Leaves Over Water

I’ve heard it said or read somewhere that each generation
affects the state of a family’s wealth. The first generation lays the
foundations for prosperity; the second generation makes it grow or starts to
squander it. The third generation tries to maintain it, or sees it all decline
in their time. If the wealth survives this phase, the fourth generation is the
one that blows it all away.

This generational cycle is called the Midas Curse, as I
discovered in the net. An article from MSN Money entitled “The Curse of
Vanishing Wealth” even states that six out of 10 affluent families will lose
the family fortune by the end of the second generation. And nine out of ten
will have depleted the family wealth by the end of the third generation.

The article also reveals an ancient Chinese adage: “Wealth
never survives three generations.” There’s a disturbing ring of finality to it.
But I don’t need to read case studies on it. My family lived through it.

My tita and I went to Mauban, Quezon this last Saturday to
finally continue work on – what I fondly call – the “farm,” and from time to
time she shared stories about the affluence enjoyed by my ancestors, chiefly my
great grandparents or so. They used to own huge tracts of ricelands, commanded
the respect of the whole town and neighboring districts, held their
Spanish-bred complexions and noses high in the air, flaunted their corsets and
brocades, and contented themselves with the idea that they would always have
their wealth.

How the mighty have fallen. Now the second   and third 
generation of “Pastranas” and “De La Cuestas” who witnessed those high
times are frail, nostalgic lolos and lolas, and their children roam the streets
in ordinary shirts and sandals, holding on to the empty power of their names, or are
totally oblivious to it. Their rice fields have since been broken apart, taken
by the government for schools and other municipality works, and the ones that
remain languish in neglect or from simple ennui.

More than thirty years of my life passed before I pieced all
this together within my full consciousness. Finally I can now step back,
objectively assess the mistakes of the past, and understand the frailty,
confusion, and helplessness of my mom and her sisters – a helplessness that saw
their remaining parcels of land driven nearly to the brink of abandonment. It’s
still a miracle that my Tita Panching, all skin and bones
of her, held on to her land titles and fought stubborn, cheating tenants with
all the remaining will she could muster and won, and then transferred the
titles to my brother, my family and me.

Now I’m starting to find my place in this generational tale.
My mom and my titas belong to the third generation of that hazy legendary patriarch
Don Ramon Pastrana, and I think the Midas Curse ended with them. The lands
remain, the titles are with us, and I am now in the position to start the cycle
again, to build on something that can – must – be passed on to the next
generation. Let me take on all the hard work; let me suffer to make this happen.
I gladly take it upon myself because, in the grand scheme of things, I am now
building on a birthright that will honor my past, and help secure my family’s
future.

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