Some Memories You Don’t Share… Until It’s Time
It’s strange how time works.
Something that feels like it just happened… suddenly you realize it was seven years ago. Not last year. Not recently. Seven.
That memory popped up in my feed today.
Seven years ago, I was in the Philippines with a group of our WMAA members. As we always do, we made the pilgrimage to Hinigaran, the birthplace of Modern Arnis, on the Negros Occidental side of the island.
That stop is never casual.
We went first to the graves of my teachers, Remy and Ernesto. We stood there quietly. Paid our respects. Reflected. There’s always a weight in that moment. Gratitude. Responsibility. A reminder of why we do what we do.
Afterward, we headed to the ancestral home to spend time with the youngest brother, Roberto.
Every visit had its rhythm. Stories. Laughter. History. Family talk. But this trip… this one was different.
As we pulled up, sticks in hand, there he was near the gate, even though we had been told (more than once ?) that he wasn’t “allowed to train anymore.”
That was Tito.
We ended up having a deep conversation that day. About the family legacy. About how Modern Arnis started. How it evolved. Where it had gone. And where it was headed.
And then something unplanned happened.
Craig and I somehow found ourselves demonstrating in the backyard, blending Balintawak concepts with Tapi-Tapi. It wasn’t staged. No rehearsal. Just movement and flow in the moment.
Now, I’ll be honest, it wasn’t my best performance. There were clotheslines strung across the yard, and I kept clipping them with my stick. It threw off my rhythm more than I’d like to admit. You’ll see it in the video.
But that wasn’t the part that mattered.
After we finished, we sat back down. The conversation continued. And that’s when it happened.
In the middle of talking about the art, the family, the future, Roberto endorsed my use of the Presas family name. He told me he liked what I was doing. He felt the demonstration was good. He appreciated how I had spread the art into areas the family never had the opportunity to reach.
And then he said something that humbled me even more.
The family had been watching.
Cousins following social media. Keeping tabs. Seeing how I was representing the art. Seeing how Modern Arnis was being carried forward.
I didn’t know that.
That moment meant more to me than I can fully put into words.
For me, it was the trifecta, having the respect and good standing of all three Presas brothers before they passed. That’s not something I take lightly. That’s not something I ever wanted to parade around.
That’s why I didn’t share it back then.
You all know how politics can be. Noise. Opinions. Hurt feelings. People making things about themselves.
This wasn’t for that.
This was ours.
Craig Mason. Tye Botting. Chris Workman. Myself. Sitting with our Tito, Roberto Presas, in his backyard in Hinigaran.
And as if the day wasn’t already meaningful enough, as we were leaving, we ran into the wife of the late Cristiano Vasquez, a dear friend of the Presas family.
It was one of those days you don’t plan… but you never forget.
I remember telling everyone there, “This is ours. When the time is right, maybe we’ll share it. But we don’t have to. We were there. We know what it meant.”
With Roberto’s passing this past November, there are no Presas brothers left.
That reality hits differently.
Each one of them shaped my life in different ways. They weren’t just teachers. They were pillars in the Philippines, much like the Gracie brothers were in Brazil for Jiu-Jitsu. They pushed, promoted, fought for, and built something that changed lives.
And now it’s on us.
Time moves. Generations shift. Legends pass.
But legacy only survives if someone is willing to train… and train others… and keep moving forward.
That’s what I intend to do.
I miss all three of them.
And I carry that backyard moment in Hinigaran with me every day.
Respectfully,
Datu Tim Hartman
Modern Arnis Tribal Chief
