When “Opo” Was Earned, Not Expected
Once upon a time—not in the mythic mists of Malakas and Maganda but in our very own childhoods—respect was an act, not a reflex. We kissed the hands of our lolos and lolas, we offered them the best seat, we fetched water from the tap or basin, and we spoke when spoken to. We said "opo" not out of habit but because it reflected our respect for those who lived longer, loved deeper, and suffered more.
Today, as a professor at the University of the Philippines, I stand before a classroom of young Filipinos—most born in the age of YouTube and TikTok—and am met with a cascade of “po’s” and “opo’s,” sometimes three per sentence. “Yes, Sir po,” they say. “I’ll submit it po. Tomorrow po, promise po.” Each “po” a thud of obedience, a genuflection not of the body but of the tongue.
Tenants of a Feudal House
I have grown wary of these verbal curtsies. There’s something hauntingly ironic about it: the more polite they sound, the less they seem to rebel. These are the same generations that speak of safe spaces and gender fluidity, that embrace the digital and demand transparency—and yet, in language, they are still tenants of a feudal house. There is in them a fear of the slip—a fear that omitting “po” might cause offense, as though their elders were gods waiting to be slighted.
Even my colleagues in UP—professional equals, though younger—address me with “po” and “opo” in conversations where a simple “Sir” would more than suffice. It is a quiet, habitual gesture of deference that borders on the excessive, and though I do not take offense, I find it mildly annoying. For in an institution where we are encouraged to engage as equals in discourse, the ritualistic language of hierarchy feels oddly out of place.
From Martial Roars to Mumbled “Po”s
But we, the children of the sixties and seventies—we who marched in the First Quarter Storm, who rallied beneath the ghostly lights of the Diliman Commune—our deference was conditional. We said “opo” to our grandparents, never to Marcos. We honored tradition, but challenged tyranny. We spoke softly in the sala, and roared in the streets.
Why this shift? Why does today’s youth and young adults couch rebellion in euphemism and cover independence in pleasantries?
To be fair, they did not invent this language. “Po” and “opo” are old. Pre-Hispanic, some say, but crystallized under Spain and formalized under American pedagogy. Spanish friars taught us humility; American schoolmasters drilled us in grammar; both gave us religion and rules. And out of this emerged the Filipino formal: a smile, a bow, a soft voice, a thousand po’s.
And yet, language is not merely the servant of manners. It is the mirror of the soul. And a society that cannot say “no” without a “po” may find it hard to say “never” when it must.
Rituals Without Reverence
Still, let us be just. This linguistic politesse is not ours alone. The Japanese bow in grammar as they do in gesture; the Koreans suffix their verbs in submission; the Thais end each sentence with a sweet “kráp” or “ká.” But what makes Filipino po distinct is its frequency, its fusing with the colonial “Sir” and “Ma’am,” its use not just with elders but even with equals—sometimes, heartbreakingly, even with the undeserving.
What we are witnessing, perhaps, is not reverence but ritual. The performance of respect, not its practice. A politeness that obscures thought, not sharpens it.
And so I have made it my quiet mission in class: to tell my students that “Sir” is enough. That “po” need not be a comma in every sentence. That real respect lies not in how you speak to authority, but in how you speak truth to it.
Because I dream of a Filipino who can disagree and still be decent, who can question and still be kind. Who need not grovel to be heard. Who will not be less Filipino for saying “Yes, Sir” without the crutches of colonial politeness.
A Voice Unburdened, A Nation Unbowed
And perhaps—only perhaps—when that day comes, we will finally find the voice that is not burdened by the past, but buoyed by the future. A voice neither raised in rage nor lowered in fear. But lifted, clear and firm, like the cry of a nation unshackled from habit, but never from heart.
For it is only when we stop mistaking deference for dignity, and politeness for principle, that we may begin to speak as a people truly free—not just from colonizers, but from the quiet chains we clasp around our own tongues. Only then can the Filipino say “yes” and mean it, “no” and stand by it, and “opo”—only when it matters most.
No comments:
Post a Comment