planned to build a Filipino community center.
As a family man, he has suffered his share of heartbreaks. Aside from his physical ailments, a few of his kids became single teenage parents -- one of them at the age of 13. I know something like that wears down one's emotional tolerance, and I admire both Mr. and Mrs. Fajardo's strength.
His funeral was grandiose, to say the least. The funeral procession was almost a mile long, led by an entourage of police cars, fire engines, and family and friends. We passed by the police station and the fire department, officers and firefighters solemnly saluting the late mayor. It was a sight that demanded respect, awe, and admiration. As my parents and I drove past the stopped vehicles, I saw bewildered eyes that wondered who that person in the hearse was and why was he so important. Driving by his old residence, neighbors came out of their houses and bore witness to what appeared to be a dignitary's send-off.
Of course, during the procession, there were some cunts who decided to cut into the line of mourners, but they turned out to be idiotic teenagers.
The burial took place only two graves away from my dear Auntie Cyl, who passed away from cancer on September 11th, 2001. My mother and I placed flowers on her tombstone.
Police officers presented a grieving Mrs. Fajardo a folded American flag, as her oldest daughter clutched a pink rosary and wept. Mourners were given white roses and placed them cautiously on Ben's silver-blue casket.
Now it's always sad to see children mourn the loss of their father, and it's even sadder to bury him in the ground. The sight of the four Fajardo children weeping and hiding red, teary eyes behind thick sunglasses broke my heart. Ben was 58 when he passed, the same age as my mother and two years younger than my father. My parents themselves have had their share of serious health problems, and I realized -- right then and there -- that on some cold, cruel day I too have to bury my parents. It's a day I fear; a day I can only pray that won't happen anytime soon. Their generation is starting to fade; their friends and relatives dying one by one. I want my parents to be there when I walk down that stage and receive my diploma. I want my parents to be by my side on my wedding day. I want my parents to spoil their grandchildren rotten when they visit their California home.
As for my own mortality, I hope to achieve the respect and admiration of Ben Fajardo. He was -- or is -- a great man, contributing to the community and becoming an inspiration to Filipino-Americans everywhere. His life and his legacy is something I want to someday emulate: I want to touch the lives of many, to leave a mark on history and its people. If I had the capacity of Ben's generosity, intelligence, and determination, I too could die happy. One could dream, one could hope...
Rest in peace, Ben Fajardo.
pleasantly brought
to you by phillip retuta Saturday, September 03, 2005 @
6:05 PM
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