Aida Rivera-Ford

Was born on January 22, 1926 in Jolo, Sulu. Her father is Judge Pablo Rivera and she
already 94 years old. She became the editor of the first two issues of Sands and Coral, the literary
magazine of Silliman University. In 1949, she graduated with an AB degree, major in English,
cum laude. In 1954, she obtained an MA in English Language and Literature at the University of
Michigan and won the prestigious Jules and Avery Hopwood for fiction. She taught at the
University of Mindanao and Ateneo de Davao University where she was the Humanities Division
Chairperson for 11 years.
In 1958, she was married to Donald Ford, the Director of the United States Information
with whom she had a son and Benipayo Press published her “Now and at the Hour and other
Stories.” Her other published works include poems, essays, operettas, plays and other short stories.

In 1978, she received an East-West Cultural Center grant at the University of Hawaii.
In 1980, she founded the Learning Center of the Arts in Davao City - the first college of
Fine Arts in Mindanao. It was renamed Ford Academy of the Arts, Inc. in 1993. Mrs. Ford chaired
two Creative Writing Workshops in Mindanao for the NCCA (National Commission of Culture
and the Arts).
She received the Datu Bago Award in 1982, the highest honor that the city of Davao
bestows on the citizen who has contributed to its development and prestige. In 1984, she was also
the recipient of the Philippine Government’s Parangal for Post War Writers award. In 1993, she
was named an Outstanding Sillimanian by her alma mater. That same year she was named National
Fellow for Fiction by the UP Creative Writing Center
In 1997 Rivera-Ford put together the five stories in her collection and added thirteen new
ones, most of them written in the 1990s. This second collection is titled Born in the Year 1900 (her
mother’s birthyear) and Other Stories (1997). Thirteen Stories by the author of “Love in the
Cornhusks” and The Chieftest Mourner” covering years lived by a wide spectrum of characters all
over the islands written in humorous quasi-historical-biographical inter-twinings with fiction in
her unique style. “The Chieftest Mourner” which has been a staple in many Philippine literature
books, was written as a requirement for her baccalaureate. She pursued further studies abroad on
a Fulbright grant and graduated with a master’s degree in English Language and Literature at the
University of Michigan at Ann Arbor in 1954. Her short story, “Love in the Cornhusks”, included
in many anthologies here and abroad was written during this period. She received the Jules and
Avery Hopwood Award for fiction in 1954.

. Aida is one of the few Filipinos included in the Asia Pacific Who’s Who Vol. 4 published
by Refacinento International, page 126, New Delhi India in 2003, and is also included in the
2000 Outstanding Intellectuals of the 20th Century, page 304, published by the Cambridge
Biographical Centre, 2000.
Her most recent book “Oyanguren – The Forgotten Founder of Davao” published in 2010
was historically researched at the National Archives in archaic Spanish. Don Jose Oyanguren
was a Basque Espanol who was granted three gunships by Governor General Claveria to defeat
Datu Bago who lorded it over Mindanao. (He would kill anyone from Luzon or Visayas who
would enter Mindanao.)
On January 29, 1848, Oyanguren vanquished Datu Bago and named the locality Nueva
Vergara (after his home town) and Nueva Guipozcoa (after his province) in Spain.
Aida Rivera Ford’s greatest dream is to make Dabawenyos remember Don Jose
Oyanguren, which she regards as the city's founder.
Title of Works & Year

 Heroes in Love: Four Players (2012)

 Born in the Year 1900 and Other Stories (1997)
 Collected Works (2012)
 Love in the Cornhusks (1997)
 The Chieftest Mourner (1997)
 Uyanguren: The forgotten founder of Davao (2010)
 PICTURES
+
 SAMPLE WORK
The Chieftest Mourner (1997)
He was my uncle because he married my aunt (even if he had not come to her these past
ten years), so when the papers brought the news of his death, I felt that some part of me had died,
too. I was boarding then at a big girls' college in Manila and I remember quite vividly that a few
other girls were gathered about the lobby of our school, looking very straight and proper since it
was seven in the morning and the starch in our long-sleeved uniform had not yet given way. I tried
to be brave while I read that my uncle had actually been "the last of a distinct school of Philippine
poets." I was still being brave all the way down the lengthy eulogies, until I got to the line which
said that he was "the sweetest lyre that ever throbbed with Malayan chords." Something caught at
my throat and I let out one sob--the rest merely followed. When the girls hurried over to me to see
what had happened, I could only point to the item on the front page with my uncle's picture taken
when he was still handsome. Everybody suddenly spoke in a low voice and Ning, who worshipped
me, said that I shouldn't be so unhappy because my uncle was now with the other great poets in
heaven--at which I really howled in earnest because my uncle had not only deserted poor Aunt
Sophia but had also been living with another woman these many years and, most horrible of all,
he had probably died in her embrace! Perhaps I received an undue amount of commiseration for
the death of the delinquent husband of my aunt, but it wasn't my fault because I never really lied
about anything; only, nobody thought to ask me just how close an uncle he was. It wasn't my doing
either when, some months after his demise, my poem entitled The Rose Was Not So Fair O Alma
Mater was captioned "by the niece of the late beloved Filipino Poet." And that having been printed,
I couldn't possibly refuse when I was asked to write on My Uncle--The Poetry of His Life. The
article, as printed, covered only his boyhood and early manhood because our adviser cut out
everything that happened after he was married. She said that the last half of his life was not exactly
poetic, although I still maintain that in his vices, as in his poetry, he followed closely the pattern
of the great poets he admired.My aunt used to relate that he was an extremely considerate man--
when he was sober, and on those occasions he always tried to make up for his past sins. She said
that he had never meant to marry, knowing the kind of husband he would make, but that her beauty
drove him out of his right mind. My aunt always forgave him but one day she had more than she
could bear, and when he was really drunk, she tied him to a chair with a strong rope to teach him
a lesson. She never saw him drunk again, for as soon as he was able to, he walked out the door and
never came back. I was very little at that time, but I remembered that shortly after he went away,
my aunt put me in a car and sent me to his hotel with a letter from her. Uncle ushered me into his
room very formally and while I looked all around the place, he prepared a special kind of lemonade
for the two of us. I was sorry he poured it out into wee glasses because it was unlike any lemonade
I had ever tasted. While I sipped solemnly at my glass, he inquired after my aunt. To my surprise,
I found myself answering with alacrity. I was happy to report all details of my aunt's health,
including the number of crabs she ate for lunch and the amazing fact that she was getting fatter
and fatter without the benefit of Scott's Emulsion or Oval tine at all. Uncle smiled his beautiful
somber smile and drew some poems from his desk. He scribbled a dedication on them and
instructed me to give them to my aunt. I made much show of putting the empty glass down but
Uncle was dense to the hint. At the door, however, he told me that I could have some lemonade
every time I came to visit him. Aunt Sophia was so pleased with the poems that she kissed me.
And then all of a sudden she looked at me queerly and made a most peculiar request of me. She
asked me to say ha-ha, and when I said ha-ha, she took me to the sink and began to wash the inside
of my mouth with soap and water while calling upon a dozen of the saints to witness the act. I
never got a taste of Uncle's lemonade. It began to be a habit with Aunt Sophia to drop in for a
periodic recital of woe to which Mama was a sympathetic audience. The topic of the conversation
was always the latest low on Uncle's state of misery. It gave Aunt Sophia profound satisfaction to
relay the report of friends on the number of creases on Uncle's shirt or the appalling decrease in
his weight. To her, the fact that Uncle was getting thinner proved conclusively that he was suffering
as a result of the separation. It looked as if Uncle would not be able to hold much longer, the way
he was reported to be thinner each time, because Uncle didn't have much weight to start with. The
paradox of the situation, however, was that Aunt Sophia was now crowding Mama off the sofa
and yet she wasn't looking very happy either. When I was about eleven, there began to be a
difference. Every time I came into the room when Mama and Aunt Sophia were holding
conference, the talk would suddenly be switched to Spanish. It was about this time that I took an
interest in the Spanish taught in school. It was also at this time that Aunt Sophia exclaimed over
my industry at the piano--which stood a short distance from the sofa. At first I couldn't gather
much except that Uncle was not any more the main topic. It was a woman by the name of Esa--or
so I thought she was called. Later I began to appreciate the subtlety of the Spanish la mujer esa.And
so I learned about the woman. She was young, accomplished, a woman of means. (A surprising
number of connotations were attached to these terms.) Aunt Sophia, being a loyal wife, grieved
that Uncle should have been ensnared by such a woman, thinking not so much of herself but of his
career. Knowing him so well, she was positive that he was unhappier than ever, for that horrid
woman never allowed him to have his own way; she even denied him those little drinks which he
took merely to aid him into poetic composition. Because the woman brazenly followed Uncle
everywhere, calling herself his wife, a confusing situation ensued. When people mentioned Uncle's
wife, there was no way of knowing whether they referred to my aunt or to the woman. After a
while a system was worked out by the mutual friends of the different parties. No. 1 came to stand
for Aunt Sophia and No. 2 for the woman. I hadn't seen Uncle since the episode of the lemonade,
but one day in school all the girls were asked to come down to the lecture room--Uncle was to read
some of his poems! Up in my room, I stopped to fasten a pink ribbon to my hair thinking the while
how I would play my role to perfection--for the dear niece was to be presented to the uncle she
had not seen for so long. My musings were interrupted, however, when a girl came up and excitedly
bubbled that she had seen my uncle--and my aunt, who was surprisingly young and so very
modern! I couldn't go down after all; I was indisposed. Complicated as the situation was when
Uncle was alive, it became more so when he died. I was puzzling over who was to be the official
widow at his funeral when word came that I was to keep Aunt Sophia Company at the little chapel
where the service would be held. I concluded with relief that No. 2 had decamped. The morning
wasn't far gone when I arrived at the chapel and there were only a few people present. Aunt Sophia
was sitting in one of the front pews at the right section of the chapel. She had on a black and white
print which managed to display its full yardage over the seat. Across the aisle from her was a very
slight woman in her early thirties who was dressed in a dramatic black outfit with a heavy veil
coming up to her forehead. Something about her made me suddenly aware that Aunt Sophia's bag
looked paunchy and worn at the corners. I wanted to ask my aunt who she was but after embracing
me when I arrived, she kept her eyes stolidly fixed before her. I directed my gaze in the same
direction. At the front was the president's immense wreath leaning heavily backward, like that
personage himself; and a pace behind, as though in deference to it, were other wreaths arranged
according to the rank and prominence of the people who had sent them. I suppose protocol had
something to do with it. I tiptoed over to the muse before Uncle as he lay in the dignity of death,
the faintest trace of his somber smile still on his face. My eyes fell upon a cluster of white flowers
placed at the foot of the casket. It was ingeniously fashioned in the shape of a dove and it bore the
inscription "From the Loyal One." I looked at Aunt Sophia and didn't see anything dove-like about
her. I looked at the slight woman in black and knew of a sudden that she was the woman. A young
man, obviously a brother or a nephew, was bending over her solicitously. I took no notice of him
even though he had elegant manners, a mischievous cowlick, wistful eyes, a Dennis Morgan chin,
and a pin which testified that he belonged to what we girls called our "brother college." I showed
him that he absolutely did not exist for me, especially when I caught him looking in our direction.
I always feel guilty of sacrilege every time I think of it, but there was something grimly ludicrous
about my uncle’s funeral. There were two women, each taking possession of her portion of the
chapel just as though stakes had been laid, seemingly unmindful of each other, yet revealing by
this studied disregard that each was very much aware of the other. As though to give balance to
the scene, the young man stood his full height near the woman to offset the collective bulk of Aunt
Sophia and myself, although I was merely a disproportionate shadow behind her.The friends of
the poet began to come. They paused a long time at the door, surveying the scene before they
marched self-consciously towards the casket. Another pause there, and then they wrenched
themselves from the spot and moved--no, slithered--either towards my aunt or towards the woman.
The choice must have been difficult when they knew both. The women almost invariably came to
talk to my aunt whereas most of the men turned to the woman at the left. I recognized some
important Malacañang men and some writers from seeing their pictures in the papers. Later in the
morning a horde of black-clad women, the sisters and cousins of the poet, swept into the chapel
and came directly to where my aunt sat. They had the same deep eye-sockets and hollow cheek-
bones which had lent a sensitive expression to the poet's face but which on them suggested t.b.
The air became dense with the sickly-sweet smell of many flowers clashing and I went over to get
my breath of air. As I glanced back I had a crazy surrealist impression of mouths opening and
closing into Aunt Sophia's ear, and eyes darting toward the woman at the left. Uncle's clan certainly
made short work of my aunt for when I returned, she was sobbing. As though to comfort her, one
of the women said, in a whisper which I heard from the door, that the president himself was
expected to come in the afternoon. Toward lunchtime, it became obvious that neither my aunt nor
the woman wished to leave ahead of the other. I could appreciate my aunt's delicadeza in this
matter but then got hungry and therefore grew resourceful: I called a taxi and told her it was at the
door with the meter on. Aunt Sophia's unwillingness lasted as long as forty centavos. We made up
for leaving ahead of the woman by getting back to the chapel early. For a long time she did not
come and when Uncle's kinswomen arrived, I thought their faces showed a little disappointment
at finding the left side of the chapel empty. Aunt Sophia, on the other hand, looked relieved. But
at about three, the woman arrived and I perceived at once that there was a difference in her
appearance. She wore the same black dress but her thick hair was now carefully swept into a regal
coil; her skin glowing; her eyes, which had been striking enough, looked even larger. The eyebrows
of the women around me started working and finally, the scrawniest of the poet's relations
whispered to the others and slowly, together, they closed in on the woman. I went over to sit with
my aunt who was gazing not so steadily at nothing in particular. At first the women spoke in
whispers, and then the voices rose a trifle. Still, everybody was polite. There was more talking
back and forth, and suddenly the conversation wasn't polite any more. The only good thing about
it was that now I could hear everything distinctly. “So you want to put me in a corner, do you?
You think perhaps you can bully me out of here?" the woman said."Shh! Please don't create a
scene," the poet's sisters said, going one pitch higher. “It’s you who are creating a scene. Didn't
you come here purposely to start one? “We’re only trying to make you see reason.... If you think
of the dead at all...""Let's see who has the reason. I understand that you want me to leave, isn't it?
Now that he is dead and cannot speak for me you think I should quietly hide in a corner?" The
woman's voice was now pitched up for the benefit of the whole chapel. "Let me ask you. During
the war when the poet was hard up do you suppose I deserted him? Whose jewels do you think we
sold when he did not make money...? When he was ill, who was it who stayed at his side...? Who
took care of him during all those months... and who peddled his books and poems to the publishers
so that he could pay for the hospital and doctor's bills? Did any of you come to him then? Let me
ask you that! Now that he is dead you want me to leave his side so that you and that vieja can have
the honors and have your picture taken with the president. That's what you want, isn't it--to pose
with the president....""Por Dios! Make her stop it--somebody stop her mouth!" cried Aunt Sophia,
her eyes going up to heaven. “Now you listen, you scandalous woman," one of the clan said, taking
it up for Aunt Sophia. "We don't care for the honors--we don't want it for ourselves. But we want
the poet to be honored in death... to have a decent and respectable funeral without scandal... and
the least you can do is to leave him in peace as he lies there....""Yes," the scrawny one said. "You've
created enough scandal for him in life--that's why we couldn't go to him when he was sick...
because you were there, you--you shameless bitch."The woman's face went livid with shock and
rage. She stood wordless while her young protector, his eyes blazing, came between her and the
poet's kinswomen. Her face began to twitch. And then the sobs came. Big noisy sobs that shook
her body and spilled the tears down her carefully made-up face. Fitfully, desperately, she tugged
at her eyes and nose with her widow's veil. The young man took hold of her shoulders gently to
lead her away, but she shook free; and in a few quick steps she was there before the casket, looking
down upon that infinitely sad smile on Uncle's face. It may have been a second that she stood there,
but it seemed like a long time. “All right," she blurted, turning about. "All right. You can have
him--all that's left of him! “At that moment before she fled, I saw what I had waited to see. The
mascara had indeed run down her cheeks. But somehow it wasn't funny at all.
 SOURCE AND REFERENCE
Adoniemar Story Collection (2010). The Chieftest Mourner. <http://adoniemarstory.blogsp-
ot.com/2010/07/chieftest-mourner-by-aida-rivera-ford.html?m=1>

Image: Compilation of Philippine Literature (2011).Love in the Cornhusks (Aida Rivera Ford). <
https://images.app.goo.gl/vCU8wCxKdeSBpVweA

Image: Contemporary Davao& Its Progress (2016).Exemplary Women of Davao City. < https://-
images.app.goo.gl/tPA2e9oQ3My3HYNf8>

Image: pressreader(2018).Sun.Star Davao.<https://images.app.goo.gl/PpNTcuvJ29b6bXBR6>

Image: Teaching Staff (2001). https://images.app.goo.gl/AR2TuNPUTnLU5cEB7

Rivera-Ford, Aida – panitikan (2014). <https://panitikan.ph/2014/06/07/aida-rivera-ford/>

SunStar Philippines (2020). 92 passionate years: Aida Rivera Ford celebrated.

<https://www.sunstar.com.ph/article/416742>