I am a Man but gave birth to two Sons

Photo from sodahead.com

I am a proud father of two sons for the ViewsHound community(VH). My first son was born two months ago. He turned out to be a poet. His name is Vic Vizarra. He is an engineer by profession and a poet by avocation. He was introduced to me via Facebook by a fellow Marinduqueno. She happened to be his childhood sweetheart.

Vic's first poem, A September Song was published in VH on October 10, 2011. His latest poem, Crazy Love had been in the "Most Like" column in ViewsHound for weeks. The following is Vic response to my article, Why I Have Inferiority Complex writing for ViewsHound.

“Two months ago, you told me sir Dave that the "fire is within me" when you commented on my first ever written poem, "My Forever Love" in my Facebook Notes. Since then, I already have 3 published poems in Viewshound within a month's time. Thank you very much for your encouragement and your confidence in me.”

Here's an excerpt from Vic's Vizarra VH profile.

He appreciates the encouragement from his new found friends, Dr. David Katague and Ms. Sofia Velasco-Belbis and the inspiration from his first and true love, whom he called his “Forever Love”. He is not a poet by any means, but his poems emanate from the bottom of his heart, making them especial. With the popularity of his poem, “Crazy Love” he could proudly say that a new poet from Marinduque is born.

My second son was just born a few weeks ago. His first article received several positive comments including a note from our editor, the very helpful, Ian Howlett.

His name is Frank Cabunoc. I meet Frank, last year on-line via my blogs. Frank wrote me he enjoyed reading my autobiography. We corresponded every now and then. I noticed from his comments that he is a good writer. I asked Frank to guest write for me in my blogs. As of today, he had a couple of guest articles published in my blogs. When I discovered VH last August, I encouraged Frank to write also for VH.
My encouragement resulted in his first article, mentioning me. Here's an excerpt from his well received first article.,

“On the other hand, my friend has been a prolific writer on his blog sites and an exceptional workhorse for ViewsHound. He is unstoppable by continuously entertaining us with his creative writing abilities and photograph submissions. I salute him for his literary productivity, the distinguished David Katague.

His previous article entitled “Why am I writing for ViewsHound?” inspired me and gave me an idea to create something entitled “Why I don’t write for ViewsHound”. His opinion of not comparing himself to other writers gave me a slight relief. I should also shun the idea of comparing myself to more experienced writers.”

I am very proud of the writing accomplishments of my two ViewsHound sons. I am looking forward for more articles and poems from them.

Note: I think I am pregnant with a baby girl. Two months ago, a FaceBook lady friend wanted my comments and opinion on an article she is writing. I told her to submit it to ViewsHound. I beleieve she need more encouragement before she can overcome that fear of rejection for first time writers.

Cloyne Court- Excerpt 30

Image from marxists.org
Cloyne Court, Episode 30
By Dodie Katague
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Rated "R" by the Author.

A creative memoir about Cloyne Court in Berkeley, California in the late 1970s

When the men walked off, she chided me. “Just because our house does things different, does not mean you have to disclose it or use it as a selling point. I would appreciate it if you would not use sex as a selling point.”

“I never mentioned the word sex,” I replied.

“You implied it by talking about the naked showers and nude sunbathing. Derek, you’re a nice guy, but you need to learn the business world will not accept sexual innuendo as a business tactic. I think an ethical America is above all that, don’t you?”

“Fine, I’ll do it however you want. I have thirty flyers left to hand out.”

I looked at the folding table set up directly across from us on the other side of the pathway with a large-red banner with the words ‘Workers Unite’ in black lettering taped to the side. It was the table for the Revolutionary Student Brigade.

The Revolutionary Student Brigade was a leftover faction of the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS). Founded by Bob Avakian[1] shortly after the 1968 Democratic National Convention riots in Chicago, the group espoused Marxist-Leninist-Maoist doctrine.

Sitting at the table was a young woman with long coffee-colored hair dressed in a black T-shirt with red stars on the front and a black beret. She was petite, barely five feet tall and didn’t look to be older than seventeen. She stood to take her turn in the center of Sather Gate near me.

“Rage against the US imperialist war machine! Support the class struggle against the petty bourgeois! Subscribe to The Revolutionary Worker!” She was loud.

The first page of the newspaper had a yellow circle with a red star and a silhouette of a figure holding a gun in the air.

“Live for the People. Die for the People.” She chanted at the passing people, who ignored her.

After ten minutes of slogans, I asked, “Have you sold any of the most ‘red’ newspaper on campus?” I hoped she’d see the humor in my double entendre.

“No, not yet. But that’s not the point,” she said.

“What is the point?”

“We are defending the interest of the masses. We’re trying to organize the oppressed from their oppressors. We believe the workers and the students will unite and continue the fight against the capitalistic power structure and embrace a Marxist-Leninist analysis for a people’s revolution!” She was yelling, as if the conversation was meant for the larger audience behind me.

“Don’t you think your group’s tactics of defending your views by any means necessary repels the majority of upper, middle-class white students who go here?”

“I’m a white, upper, middle-class high school student,” she said. “You don’t see me in bed with the lackeys of US imperialism.”

I didn’t see her in bed with anyone with that attitude. “You’re a high school student,” I said. “How old are you and what are you doing here?”

“I’m seventeen. I’m graduating early from Westgate High School. I’ll be at Berkeley next quarter. I have enough AP credit to graduate, so I don’t need more high school classes. I thought I’d get an early start on changing the world.”

“Your parents let you do this?”

“My parents are puppets of the imperialist war effort. My father knows I’m here over his objections. But he’s stuck in his corporate office in a tall skyscraper in San Francisco supporting the oppression of the working class. There’s nothing he can do to stop me.”

“You went to Westgate?” I asked. Westgate was the rival high school in a city near Briones Valley. The school had an outstanding debate team. I went to debate camp one summer and roomed with a geek from Westgate named Matt Brooks. His debate skills were legendary throughout the National Forensic League.

“Did you know Matt Brooks?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself. Don’t you hate it when you tell people you’re from California and they ask, ‘Do you know such and such?’ As if I would know all twenty-two million people in California, but here I was asking her.

“Matt Brooks,” she said. “He was my boyfriend last year, before he graduated.”

I was dumbfounded. Matt Brooks was not the type to have a girlfriend. He wore the thickest, black-plastic glasses in the geekdom universe. He dressed like a geek in short sleeve dress shirts buttoned to the neck, corduroy pants and Hush Puppy Penny Loafers. He was ambivalent about dating and the opposite sex. He never mentioned a girlfriend when he was my roommate during summer debate camp.

“Matt graduated last year and went off to Harvard. We might have stayed together if he hadn’t decided the Spartacus Youth League Trotskyite viewpoint was better attuned to his political beliefs. What a bourgeois decadent fascist,” she said.

The SYL was not as leftist as the Revolutionary Student Brigade. The RSB viewed anything to the political right of them as brown-shirt material. I didn’t need to ask where she thought the corporate blue suits with their yellow-power ties stood in the political dress-code spectrum.

I handed her a flyer for the Co-op. “When you’re ready to move out from your parents, consider Cloyne Court,” I said. “We have a bunch of Trotskyites living there now. They have regular meetings.” I was putting my self-interest lesson into practice. Only it was my self-interest this time, not hers. I liked her. I wanted to see more of her.

“My name is Derek. I’m glad to meet a friend of Matt Brooks.”

“And my name is Diane,” she said. She raised her hand in a black power salute.

“Want to help prevent the destruction of the International Hotel in San Francisco on Saturday?” she asked. “We’re taking a radical step to respond to a social injustice. We’re going to chain ourselves to the building, so they can’t bulldoze it. How about it?”

“No thanks, I’m not ready for radical change yet.”

“If not now, when?” she asked. That is a question I have often asked myself for the last twenty-five years.


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[1] He’s now hiding in France from the FBI.

A Memorable New Year's Eve Escapade

California Central Valley Tule Fog

New Years Eve in California's Central Valley with our new-found friends

New Year's Eve of 1970 was one of the most unforgettable event in my life here in the US. In mid September of 1969, I found myself relocating my family (wife and four young children of grade school ages) from Kansas City, Missouri to Modesto, California. The move was not that traumatic, since relocation expenses, including packing and repacking expenses/activities were paid by my new employer, Shell Development Company.

Modesto, California is the county seat of Stanislaus County, right in the heart of the central valley of California- Land of Fruits and Nuts. The area is famous for its tule* fog during winter. The locals called it the “soup”.

As a newcomer, I had no idea how it feels driving in the soup. I have a feeling though that it could be dangerous, but had no idea how nerve-racking an experience it could be. Driving in the “soup” with zero visibility that new Year's eve night of 1969 is not an experience, I want repeated in my life. I remember, how I felt. I thought, I will run out of breathe and feel like suffocating. I felt trapped and claustrophobic inside the car. The fog was so thick, my car fog lights was of no help. The drive from Modesto to Stockton normally takes less than 30 minutes during the day. But that night it took me an hour because of the dense fog.

Why was I driving on New Years Night in Highway 99 in the middle of the worst valley fog in Central California?. Read on.

My move from Kansas City, Missouri to Modesto, California was a stage in my professional career, I called my “pre-midlife crisis career move”. I loved and enjoyed my job at Chemagro Corporation in Kansas City, Missouri. However, when I received a job offer from a job hunter with a 20% raised in salary, I accepted it without fear and hesitation. In addition, I have always preferred living in the West Coast of the US than in the Midwest, where the winters are milder. Little did I know that the winter fog was horrible in our new home. I would compare driving in the fog with zero visibility here in Central California in the same category of danger as driving in a blinding rain storm or snow storm of the East Coast( Maryland and Virginia) and of the Midwest ( Illinois and Missouri).

During the last four months of 1969, my wife and four children were busy adjusting to their new surroundings and in their elementary schooling. We did not have time to join any local organizations and have zero friends except our next door neighbor. With my new job, I had no time making new friends except with my co-employees. So when New year Eve came, Macrine and I were desperate for some social interaction. We decided to go out for a late dinner on New Years Eve in one of Stockton's 4-star restaurants. Stockton is about 25 miles north of Modesto along Highway 99. The teenager daughter of our neighbor baby sat for the kids.

We arrived at the restaurant at about 9:30PM. The restaurant was filled to capacity. We waited in the bar for available seats. In the bar was another couple also waiting to be seated. They were a little bit older than us. The lady was of Asian ancestry and the man was Caucasian. Macrine and I were desperate for company, and the couple appeared very friendly, so I initiated the conversation. I do not remember what exactly happened, but we decided to get a table for four instead of two tables for two.

Our dinner of steak and lobster was excellent. Conversation flowed freely oiled by two bottles of wine. From our rapport and conversation, it appeared the four of us were long time friends. We learned that the lady had Filipino ancestry. We also learned that they are also Roman Catholics and have resided in the Stockton area for the last 10 years. They have no children and have plans of adopting an orphan from the Philippines.

Their house was in the housing development very near to the restaurant and only about a 3 minutes drive. We finished dinner and dessert at about 11:30PM. Our new found friends decided to invite us to their home for an after dinner drink, so we will not be driving in the highway at midnight. With our adventurous spirit, Macrine and I accepted their invitation without any fear or hesitation.

When we got out of the restaurant, the fog was already thick with only a few feet of visibility. The couple's residence was in the area of middle and upper-middle class homes. The house was tastefully furnished and decorated with several Philippine antiques that the lady had inherited from her Filipino grandparents. We stayed at their home until 1:00AM. We had a bottle of champagne at midnight. I just took a sip, because I know I will be driving through a thick fog on our way home.

Our baby sitter was glad to see us at 2AM after an hour of slow driving because of the fog. The drive was so nerve-racking, I vowed I will never drive in a fog if at all possible or unless there is a medical emergency involving a life or death situation.

Reflecting back to this experience, I can not believe, that Macrine and I allowed ourselves be picked up by complete strangers who later became our close friends. We continued our friendship with the Stockton couple, until 1974 when we moved to the San Francisco bay area after I lost my job from Shell Development Company(SDC). SDC closed their agricultural research facility in Modesto because they wanted to get out of the pesticide business.

Indeed, this is one New Year Night's escapade that Macrine and I will always remember as long as we live.

*Tule fog ( /ˈtuːliː/) is a thick ground fog that settles in the San Joaquin Valley and Sacramento Valley areas of California's Great Central Valley. This phenomenon is named after the tule grass wetlands (tulares) of the Central Valley. Accidents caused by the tule fog are the leading cause of weather-related casualties in Central California.(From Wikipedia)

Reference: My Autobiography, Chapter 9: http://theintellectualmigrant.blogspot.com

Marinduque in my Heart Video

Me and Congressman Velasco, MI Inc Medical Mission of Love, February, 2011

It is time to view a video on the beauty and tourist attractions of Marinduque. Chateau Du Mer is featured in the first 1.1 minute of the video for a few seconds.

One Point I missed in my Final Exam that Changed my Life

David and my wife, Macrine and son Dodie during our First Thanksgiving Day in the US, 1960

One grade point in college changed my life | ViewsHound

Cloyne Court- Excerpt 29

Handing Flyers at Sather Gate
Cloyne Court, Episode 29
By Dodie Katague
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Rated "R" by the Author.

A creative memoir about Cloyne Court in Berkeley, California in the late 1970s
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“Well, Derek, it’s about time somebody showed up. I told Casey not to wait until the last minute, but he always does. I can’t wait until the next house election.”

I imagined the Machiavellian plots churning in her head. “Ok, what do I have to do?” I asked.

“Help me hand out these flyers advertising the co-op system to people passing by. Oh, Casey may have told you the work shift is two hours of credit, but you can’t leave until all the flyers have been handed out.”

I looked at the stacks of flyers and counted four quires of paper, two hundred sheets, to hand out. I would have to hand out one hundred sheets an hour to finish in two hours, a daunting task. From experience of walking here at lunchtime, I calculated if I handed out 1.6 flyers every second, it could be done.

I grabbed a handful, stood in the middle of the bridge and held out flyers to students walking in both directions. People refused to take them. Most avoided eye contact and pushed through the crowd ignoring me. Those who did take a flyer, scowled. No one actually wanted a flyer. Why should they? Dozens of groups were handing out scores of flyers.

After fifteen minutes of limited success, I realized that I had become the same hawker who had annoyed me daily when I was commuting to Berkeley. I didn’t want to be there irritating people. A group of fraternity boys walked toward me. I held a flyer in front of them.

“Shove it up your ass,” said one.

“Live at Cloyne Court?” said the other. “Who would want to live in an anarchist hellhole like that?”

I watched other students walk past. Some were walking in pairs, talking and smiling. Most were walking alone heaving heavy book packs and displaying determined looks on their faces as they hurried to their next destination. I saw a young man sauntering slowly along the path.

I held out a flyer. “Hey, looking for a place to live on campus? Want to meet other students?”

He took the flyer and looked at it suspiciously. “You know, you’re the first person who’s spoken to me in a week.”

“You’re commuting to school, right?” I asked. “San Francisco. Taking BART daily?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

Because I had seen the look on his face before, on mine. He was lonely.

“Check it out, OK?” I said. He walked off still reading the flyer. For a moment, I felt a moral quiver. I had done a random act of kindness by talking to him. I’d like to think because of that one moment, the guy moved into the co-ops, graduated with honors and is now a millionaire Silicon Valley entrepreneur[1] with a company employing thousands of people.

Then, like receiving the key to a Cryptex, I discovered I had learned an important lesson. I didn’t learn it in the classroom from some bigheaded, highly credentialed egomaniacal, Nobel Prize winning professor, but standing under Sather Gate in the hot sun.

To persuade people to do something, even as simple as take a flyer from your hands, you have to look at them, size them up and determine what their self-interest is. Their motivation can be fear, hunger, money or status. Whatever it is, people will do what you want if they believe it is in their self-interest. For that one student, it was conversation. He wanted someone to talk too.

I sized up the students walking in my direction and talked to them based on my assumptions. My presumptions may have been wrong, but the method was working.

If they were laughing and talking and seemed social, I said, “Want to live in a fun place?” Of course they did. They took a flyer.

If they looked poor and shabbily dressed, even by college student standards, I held out a flyer and asked, “Need a cheap place to live?” They took a flyer.

A group of engineering students walked toward me. They were dressed like the stereotype, short-sleeved shirts with pocket protectors, thick eyeglasses, poor grooming and a disheveled appearance. “Want student housing a block from Cory Hall (the engineering building)?” They took a flyer.

After less than an hour, I had handed out two-thirds of the stack.

Another group of men wearing fraternity T-shirts walked toward the gate. My first encounter with the frat rats had been a failure. Here was my second chance to prove the validity of my newly learned lesson. I thought intensely about what to say as they approached.

“Want to live in a house where men and women shower together and sunbathe nude in the backyard?” I said. The men looked at me as if I was crazy, but everyone took a flyer. “Single rooms and only one roommate?” They stopped in their tracks and waited to hear more. I had discovered their sore spot. These new pledges probably lived in a room with four or five other guys. Space and privacy was at a minimum.

“The food’s not bad either,” I said.

The men asked some questions, and I answered as honestly as I could. I looked over at Betty Sue. She had a dour look on her face. I guessed she was not pleased with my tactics.

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[1] Like Gordon Moore, founder of Intel, who lived at Cloyne Court in the 1960s. He gave money to the USCA for Cloyne’s restoration work in the mid-1980s.

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