My Published Articles for ViewsHound: Victoriano Catague and Marcelina Javellana were My Great Grand Parents

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Victoriano Catague and Marcelina Javellana were My Great Grand Parents

My Father Dr. David Jamili Javellana K(C)atague,(DDS)-son of Roberto Catague, grandson of Victoriano Catague and great grandson of Don Manuel Javellana and Gertrudis Lopez of Jaro, Iloilo, Philippines. My father changed the first letter of his surname from C to K when he was in elementary school.

Marcelina Lopez Javellana, my great grand mother was the youngest daughter of Don Manuel Javellana and Dona Gerteudis Lopez from Jaro, Iloilo as listed in Nereo Lujan blog, www. javellana.wordpress.com. However, until now I have no definite information on the the parents of my great grand father, Victoriano Catague.

However, when I was a child I overheard from my father, Dr. David Jamili K(C)atague, that his grand father was from Antique( Barbaza or Culasi?). If this is true it will explain why there are several families with the surname Catague in the province of Antique. In my search for information on the parents, brothers and relatives of Victoriano, I have initiated contacts with several Catague relatives from the Philippines. One of these relatives is my aunt Daisy Catague Cababasay. Incidentally, there is a town in the province of Bohol, named Catague. I am curious if there is link of the Catagues from Bohol to that in Iloilo, Antique, Guimaras or Negros Occidental!

Map of Catague, Bohol, Philippines, Catague is a 4th class municipality located in Central Bohol. It has a population of about 20,000 and near the Chocolate Hills- a popular tourist attraction of the province.

Daisy is my Dad first cousin. Her Dad and my grandfather were brothers. Daisy calls me Nong David because I am older, although she is my aunt. Daisy and I had enjoyable and nostalgic conversations about relatives during the time when I was gathering confirmation regarding my great, great grand parents: Don Manuel Javellana and Dona Gertrudis Lopez from Iloilo, Philippines (www.javellana.wordpress.com). Here are excerpts of our conversations via FaceBook .

Aunt Daisy: Good morning Nong David according to my Papa, Victoriano Catague and Marcelina Javellana are my father's parents so they are my grand parents.

My Father's name is MANUEL JAVELLANA CATAGUE the youngest of 7 siblings namely Roberto, your grand father, his son David Sr is your father. His siblings were RUPERTO CATAGUE, Nanay ESPERANZA (nay Pansay)who married a Benedicto they settle in Guimaras, Nanay JULIETA (nay julet), Nanay ROSARIO CATAGUE CAVANAS( Nanay Chayong). Naabutan ko pa ni sya( she was still alive and remember her) because we Mama and Papa used to visit her in Delgado street in Iloilo City.

Her children were Nang Carol Cavanas Piccio(d), Nang Virginia(d), Nang Angie(d),and Nong Vicente (d). Naabutan ko pa ni sila tanan because I used to live in Delgado when I studied Cosmetology because they have a beauty parlor and the last one that I can recall is Nanay INCARNACION. When I was connected with the Department of Finance I traveled a lot to Guimaras, Binalbagan, Magallion, Bacolod, San Carlos and Antique in search for my roots.

Me: Daisy, these are very informative vignettes and I appreciate it. Yes, I remember very well our visit in Delgado. Thank you, I did not know that the name of my grand father was Roberto. So is Victoriano also the grandfather of my Dad? The reason for my query was a question for Nereo Lujan author of the blog www. Javellana, wordpress.com. Please read the blog, there is a lot of information about the Javellana ancestry.

Daisy let me know if I am correct: My grand father's name was Roberto and my grand mothers name was Consolacion Golez Jamili. They have three boys ( Guillermo, David( my Dad) and Julio). When Roberto died, Consolacion married Ruperto, the younger brother. They have seven or nine? Children, the youngest is Adela. They were raised in Binalbagan, Neg Occidental.

Adela has a son ( Roberto)who was a retired major residing in Oton, Iloilo. They have a stall in the public market in Oton. I do remember my visit in Binalbagan when I was a boy as well as our visit in the public market stall with Manang Adela. Have you read Nereo's wordpress blog ? Nereo's knows one of your daughter?

Daisy: Hello and good morning Nong David......yes you are right your grand father is Tay Berto and when he died his younger brother RUPERTO or Tay Perto married Consolacion. I didnt know their other children except for Nang Adela kay naabutan ko pa siya before she looked like Amor Katague Gregorio, your youngest sister.

When we were residing in San Carlos City Negros Occidental the Catague Clans from Magalion and Binalbagan used to visit us but I was very small then......anyway...when we came back here in Iloilo and when I was in college I spent my On the Job Training (OJT) at camp Delgado where Major Roberto Katague Guillergan , son of Nang Adela was the head of the Finance Department in Camp Delgado.

My brother Jose Catague who just passed away last Nov 20, 2015 introduced me to him in the 80's.....so when Nang Adela died we went to Oton for her wake. I was already married then...and attended her funeral......my Papa Manuel also told us before that during the war...Nang Adelas family were assassinated by the Japanese imperial army.....all were dead except for some few people including Nang Adela because they lay still bathe with blood and play dead that according to my father's story.

When I was at my Aunt's Nanay Chayong's house in Delgado, I meet one of my cousins Nang Alma Velez Alger. She is the daughter of Aunt Nanay Incar (Incarnation ). Nang alma's family is at Molo, iloilo City and we became close with one of her sons Rene Alger because Rene and my husband were office mates in SEAFDEC before. When he knew I was a CATAGUE he made an effort to connect with us. It just saddened me nong David that everyone who know best about our family is passing away. I just lost my last brother JOSE CATAGUE, now there's only 6 of us all girls left.

Nereo Cajilig Lujan has already contacted me we became friends in Facebook and yes she know my daughter Pam because there were together in some events about tourism. My daughter Pam is connected with the department of tourism regional office here in Iloilo. I have not read Nereo's blog at the moment but I will try later thank you Nong David......my dear nephew right ? hahahahah God bless you and your family always keep safe ❤ and oh...my husband and I will be in Houston, Texas this March. I hope we get a chance to meet each other soon..........❤

Me: I enjoyed reading all the above vignettes of our relatives and our ancestry. Another question, do you know our exact relation to Fernando Catague, the famous painter who hails from Antique? Fernando's father was Andres Catague from Antique. The story of Nang Adela's family blood bath during the Japanese occupation interests me. It should be documented.

The Japanese bloodbath of my aunts family above was similar to the bloodbath the Noel Balleza clan ( relatives of my mother Paz Barrido Balleza)of Barotac Viejo, Iloilo had suffered during the Japanese-American War in the Philippines. These events should be documented, so we can learn a lesson from the above atrocities.

Note: If you read this blog and have friends and relatives who hailed from Catague, Bohol, please contact me via FaceBook or comment in this blog.

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Guest Article from Susan Creamer Joy

In The Silence, by Susan Creamer Joy.

Today's guest article is from Susan Creamer Joy. Susan is one of my favorite authors in the ViewsHound community. Susan writes, draws, paints and cobbles together art from found objects making a variety of creations from jewelry to religious shrines. She frequently sports burns on her fingers from her soldering iron, paint on her palms and ink under her fingernails, but her hair is usually combed. When she is not losing time in the creative vortex of her studio, she is likely to be putting her knowledge of metaphysics and esoteric principles including Tarot, numerology, astrology and graphology to good use in consultations. Her children are grown, her husband still works and her four dogs believe she needs serious help. The title of her article is "A Matter Of Love And Death". Thank you Susan.

By the time they reached my bedroom door, I was already sitting up – my stomach ratcheted in the tense grip of an unnamed anxiety; my pillow, unburdened of my drowsy head.

To this day I cannot explain how I heard them coming up those stairs in their bare feet or how I knew that my father struggled to hold his composure as my mother unnaturally clutched at the folds of her dressing gown and followed him through the dark just a little too closely.

As the wooden groan of those old stairs tore into my bones that morning like a hacksaw, all I could see between the predawn shadows was the letter I’d written just hours earlier to my boyfriend, Chris, propped against the lamp on my desk across the room awaiting an envelope.

I had not slept well. It was late November and there had been so many changes since the middle of August when he left for the Air Force in Texas to begin basic training and I began my third new school in as many years.

The conspiracy between fate and the last surge of the Vietnam draft had broken apart the every-waking-minutes of our two-year union with unceremonious indifference. All that night my sleep had been infested by difficult dreams and by the illogical fear that truth and reality were merging into a darkness only a martyr could grasp; and at sixteen, martyrdom seemed reasonable only for the nuns among the poor in Bangladesh

I tried to remind myself that he would be home on leave for Thanksgiving in another few days. It was the only tether to calm I could find, but reviewing the facts offered little relief from my baseless fears.

Chris had been girding his pacifist sensibilities preparing to fight in an unpopular war that had not yet slaughtered its last innocent. I was hovering just over the line of inclusion at an exclusive girl’s school – missing him – and finding myself at odds with these young women and their attachment to propriety and with the prep-school veneer that blinded them to the fact that they were no better than anyone else.

Neither one of us was coping well with the worlds into which we were respectively summoned, and although we both knew that the best hope for any future together depended upon our individual successes apart, it was far from comforting most days.

But in spite of our discomfort, we each did our best; and, of course, there were the letters: Thin, plain-paper sheets with row after row after row of inky blue words penned with the intensity and awkward locutions of a love learned too soon. It had come down to just that little, but without them, I would have had nothing.

Chris was learning to fly. I was learning to drive, and both of us were aching to transport our souls to an earlier time through the hallowed intercourse of memories and dreams. Of course, as with all progress, there was the positive element: We were both clean and drug-free for the first time in years.

Now, without pretense, both healthy cognition and sincere motivation surfaced regularly in my psychology and prompted me to care about myself and to arbitrate against all temptation for a better standing in the world, in school and in my own eyes. I even did my homework.

No longer was I escaping today but, instead, living for my day of escape. Lying still in the dark of my room, I listened to the slow, padded footfall of my parents approaching and looked to the floor and to my history book half hidden beneath the nightstand where I’d tossed it the night before. Even in this early morning dark I could make out the swirls and stars in colored marker and the bubble-formed letters that spelled C H R I S in soft, juvenile curves on the torn book cover I’d fashioned out of a brown paper grocery bag.

I vaguely remembered throwing it there somewhat hastily. I had been doing my homework when a sense of urgency struck and I realized I had not written him as I promised I would and glancing at the clock, I noted it was nine-twenty-three. Why that mattered I had no way of knowing in that strange moment, but within hours, it would be one I would never forget; and although I was becoming drowsy and still needed to finish my work, I felt beyond reason that my letter to him could not wait.

So, I wrote. I would always write. I would always be there. He would always be there.“Suzi."It was my name spoken in the smooth and familiar voice of my mother, although weighted and slow, her head bowed to her chest almost as though she were speaking only to herself.

"Suzi.” She said it again, this time with sharp gravity, like a chisel against stone.

As if on cue, I leaned forward, flanked now by my parents who were sitting on either side of my bed.

I had been waiting for them. I don’t know how. I didn’t know why. The lights in my room remained off, but it seemed that the darkness clung more to them than to me, as though they were holding it there – away from me to give me enough light to see through the next moment. They were crying. My father was crying. My father. “Suzi. We have something very, very bad to tell you." Chris has been in a car accident." And he was killed."

If the world moved forward from that moment, I could not know it. f there were air around me worth breathing, I could not take it in. And if there were another sound beyond the leaden bellow of my own raw grief, I could not hear it.

"Who am I going to talk to? Who am I going to love?” I wailed. Who will love me? In that sodden moment violated by the intrusion of a predawn light that had no business rising, everything I ever believed about happiness, hoped for in life, trusted in or held as my own was annihilated.

After that – there was no after that. After that came months of hollow redundancies that would inform my way of being in the world for years to come. A serial commitment to waking up each morning, remembering he was gone and dedicating the remaining hours to forgetting. To that end I would try anything, drink anything, ingest anything, inject anything. It was a slow and arbitrary suicide by indifference.

Many years later, at 25 years-old and in the midst of a pharmaceutical free-fall leaning dangerously close to terminal, I discovered that I was expecting a child, and after a decade of forgetting, I remembered. I named him Griffin after the legendary winged lion, a symbol of the divine because what he inspired and the miracle that he was, were nothing less. I remembered and I loved again, and I went on to marry and to the gift of two beautiful daughters.

Today my son is struggling not to drown in the same well of drug abuse and apathy that almost swallowed me – his great, divine wings clipped by his own hand; and while it is up to him to restore his place in the sky, I will do my best to help provide an open runway.

In the meantime, I will continue soaring for both of us; bequeathed as I have been, with a determination to fly from a boy whose ragged fate precluded that dream.

Death took one young man from me once upon a dark time. If it has any intention of coming for this one, it will have to go through me. And trust me, it will be in for one hell of a fight.

Note: If you enjoy this article, please let me know.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Victoriano Catague and Marcelina Javellana were My Great Grand Parents

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