An Harong Mi

I remember our house. It was a two-floor house that stood tall in an open yard, by the side of the hill, perhaps some 20 meters away from the highway. Going there, one had to pass a rice field lined by trees of palo maria, madre de cacao, and green shrubs. There were days when the house—seen from the national road—was almost covered by lush green vegetation that all you could see was the second storey.

If it pleases you, simply picture a typical Philippine postcard: green farm on the foreground, a two-storey house in the middleground, and a hill of trees and vegetation on the background, where the sun rises.

If one enters the main door in the first floor, there was our living room, where we had a wooden sala set: a sofa good for three average-size visitors, four arm chairs and a rectangle center-table—all draped in red and orange florals. (Let it be added that the sala set was made of a very hard wood—I was too small to ask my mother where she bought it, or what kind of wood it was made of. But certainly, not one of the furniture was broken until all of us could really grow up.)

The living room then lead the visitor to our dining space where a long wooden rectangle table was flanked by two long benches for the diners. Each of the benches could seat three children. There was only one chair or silya which served as the kabisera—yes, indeed, for Mama, the head of our family.

Going further, one was greeted by the kitchen, where cooking was done on stove and later, dapog, and also the lavabo. Further to the left going to the back, the visitor could relieve himself in either of the two comfort rooms—one was the toilet and the other was the shower room.

Our house was cool. It did not have much stuff inside. It was airy inside the house. We had few but very functional fixtures. We had jalousie windows in all corners of the house. In the first floor, there were windows in front by the sala and in the dining area; and a very big window by the kitchen.

To reach the second floor, one ascended the wooden stairs, going to the second living room, where a former platera now stored old books from the school library. There, in the second floor, we had glass jalousie windows fronting the road. At the back, or inside the two bedrooms, we also had wooden jalousie windows. Air from the farm and the mountain entered all corners and sides of the house.

Not just that. From the living room in the second floor, one could see the open view of the highway where the barangay folks passed from the Triangle or visita to Banat, a sitio near the barangay elementary school where our parents served and yes, indeed, made their own marks as teachers and leaders.

But through all those years, I wonder why we had a house in a place that was almost idyllic like the one in Wuthering Heights. It was far from other people or even our own folks in libod (meaning backyard), the compound where the rest of our uncles and cousins lived.

Did our parents see the need to raise six kids even before all of us were born so they sought to establish their own family in  a bigger, wider space, away from the neighborhood of the growing clan—which we call libod, where our grandparents began their own?

Around the house, we made our own toys, we planned our own games, and relished our place in the sun, especially during summer vacations, when we played in the hay in the morning and toward sundown. The house was one of solitude where we children were rather drawn to fend for themselves, or find leisure and life for ourselves.

My Leader, the Hero; or A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints

One time in the 1980s, a helicopter flew over our small barangay. I went out to join other kids in the neighborhood. The sight was glorious—we saw things falling down from the sky. Perhaps it was the first time such kind of aircraft flew over our neighborhood. 

We the kids were so amazed. We ran around like crazy picking them up as more of them flew down from the chopper. We thought they were money bills. 

They were flyers and pocket calendars belonging to a candidate whom I now only remember as Ballecer. He was running against another candidate named Bubby Dacer (the PR man) for assemblyman in the third district of our province. 

Bubby Dacer’s posters, along with those of his opponents, were plastered everywhere in our barangay, especially on the wide walls of the koprasan of the Bercasios, a warehouse near the marketplace we called Triangle where we bought our goods from rice to fish to plastic balloons to halo-halo. 

The faces of these politicians would be hard for me to forget. Time and again, I would see their faces on those posters pasted on the walls of the koprasan where I usually passed to run house errands. Because these posters were never defaced, it was time—months and years—that eventually wore them away. 

I also heard their jingles over DZGE and DWLV, then prominent radio stations based in Naga City. Young as I was, I also sang (along with) them.

During elections, my mother headed the Board of Election Inspectors (BEI) in our grade school. From the sample ballots, I saw and learned to memorize senators’ names who would later be prominent—names like Mamintal Tamano, Santanina Rasul, Ramon Mitra, Teofisto Guingona, Macapanton Abas and Leticia Ramos-Shahani, among others. 

I clipped and mounted their pictures, and also copied their faces on my notebook. Some of these materials I even placed as covers for my school stuffs. 

When Corazon Aquino became president, I copied her image from a poster which was distributed to all the classrooms. For this, I used Cray-pas for a portrait of her which I drew on one of the back pages of my notebook. It was a smiling woman wearing big eyeglasses. 

I emphasized the wrinkles from her nose to the mouth when she smiled. I used orange for her face and black for her hair and yellow for the dress. I was amazed at my creation. I used so much pastel on the portrait of the new president perhaps because it was my first time to use such kind of art material. I rather saw that portrait as that of my mother.

Back then our classrooms had high ceilings—the old Marcos type, I later learned. The Sacred Heart of Jesus was placed on our front wall facing the class—and was flanked by two posters that read—“Knowledge is power” and “Read today, lead tomorrow.” 

The picture of the new president was mounted on one of the corners of the Grade 6 classroom. She was placed along with Jose Rizal and Andres Bonifacio, in such a way that we looked up to them. 

In high school, we were also told to memorize the names of government officials—from our local officials to the cabinet secretaries of then ministries (during Ferdinand Marcos’s regime) and now departments (in Cory Aquino’s new government).

Through time, I got lost in the long list of names of senators and politicians and cabinet officials whose names were changed more often—because they were either sacked or revamped or simply resigned. I came to know more about them, or rather, about them more.

From the news, I later learned of their projects and their programs. Then I was also told of their corrupt practices—of the problems they were now giving to the public. I would also learn the words graft, corruption. Bribery. And plunder. Through the years, I have lost track of who is doing which and what. Who is more credible than whom? Who is more believable? One day, I just didn’t know how to believe in what they’re saying anymore. Or what they’re doing.

One day, I just stopped believing in them. I found there are other better things to do than believe and what they’re saying. Or doing.  One time, I just started to believe that like most children’s tales, politicians and yes, their identities and their sensibilities—such as their faces mounted for everyone to see—are only for children.