A few random stories before my school years

Free will. My first recognition of English and the realization that there is another language was when I was about four. I remember singing the song “Somewhere Out There”. I did not know much less understood the lyrics past those first three words so I filled the melody with made up words. And then I realized that even though I was just making them up, I was making sounds that were different from if I made up Tagalog words. In Filipino, we say, there is the “twang” factor that is quite unique to the English language. Another occasion which I remember was not long after was when I grabbed a newspaper and pretended that I was reading the news. Actually more like delivering the news, and in English, too! Although at that time all I knew was to say “My name is Michelle Andaya.”

Before I ever dreamed of learning English, I knew I had to learn Tagalog first. They got me this alphabet book: Abakadang (Uh-buh-kuh-duhng) Pilipino. It had the vowels first- a e i o u ( which obviously are the same as in English) except they are pronounced as uh-aeh-eeh-awh-ooh. And the following lessons had the consonants paired with each of the vowels. Ba-be-bi-bo-bu; ka-ke-ki-ko-ku. I also remember having the Pepe and Pilar book although I only enjoyed the pictures in it.

When I first learned the Pilipino alphabet, there were five vowels and twenty consonants. They were in this order: A B K D E G H I L M N NG O P R S T U W Y and read as uh-buh-kuh-duh-aeh-guh-huh-eeh-luh-muh-nuh-nguh-aw-puh-ruh-suh-tuh-ooh-wuh-yuh. Every time a consonant was attached to a vowel the sound of course takes the sound of the latter. The major difference of the language compared to English is that where ever you find the vowel, it will always sound the same, no matter what. Unlike in English where the o in do doesn’t sound the same as in the o in so. In Pilipino (and the modernized Filipino version), the o (which again is aw, not ow) has only one sound in any and every Filipino word.

Even though my mom was the school teacher, it was actually my dad who taught me my ABC’s. I remember how often I bugged him because I always confused the nga with mga.

One afternoon, when my mom came home from school, my dad surprised her with the news that I could finally read. My mom was so excited. She sat her teacher’s bag, kneeled in front of me, then pulled a book from her bag. It was a Tagalog book for her students, the second graders. She picked a random page, pointed to a paragraph,and then I started reading away. I was four so my mom was very pleased and excited that she pulled another book and then asked my Dad, “Can she read English now, too?”

My Dad’s answer to my mom’s over-enthusiastic question was of course a “no” plus a short laugh.

It was then when my mom said I was ready for school. I was very excited when they told me that they were going to send me to school. But I was born in September so it meant that I would just be turning five by June of the following year. So I had to wait another year. They were actually not as strict then as they are now so that June of the year after, I got in even if I was technically only five. Of course it obviously helped that my mom was a teacher in the same school.

Destiny. Before I got to go to school, something unexpected and serious happened to our whole family. An owner type jeep lost its breaks and the driver helplessly turned the steering wheel to the left and ran almost every one of us.

That fateful day, my mom was about to visit her mom in Pangasinan. Me and my brother Jay-ar were begging for her to take us. She was very annoyed I remember, but I could also sense the weight in her eyes and that she didn’t want to leave us. We went outside trying to convince her even as she was already trying to catch a jeepney.

Things happened very fast. With the exception of my eldest brother Frederick who was at the time about half a block away munching on street foods called bituka and dugo (barbecued chicken intestine and chicken blood in square clumps), the rest of us in the family were all in the wrong place at the wrong time and became victims of the accident.

My brother Jay-ar had to have shallow stitches at the top of his head. Ferdinand had several stitches from the middle of his right eyelid across past his right eyebrow. I, on the other hand had minor scrapes and bruises on my knees. My dad shoved me at the bottom of the jeep, in between the left and right wheels. Don’t ask me why and how he did that, but it sure worked. He had to get me out of the way because he used his own body to shield my mom who was actually hurt the worst because her leg was hit. Thankfully, my dad only had bruises on his back but my mom’s leg had to be wrapped in a cast after that. Those bituka and dugo sure saved my brother Frederick. I am thinking that if that happened to us (or to any family here in the US), me and my brothers would have probably had “college funds” already. But in fact, we were not given much assistance after the cops questioned us. The driver apologized. We were all let go. And my mom sat home or walked around the house with crutches for about two months.

Me and my brother got some of the blame for making her somewhat hesitant to leave and “changing the turn of events”. My mom, of course did not get to go to Pangasinan.

Free will or Destiny? My parents specially my dad was a disciplinarian. Me and my three brothers were in no way spoiled. There are no no-spanking laws in the Philippines so the ‘rod’ wasn’t spared. It was actually either my Dad’s tough hands, or the handle of the Baguio broom, or the back of the Spartan flip-flops.

My first real disciplining or at least the oldest I can remember, I can honestly say I deserved. Although It was not for me being bad or mischievous. It was for not listening. We were still living in San Joaquin, Pasig and at that point, I kind of already had my own set of friends.

My Aunt in London sent a package to us. The contents were not just for us family but it was sent to us so we could distribute it to the rest of our relatives on my mom’s side. That aunt of mine is her sister. So anyway, I got a white stuffed duck. Really white and fluffy. I was so proud that I of course wanted to show it off to my friends. My Dad said no and for me to just play with it at home. But that to me was of course boring. I just had to take it out where at least one soul could see me hug it and feel how soft it was. I finally convinced my Dad to let me take it outside on the condition that I wouldn’t dirty it. I said why of course I wouldn’t. As tight as I held it, there was no way it would get dirty. So I went outside with one of my brothers who was asked to run an errand at the nearest retail window store.

We went out through the back door and walked through the backyard. There was no fence. It was like a short cut to the store and to where most kids hung out and played. But between our backyard and where I wanted to prance around with my new “imported” duck, along the way was an open drainage. The water was dark and funky. I had to hop over that. Before I even got there, I was telling myself “Michelle, be careful. Hang onto your duckie. Hang o-…. Alas! It fell off my arms! A split second and it was swimming in that dirty stinky water. Whatever happened, to this day I am not sure but I was instantaneously crying seeing my white as cloud, cuddly duck turn into a black bloated cushion dripping with black water. When we got back home, which by the way was only about three to four minutes after my dad was warning me about getting the duck dirty or else…, I did not meet the condition so the punishment was laid right on my butt. And I cried as I went ouch here and ouch there as I promised to listen next time- all in the same breath. And then suddenly, one of my brothers panicked, “Back off! Back off!”, telling the others to step away from me. I was peeing my pants and flooding the living room! I did not even notice but that sure stopped the spanking session. (My readers, please don’t express pity because I am smiling as I am typing this and it is all but a memory now and in fact a very funny memory that I actually would not trade for the world!) That was when I first got my reputation of peeing while getting spanked so from then on every time I got spanked, they also got ready to take me quickly to the bathroom or have a rag ready to clean up the floor! (Are you grinning with me?)

Taguig, My Hometown

It was 1987 when we first moved to Taguig. There was where I lived the longest in the Philippines.

History. I remember the time when it was spelled as T-A-G-I-G (minus the U). In grade school, through a research homework, I learned that the inhabitants during the Spanish regime were called “taga-giik” (one who threshes harvested rice). And so the name evolved to how it is pronounced now – tuh-gig.

Geography. Taguig is a part of the National Capital Region. It is by Laguna Bay and has within it two rivers. Around it are the town of Pateros, the province of Rizal, and the cities of Pasig, Makati, Paranaque and Pasay.

Weather-wise, the whole region gets months of rain (and storms) and months of sun, sun, sun!

photo credit: bensonkua

In 2003, after winning against Makati City over Fort Bonifacio, Taguig has since proudly claimed and collected taxes from everything that is seen or held within the Bonifacio Global City. In my belief, the victory fueled the push for city-hood which it was granted the following year. I think one of the earlier bigger recognitions of the city was Manny Pacquiao’s fight in 2004 titled “Yanig sa Taguig“.

Taguig is proudly home to International schools such as the Japanese School, British School, and International School Manila, the new St. Luke’s Medical Center, The Fort and Market Market mall.

Since my column is more about my personal recollection of my life in the Philippines, I want to share more about the barrio I grew up in. Taguig has 18 barangays, one of which is my home barangay – Wawa.

Wawa is basically and understandably where I feel most comfortable living in. I used to work nights at a call center in Quezon City and the minute I got off the trike at the end of our street to get on a jeepney, I always felt the need to ‘wake myself up’ and be alert. While when I used to come home late, the minute I stepped off the jeepney right at our street, I felt like I was already home. I used to walk that quarter mile however late it was. And I felt as secure as when I was out in daylight.

I guess you can say that Wawa is a typical urban community. It is not a private subdivision, although I have always said, it has the feel of one. The houses are not all big. If there is grass area, it’s at the bottom boundary of Wawa. So mowing the lawn is something I only learned when I got here in the US.

With people working all over Metro Manila and some in the province of Laguna, Wawa wakes up at around three o’clock in the morning.

When Jeff visited me there for the second time, we lived with my parents. He told me about this sound he heard exactly at three in the morning. It was a “wack-a-wack-a-wacka-a” sound”, he said. Finally on the third day, he got up and went out to find out what it was. It was a teen-age boy honking a traditional horn on a bicycle with a box tied at the back of the seat. That was the first round of the hot pan de sal for the early birds. (Since then Jeff and I refer to pan de sal as the wack-a wack-a bread.)

Water is also one of the reasons why people get up early. In the morning, there is always more pressure and of course it is faster to fill water containers. Jeff also did that when he was there.

There is a little vegetable area near us where they plant sweet potatoes and harvest the leaves (yes, we eat the sprouts and the leaves) and then delivered by tricycle every morning.

At four o’clock, the students are definitely up and start to take their cold showers. We have a saying in the Philippines that “only the first dip (make that dipper of water) is cold”, meaning after you get yourself wet, your body evens out the temperature and that the water would seem not that cold.

On Saturdays and Sundays, the early risers are those who go to the big wet market that is actually in Pasig City but only about a thirty minute jeepney ride with little or no traffic at that time of the day.

Breakfast is big in the Philippines and definitely in our barrio, it is served quite early. We have about three to four spots where you can have breakfast for at least seven pesos. They serve lugaw or rice porridge, to which you can add a hard-boiled egg (for five pesos– 2007 price) pancit or stir-fried noodles, sopas or (chicken) noodle soup, pancit palabok, pancit malabon (both a variety of the stir fried noodles), champorado which is basically rice in cocoa and cream and sinukmane (pronounced as see-nook-muh-nhe) which is a clump of sticky rice rolled in coconut shreds and sugar. But if you wake up at eight, there is hardly any left. Breakfast is definitely over by nine.

In Wawa, most everybody knows most everybody. Life, family, work, friends, boyfriends, break ups, cheating, mistresses and children out of wed-lock. Gossip is the favorite past time in the neighborhood. And it starts while and when the pan de sal is baked at dawn.

At about lunch, the moms are busy getting their second shift students to school and maybe fetching those from the first shift.

By late afternoon, kids are home from school and ready for dinner while watching the prime time soap operas. Those who got home from work come out to get some fresh air and some fresh gossip of the day.

The little retail stores close late. One that sells footlongs and burgers close at about one o’clock for those who eat a ‘fourth meal’.

There is a small chapel, a big and four-century old Catholic church, a wet and dry market, a few dental and lying-in clinics, two public and one private elementary and a public and a private high school, the City hall, a big pharmacy and now even a Joliibee (!) within a walking distance from Wawa. Within a trike ride, there is a good size water park. There is also a hotel in the town of Pateros that is just a short jeepney ride from Wawa. That was where Jeff and I and his parents stayed that morning of our wedding day.

There is absolutely no time of the day when you look outside that you see no people. There are kids running, people walking, talking or just hanging out. Always. You could imagine how puzzled I was when I first I got here in the Midwest. At nine o’clock, with beautiful weather and all, I look outside and…. silence. At first I thought, was there a big rally or something that everybody in the neighborhood attended that left the area looking like a ghost town in the middle of the day?

Even right at this moment and in between typing, I look out the window and see only my neighbor’s cars and boat and a few vehicles every so often. I have gotten quite used to it. But I always remember how it is where I came from. Almost always, the people -like the sun, are out and smiling.

Consider yourselves warned.

I went to an annual Filipino picnic in St Louis last Saturday and it was so much fun. The weather was perfect. The sun was out, the Pinoy food was bountiful and delicious as always. I saw lots and lots of my kababayans. And what else was present? A karaoke, of course!

My mother in law drove me and my kids to the venue park as Jeff had to work. After a little bit, she and the kids headed home, while I was left so I could “enjoy myself”. And I really did. I caught up with my old friends, got introduced to new ones. I even played kickball with another Filipina and her husband. And of course, I karaoke’d my heart out.

We Filipinos are very musically inclined. No wonder, amateur singing contests are always part of the numerous fiestas that we celebrate. And long before there was American Idol, we had Tanghalan ng Kampeon (Stage of the Champion) and the long list of succeeding television shows where new singing talents were and still are discovered. So if you love music, you will surely love the Philippines. Music is one of our favorite past times. You will hear them (sometimes real loud) in jeepneys, even in trikes. It should be no surprise that the karaoke plays a big part in our modern culture.

In the Philippines, karaoke is more popularly known as videoke. The logic, I guess is that when the ‘component system’ was just the cassette stereo and the speakers, and the melody was supplied through minus one tapes,  it was karaoke. But came the addition of the video and of course, the TV now part of the ’system’, where you see themed backgrounds as you sing and the lyrics too are supplied and highlighted in sync with the song tempo, and there you have the videoke.

Most Filipino households have a videoke system at home. If they don’t, they probably have a relative or a close friend in the neighborhood where they do their singing sessions during Christmas, New Year, fiestas, birthday, christening, on weekends, and anytime they can dream up an excuse for it -when maybe depressed, broken hearted, or happy or simply bored.

We like singing our hearts out. We love listening to our friends and neighbors sing their hearts out. Well, most of the time.

As much as karaoke makes us gather in camaraderie, there are also many times when it has caused trouble. Like when the drunken singing goes on until midnight while the rest of the neighbors are trying to sleep. I’ve known of cases when the neighbors had to petition to the community hall to actually regulate the karaoke hours or have them moved a little farther from residences or removed permanently.

And there is one song in particular that has gained ‘respect’ in the Filipino karaoke world. One better give the song justice or risk getting criticized for wrong pitch, wrong lyrics, wrong tempo or notes not hit. I’m not talking about Martin Nievera’s rendition of Lupang Hinirang at Manny Pacquiao’s most recent victorious fight. Frankly, I side Martin on that one, not because I like his version. I just like that he put his own touch to the song. I think that maybe, if we all can sing it in a way that our hearts will really feel it, then maybe we can actually incorporate the lyrics to our way of life and who knows, it might finally spark nationalism.

The song I am talking about is popularized by Frank Sinatra and is arguably the national anthem among the drunks (usually among the male population). The lyrics say of how one has done a lot in his life, and so he is sort of ‘ready to go’. Ironically, there were those who sang the song who actually went. Some were made to leave the bar, some not-so-lucky ones, were made to leave the face of the earth. Seriously.

Don’t dare walk into a karaoke bar, or in the middle of the neighborhood drinking/karaoke session and start singing “My Way”. It can very well be your last song.

The three B’s -booze, the bar attitude and the bad singing, crime records show, can be a very bad combination. When someone picks the song, I am telling you, try to look around. You’ll see that everybody starts getting nervous. Everybody else is suddenly alert and ready to either run out, run for cover or duct. When I first told Jeff about this, he did not believe me. He finally did when his policemen friends told him that 99 percent of the bloody bar fights that they had responded to started from the song My Way.

If this is news to you, it should sound pretty funny as it still does to me. But it is sadly quite a matter of fact. Some bars have actually removed the song from the karaoke menu! I put together this clip of the lyrics and a few actual cases in the past. Imagine a guy singing it and somehow, a fight starts and somebody is suddenly dead.

The Earliest Memories of My Life

I believe my parents lived briefly in Sta. Ana, Manila but it was in Pasig where my eldest brother and the rest of us were born. I am not sure exactly when they moved but that would put my parents in Pasig by 1974. By 1975, Pasig became a town in Metro Manila after being the capital of Rizal province for a long time.

When they first moved in Pasig, they rented a house in San Joaquin. It didn’t take long until they moved again this time to a two-storey house where we stayed until I was six or seven.

The farthest that my memory can take me was when I was maybe a year and a half or two years old. I remember being surrounded by and looking at my brothers. It was almost like an introduction. They were all looking at me like it was the first time that they had seen me. And after a few minutes, I could see them talking to my mom except for my brother JR (Freddie) who stayed by me and played with me. And then he got scolded because of something like pulling my arm.

I know I co-slept with my parents, my dad on the left, my mom in the center and me on the right, right against the wall I guess so I wouldn’t fall. We slept in a queen size bed. The headboard was a curvy wood much like the parenthesis sign only horizontal, with the vertex pointing up. It had a beautiful carving of two birds . My brothers slept on a banig (mat) on the floor in the next room. Although there was a frame, there was no door panel.

There was a window on my side of the bed where my mom and I used to look out as we waited for my dad. The windows slid from to side to side but not as smooth as shower doors slide. It was all just wood carved on the top and bottom ends allowing the window to slide through the frame. I remember sometimes we had to push a little harder to make them move. The window panes were capiz shells framed in wood painted in dark dark brown.

By this time my dad had already quit truck driving. He drove a trike instead. I would always catch my mom look twice every time a trike would go by and I’d see the sparkle in her eyes disappear when it was just another driver and not my dad. Somehow at a young age, I felt how much my mom loved my dad and that she was always happier when he was around.

WWF (World Wrestling Federation) was popular then. Every Wednesday night my dad would buy Reno (liver spread) and a bag of hot pan de sal. And then we’d gather in front of the television watching Hulk Hogan drop his arm at the first two counts but keep it mid-air on the referee’s third tap on the ring floor. We’d all get excited! We talked back at the TV and said things like “Bring it on!” “Now you just got him sooo mad!” even if it happened every week anyway.

Pan de sal is our own version of the dinner roll although it is usually served during breakfast.  They are usually bagged in a brown paper which is then crumpled close to lock the warmth in. They are also baked and sold during snacks- first between lunch and dinner (around two thirty to 3 o’ clock in the afternoon) and then after dinner before bedtime (around eight thirty to nine o’clock). They are usually only good served fresh that’s why they are sold and bought at specific times of the day and immediately served.

We always had silly moments. I remember once when I woke up alone in bed and I was crying and my dad picked me up. He offered me my favorite breakfast which was hot pan de sal dipped in sardines in tomato sauce. And then he asked me “Iyang“, (Eeh-young) “Who left you alone in bed?” It was like my dad was encouraging me to tell on my mom.  I then pointed to my mom. It was silly and funny and dear to me. It was the beginnings of my dad being my hero. You know what’s funny is that we do the very same thing in my house now. I let Jeff be the hero.

Iyang or Iyang ko (my daughter) is what he used to call me actually until I was a teenager. It is derived from iha or hija (eeh-huh) which in Spanish means daughter.

In the afternoon, my dad used to make me take a nap. Oh I dreaded it! You know, because I just wanted to play all day. He always promised to buy me snack when I woke up. I always wanted this root beer called Sarsi and spanish bread which is basically a crescent covered with crumbs and sugar and filled with margarine and vanilla.

My mom spoiled me too with surprises or what we Filipinos call pasalubong. She always brought me something whenever she came home from school. The best one that I remember was a set of jack stones. I was jumping up and down and I remember my dad teaching me as I did not have a good control of tossing the ball up nor catching it.

I was the ‘problem child’ when it came to dinner. I had simple favorites like rice and soy sauce but ate very little. My mom would always make me finish my food. At some point, I got too thin and they got worried. Somebody suggested giving me a haircut because they said that my hair was too long (down to my waist) and that all the nutrients were going to my hair. So they did but it didn’t improve my weight anyway. Eventually, they prevented me from drinking right before every meal.

Meals were always on the table. My dad was strict although not so much about table manners. He just didn’t like too much conversations around the table. He told us about his brief experience in the military where they sat up straight and looked straight ahead as they shoveled food in their mouths. They were timed, of course. I remember our food that night was fish. And as you might already know, average Filipinos don’t serve fillet and we usually have to pick out the bones. So I was telling myself, there was no way we could do the same at home.

He definitely didn’t like the TV distracting us while eating. We could see the screen in the living room from the dining room. I used to get in trouble with my brothers because my dad would let it stay on in the beginning. But he would usually catch me glancing and not chewing, so he’d order one of my brothers to turn it off. My brothers then would look at me like they wanted to strangle me for not being discreet.

Many of my ‘firsts’ happened in the same house and actually before I was even able to read. I made a list of what I can remember.

First lesson on obedience. I remember my dad taking us to this new park in Pasig. It was so new that the wooden slides were not even finished yet! So my dad warned us to not use the slides but my stubborn brother JR used it anyway and sure enough it was no fun when his butt was slightly scraped.

First brush with death. There was a bad typhoon and the town was flooded. There was water in our house about up to my dad’s knees. That’s about a foot and a few inches. We then had to live upstairs. Unbeknown to my brothers whom I remember were watching the children’s show Lola Basyang, I sneakily went down the stairs and sat on the last step right above the flood level. But as I stood up, I fell forward and accidentally plunged into the water. My dad found me in the kitchen with the water containers. He said he almost tripped over me. I guess I ’swam’ from the bottom of the stairs which was at the end of the living room. Either he found me soon enough or my angels were on duty then. After they wrapped me in a towel, they all gathered around me. My mom had an apologetic look mixed with a relieved look on her face and then she hugged me ever so tightly.

First lesson on recognizing good deals. We used to rent komiks or comic magazines from the next door neighbor for 25 cents for thirty minutes. But all four of us got to read it before we returned it. I still couldn’t read then but I loved looking at the illustrations. It was also my first exposure to Philippine Literature.

First physical fight. Once, when my parents were gone, my brothers put me in a boxing match with a four year old boy whom I could only remember as Ogie. I lost of course and in fact, busted my lower lip. That night I had my first really vivid dream.

First really vivid dream. I was getting even with Ogie and I was actually winning! I was pulling his hair with all my strength and he was tugging his head back but I was suddenly stronger than he was. I woke up feeling strong and happy that I was able to get even with him at least in my sleep! But then my mom (remember I co-slept with them) scolded me and said that she was awakened in the middle of the night because I was pulling her hair! I still laugh out loud when I remember this.

First lesson on physics. We once had a dog that was chained on the back porch. When I went in the house, the chain tripped me. And my forehead hit the edge of the cement floor. I had a knot on my head much like the shape of an egg. I was crying of course. And then after sometime, I noticed that there was a dent on the edge of that floor shaped the same as the knot on my head. This was way before I was taught that “no two things can occupy the same space at the same time.”

First lesson on entrepreneurship. This is particularly on “how to increase repeat sales”. We used to sell pigeons. If I remember it right, it was 20 pesos to 35 pesos depending on the age and color. But then the pigeons started coming back to us. And we’d keep it until the old buyer came back. And then guess what? My dad and oldest brother Frederick would sell them to the same buyer again! Of course I didn’t understand the logic but the buyers bought them back for five or ten pesos. Now I’m thinking maybe it’s sort of a finder’s fee. So then, my brother started teaching the pigeons to come back. He’d let them go and clap a certain way and then they’d be back. And he sold more pigeons that came back and for which some buyers paid twice for!

First exposure to gambling. My mom, my dad and my three brothers used to play cards. Pares- pares or pairs. Sometimes with real money involved. This was a really fun time for us. The house was filled with laughter. When I got a little older they taught me Pusoy-dos- game where the card number two had the most value.

All of these happened before or when I was four. 1986 at the latest. There was an instance though that didn’t make sense to me until I was maybe eleven and in my fifth grade history class.

First memory about politics. I remember being held by my mom while we were standing outside of the house. There were a lot of people marching, most of them wearing yellow shirts and yellow bandana and flashing a hand sign of the letter ‘L’. That instance only made sense to me when I learned about martial law and the Marcos versus Aquino snap elections. ‘L’ was for laban or oppose. (I just thought you, my dear readers might be interested to know that I am a Marcos. So more on this in one of my future articles.)

How about you? How far does your memory take you? Do we have any similar experiences? Or exactly opposite ones? I’d love to hear about them!

June Pride

When I called my Dad the other day, I asked if my niece was in school that morning. He said no because she was still on vacation. I realized that the Philippine school year has not even started yet. But it should, soon.

Unlike here in the United States, schools in the Philippines open in June. After a brief Christmas vacation, classes resume usually after the Three Kings in January. And close in March. During my time, we did not have semestral breaks. I was told they started those in 2005.

I feel a little disappointed in myself because I haven’t finished packing the box that I have been meaning to send to my niece who will be in third grade this year. It contains a new school bag and other school supplies among other things. I also got her a pink rain coat because I know that the opening of the schools is also about the beginning of the rainy season.

I bet she is so excited. She goes to the same school that I went to. When I went back in 2007, her book bag was worn out and torn on the side so I bought her a backpack. She probably used it until the end of last year. I better hurry it up and send her box. It won’t get there until a few weeks after her first day of school.

There were several things me and my brothers used to do before school started. From first to third grade, we were required albums instead of notebooks. A pad of ruled paper fastened together and onto a folder that served as the softback. When we started using notebooks, we pulled out the spirals that held the pages together and then sewed the leaves back together with a yarn. It prevented the pages from tearing easily and if the notebook was going to last a year, the spirals would most likely bend to one direction inside the book bag making it hard to turn the pages.

The first day of school was something I always looked forward to. I used to put on my uniform and practiced carrying my packed school bag. My dad would always tell me that I’d ruin something before the first day of school. The closer the day got, the more excited I felt. I was like an anxious bride. And in the beginning of a new school year I had something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue.

‘Something old’ were my classmates of the previous year. In most (if not all) public elementary and high schools, the kids are grouped into sections according to learning speed. During my time, there were at least 35 students in each section and about 10-13 sections, the first being the ‘cream of the crop’ and the last needing the most assistance. So you see pretty much the same faces and  have the same  classmates unless a student makes a very recognizable and significant change in performance. They did happen but not very often. I grew up with more or less the same set of friends. The kids did not move or transfer schools as much as I have noticed they do here in the States. If there were transferees, they were seldom and usually settled in and stayed until they graduated.

Another ’something old’ were my uniforms. Elementary and high schools, public or private have uniforms. In grade school, our uniform was a white blouse with a sailor collar, black and white checkered skirt, white socks and black shoes. I certainly didn’t get new uniforms every year. In fact, I used one of my Kindergarten uniform skirts up until I was in third grade. Four years! They sure got old and way too short and I begged my mom to please buy me new ones. I think I cried everyday for a week and then she finally had new skirts made for me in the middle of the school year.

‘Something new’ were of course my school supplies. I loved the smell of new paper and pencils. One could have witnessed the makings of a nerd. I felt my mom used to buy supplies very late that it always got me worried. And she would always tell us, “Oh, you wouldn’t need that.” I’d say, “But Ma, that’s what the teacher told us to buy.” Then my mom would sternly say, “Michelle, I am a teacher. I know what you need”.

Usually my school shoes were new, too. I guess my mom didn’t have much choice because I of course outgrew my shoes almost every year. But they were not always new from the box. I was often given shoes that still had life in them. But they were certainly new to my feet! I used to polish them so it would not be too obvious that they were not brand new. A black Kiwi shoe polish and an old rag and presto! They were shiny and new looking!

‘Something borrowed’ were the books. The government provides public students with academic books. Definitely not new because those are lent and are expected to be returned at the end of the school year, and will be reused for the next. Our books then were old and needed restoration right when we received it. They used to not print enough, either. The books were distributed in ratio depending on the number of students. Often, it was ‘one book is to two students’. It was hardly ever ‘one is to one’.

‘Something blue’, make that somebody blue was usually my brother whose birthday is in June, around two weeks after school has started. So by the time our parents have spent on tuition fees, school bags, supplies, uniforms and shoes on all four of us, there was no more left for his birthday celebration. My mom used to console him by saying “at least you got new school stuff”. But so did the rest of us and it was not even our birthday. Many times, he felt disappointed on his birthday.

I imagine my parents felt as blue as (if not worse than) my brother. Tuition fees during my primary years did not get any higher than 60 pesos. I believe it doubled by the time I was in sixth grade. But things would all add up and always used up a budget that was already thin in the first place.

At a young age, I understood the meaning of and the feeling when ‘the pockets are empty’. So when there was ‘no more’, none of us siblings pushed either of our parents to produce. That’s why even when my things were not all new or I didn’t have everything that was written on the requirements list or when my brother didn’t have a party on his birthday, we still anticipated school. We were just glad that they put our education before anything else.

Education is a priority specially in poor Filipino households. Sometimes, they even sacrifice the food on the table as long as the kids get to go to school. Being able to send a child to school is a pride for the parents. You would usually hear them tell their kids, “Education is the only thing I can pass on to you.” They want their kids to have a better chance at life, something maybe their own parents were not able to do for them or for whatever reason they obviously did not get to live.

I know it is true that education is something parents anywhere in the world, always want their kids to have and being able to give them education gives unmatched pride and fulfillment. But growing up in the Philippines, I saw how it was always put first on the list.

An Introduction of Sorts

The couple who raised me. My parents hail from a neat small town in Pangasinan. Like many, they decided to move to Metro Manila after getting married. My mom worked as a public school teacher, my dad, as a truck driver. They were blessed with three sons. And then they had me.

My mom and my dad are both the eldest in their respective families. Many times before, I have heard that an eldest child should not marry an eldest from another family because it is highly likely that both would be bossy and that wouldn’t help for a harmonious union. In fairness to my mom, and as far as I am concerned, she has been nothing short of a submissive, patient and understanding wife to my dad.

Possibly because there were very few sources of entertainment then, both of them have eight siblings! Maybe both of them being the eldest of eight was some sort of a sign. Remember, us Filipinos are very superstitious and label what other cultures normally deem a mere coincidence as a sign of something meant to be.

This leads my thought to me and my husband, Jeff. Both our dads at one point in their lives were drunks. Well, then it must have been written in the stars! In fairness to both guys, they are both very charming and very hardworking once they overcame their bad habits. The only difference is that my dad married a woman who accepted him at his worst and stuck with him through all those “thins”. While Jeff goes “hats off” to my mom for staying the course, I don’t really blame his mom for her marriage ending before he even turned one. Sometimes though, I wonder if my parents would still be together if divorce was legal in the Philippines.

 

My dad is the one on the right & my mom is standing right behind him (farthest right).

Their love story was pretty much like Romeo and Juliet’s. According to my mom, when they were much younger, every time my dad went by their backyard, her mom, (my maternal grandma) would make her go in the house because “there was a monkey outside“. I imagine she and my dad probably did a lot of sneaking out because the wedding day came after all. My dad supposedly had a mock church built right at my mom’s doorstep because her family was not going to let her go out to the regular church. And then after the wedding, my mom was made to stay back in the house!? No wonder they moved to Manila!

In Manila, my mom and my dad started to build the foundations of their dreams. When she received her first salary as a teacher, she bought a GE fridge while my Dad bought his AIWA stereo/record player with four huge speakers. To be fair again to my dad, I know my mom enjoyed the times when he put a record on and out of nowhere pulled her to the center of the living room and then led them to a sweet waltz. (Say it with me. Aww!)

Really despite many many humps and hurdles, my parents have remained a sweet couple. After so many years, my mom still looks at my dad the way she used to. And my dad still loves having his back scratched.

The boys I grew up with. When I first told Jeffrey about my brothers, he thought I was kidding when I said their names are Frederick, Ferdinand, and Freddie. The last one is a junior so you can bet my dad probably named all three of them.

They however had very different personalities. The eldest is eight years older than me. When he was very young, he was usually quiet and more laid back but had implosive tendencies. The next was born four years later. He was more ornery and that brother who needed “anger management”. The youngest among my brothers is two years older than me. Growing up, he used to cry a lot because the older two used to gang up on him. He was teased because his punches were “too weak”. They called him lampa or clumsy because he used to trip quite often.

The only girl. Surprisingly, they didn’t name me Frida. I have never really asked but I’m pretty sure that they chose my name because my mom’s name starts with an M also. And no, I was not spoiled at all. I got spanked every time I asked for it. Although, I felt (let’s just say) “favored” sometimes. Maybe more often that my brothers would have agreed to. I was the youngest after all. The older kids were supposed to “give way” to the younger siblings being that the former could comprehend what the latter could not grasp just yet.

One downer of being the youngest was the claim for authority. I had none. When our parents were not home, age was pretty much power when we were growing up. And I was obviously at the bottom of that hierarchy. I was never in charge. But here’s the catch. Whenever my dad got drunk, I was the only one who could go near him. None of my brothers dared sit at his arm’s length for fear of getting spanked or yelled at for anything minor. They used to coach me what to say and do to my drunken dad. I definitely remember the “pull him towards the couch so he lies down and maybe he’ll fall asleep.” Since I was the only “fearless” one, I used to clean up after him whenever his Ginebra San Miguel and “pulutan” came back up. What’s funny was that I actually felt proud. I realize now that my brothers were obviously glad to not have that “privilege” after all.

Fast forward to 2009. Time brought the inevitable. Ah, changes! My mom has long since retired from teaching. My dad switched to driving a tricycle a long time ago. He still services passengers in our small bario in Taguig. He also delivers eggs and repairs trikes on the side where he gets paid in kind more often than cash. Him and my mom just celebrated their 40th anniversary last March! Me and my brothers now live separate lives playing “grown up”. After two marriages in the family, there are now five additions to my parents’ bloodline. Two of them are mine.

Since discovering about LiP, I often find myself trying to recollect the memories of the past 26 years. 23 of which I spent in Metro Manila. In this column, I intend to post random stories of the life I lived in the Philippines and the experiences that defined me as a Filipino.

Cover Letter

For my first LiP article, I decided to publish a letter that I sent to Bob asking to be part of the LiP site.  Here it goes:

I hope you are having or have had a good day when you open this email. If not, go ahead and close it. It is not that urgent.

For the longest time, I have been wanting to write a book about my childhood experiences. Someday, I always tell myself. Someday, somehow.

Anyway, that is still my plan but I have not been very motivated to start Chapter 1. Not until I found your site. LIP brings back wonderful memories. And for that I thank you, the site contributors and your regular readers. Like I said,  I am feeling more motivated to finally start working on my “book”. Except, I have decided that I will be blogging about them instead, one story at a time.

This is a proposal. I would love to write my stories through a column on your site.

Why LiP? Readership. I know LIP has a good traffic and I would like to be able to share the life I lived in the Philippines to as many as possible. I know expats and other westerners will enjoy childhood experiences of a Filipina born in the early 80s and other stories that are very Filipino. I am sure you know by now that I am married to an American and so I may also relate these stories to my life now as a wife to a westerner. I know (based on comments) that a good percentage of your readers are Filipino. They too will appreciate stories where they can see either themselves or somebody they know and reflect on the culture that they and I share.

What good will it do LiP? Traffic. My personal peers, friends and relatives back home will for sure be interested in my writings. I also have a virtual network of other Pinays who are married or are engaged to westerners. Maybe I can add a few more readers to your site.

My articles will also add a little more understanding, if not open up a few more discussions about Philippine culture.

What good will it do me? A lot. I love being able to share my stories. I am a stay-at-home mother of two who nowadays refuses to go outside and socialize because of swine flu. I will then get a dose of regular although virtual, interaction through your site and still feel productive. In short, just so I can justify long hours of being on your site. I believe “hooked” is the accurate term. (What about when swine flu is gone? Don’t worry. Winters also make me just want to stay home.)

Kidding aside, I do have some time on my hands to turn nostalgia into readable materials.

I have already written my first story and I can email it to you upon request. If you do accept my offer, this letter will be my first article. I am afraid a “guest column” will not be enough though because I have 23 years of experiences to write about. And maybe just being a Filipino, I can even write about anything from the present and still represent some of my people and our unique practices.

If in whatever way, you feel that a column by me and about my childhood in the Philippines is not relevant and will not enrich or contribute much to your site, it will not hurt my feelings at all. I will still keep your site in my bookmarks. I appreciate your honest and quick response as I am very excited. Please and thank you.

Feeling positive,
Michelle