Cory In My Mind

I still remember that Saturday afternoon in January 1986. It was the day Cory Aquino, standard bearer of the United Opposition, was motorcading though our town in a Southern Batangas campaign sortie. She was speaking at the patio in front of the parish Church. With my childhood friend beside me and my father's yellow "Ninoy Hindi Ka Nag-iisa" band round my head, I listened intently and passionately raised my right fist in a seemingly grown-up show of support for my candidate despite the fact that I was a mere fifteen-year old, obviously powerless to show that support by means of the ballot.

When she left the patio, my friend and I ran after the van she rode, wanting for one last glimpse of our hero in the flesh. She did not disappoint us. Cory appeared through the window and flashed the Laban sign. It was my Cory moment, one that still runs very clearly in my head after more than 20 years, after undergoing general anaesthesia, after a bout with hormonal imbalance that all interfered with my memory bank. But then I guess a Coryista will never forget.

* Image grabbed from Google search.

Good Fridays

Last Friday was a good time to go back to the Good Fridays of my childhood.

I remember we would almost always start the day with flagellant-watching. The flagellants were men with covered faces who would repeatedly hit their bare backs with sharp objects, drawing blood in the process. We would stare mouths open and wince when someone poured vinegar over these men's open wounds. Last Friday I waited the whole morning to take pictures but not a single flagellant passed by our house. It was obviously passé in the town where I grew up.

Then there was Visita Iglesia. Seven churches to visit, usually Calaca, Lemery, Taal, Nasugbu, Lian, Calatagan and Tuy. If we didn't go church-hopping, we would more often than not spend the day in front of the boob tube for reruns of bible-based films and docus, most notable of which was Jesus of Nazareth. We were not allowed to turn on the radio. Oh and never forget the fasting! Or should I say abstinence? Lunch and dinner meant fish, crabs, shrimps or lobsters when available. But I was never into seafood even as a kid and making do with a cheese sandwich every meal was my annual little Lenten sacrifice.

The highlight of the day was the 6 o'clock procession led by the parish priest that went around the poblacion like a funeral parade of the dead Christ. This year it was attended by hordes of people, young and old alike, that appeared to be thinning as time went by. When I was quite small I used to go with my sister Pie, my aunt Nading, my cousin Ron and his dad Ninong Paeng. It was playtime for us kids as we made balls from melted wax coming from the candles that we held in our hands. I also never missed a procession as a teenager. It was the "in" thing to do on a Good Friday.

St. Peter, easily identifiable by the rooster by his side (though not seen in this photo), was always the first saint in the long procession. The saints were garbed in expensive-looking velvety garments with golden appliques and placed atop flower-decked carrozas brightened by generator-powered lights.

Next in line, without fail, was St. John the Evangelist.

I'm afraid I have no idea who this saint is. I never saw it before among the ranks of the other saints in this Lenten tradition.

Veronica of "Veronica wipes the face of Jesus", which incidentally, I heard from my mother, has been excluded from the new version of the Station of the Cross.

Mary Magdalene with perfume in hand, actually a very beautiful statue.

The Blessed Sacrament, also a new addition.

The Blessed Virgin Mary with a dagger piercing her heart, an image that I always found disturbing as a child.

The dead Christ in a glass coffin always came in last. Among the carrozas, it attracted the biggest crowd of followers. There were people who pushed the carroza in a somewhat frantic manner, determined to fulfill their panata, a promise made in exchange of a miracle. It was a bit reminiscent of the mad scramble for the Nazareno of Quiapo, only there was no madness here.

After the procession, we would always go to kalbaryos to take a look at the decors and the spectacle that was the pabasa. But there were no kalbaryos to visit last week, maybe for quite a number of Holy Weeks past already. No one must have been willing to shoulder the cost of setting up a place for pabasa during these hard times. Nor fill in the shoes of yesterday's mambabasa during these modern times. The only pabasa I witnessed lately was this scene I captured on video from last Friday's procession—the "grandma singers" as my 11 year-old nephew called them, probably the last of the mambabasas in our side of the world.

* Flagellation photo grabbed from Google.

Life's a Beach

One look at this picture of my Indie and her cousins and I was immediately transported back to the 70s. The beach in the town where I was born was not made for pretty pictures. It was never the white beach on the verge of becoming a major tourist destination. Its shoreline was long but covered with dark unremarkable sand; its waters, clear but certainly not crystal.

Even so, we kids were big fans of our very own beach. It was another venue for play. A huge one complete with water for wading or swimming for the adventurous among us. There was endless supply of sand for building sandcastles for which none of us had any talent. And the sea breeze! Yes, even that one could make us happy.

By the 80s, we had all grown into adolescents and the beach had lost all attraction whatsoever. Aside from the changes in hormones and preferences that happened in all of us, we had every reason not to go anymore. What used to be our favorite haunt had turned into some, I'm sorry to say, God-forsaken place in the span of a decade. The water was not just dirty, it was dangerous given that a power plant was just close by. It literally stank. There was litter everywhere. And where there was none, there were dog poops and human waste lying in wait like booby traps for the next unsuspecting beach goer.

Oh yes, life could be a bitch sometimes.

Mad Hair Days

Those were the days. When big hair was the rule rather than the exception. When female crowns rose to dizzying heights they could have sent hairsprays to the endangered list. When teasing reigned supreme anywhere in the world, pushing past the confines of moviedom and catwalks, enslaving ordinary mortals like, well, my mom.


It was the 1960s, fresh out of the bouffant and beehive movements of the 50s and my mother, true blue fashionista that she was, made sure that her clothes—including her hair—always kept up with the times. The mountainous puff on top of her head was elevated enough to require maybe half a day of prep work. But my mother, the college instructress, must have been very talented with the teasing comb she fixed her tresses that way even during ordinary school days and still managed to come to class on time.


By the late 60s, my mother had not let go of her favorite comb. The towering hair was gone, replaced by a short bob. But the teasing did not stop.


Some decades later when she was into her 50s, my mother's crowning glory had been relegated to a wash-and-wear style—cropped, cut to reveal her natural curls and dyed a dark shade of brown typical of ladies of a certain age—signaling the close of a hair-raising era long gone.

Que Horror!

My grade school and high school years were spent studying in what used to be a burying ground that became a place where prisoners of war were tortured, killed or left to die.

And nothing could be more horrific for a girl blessed (or cursed?) with a wild imagination. According to old townsfolk, my school was a cemetery during Spanish times and later used as a garrison during the Japanese Occupation. Its main building was a very old structure, maybe almost as old as the Immaculate Conception Parish Church to which it was adjacent.

Like any old building, the mere sight of the school's aging adobe walls would tell you there was something there, something weird, something... In this 1950's photo that belonged to my mother, the walls looked even spookier back then without any trappings of modernity such as paint. Beyond those windows was my classroom when I was in 1st Grade. And on the floor directly above was part of the convent used as living quarters by the Sisters who run the school. Legend had it that at night when everything was quiet, the sound of heavy chains being dragged on the floor could be heard. It was said that those chains were attached to the feet of a headless nun bearing a candle in each of her hands who did the rounds as soon as the whole convent fell asleep.

When I was a lot younger, I couldn't bring myself to raise my eyes higher than where this photo was cropped. I was afraid the headless nun would peer out the window and my friends and I won't be able to run in time. This was like a movie sequence that would replay itself again and again in my little head. Poor me. (Picture courtesy of an aunt, Tia Nene, who was a college student in the 1950s.)

The thick adobe walls that belonged to the Church seemed like a good choice for a background in this 1950's class picture. It also looked even more perfect as a backdrop for a horror flick. I remember when I was in 3rd Grade, our classroom was just across this wall. There were a tall ancient-looking tree standing close by and its branches would cast eerie shadows on the ground even in broad daylight. The window was home to a large group of bats that I would always see hanging creepily upside down from the grills. There seemed to be too many of them and their number was good enough for a scene from the Dark Knight.

This was a gated grotto to the right of the wall in the previous photo. I was actually surprised to find this picture and see my young mom, who was now a college professor in her alma mater after graduating from a university in the city, posing in this scary corner of the school yard. During our time, nobody went to this place. Only the Sisters—who believed, as their faith dictated, that God would protect them from whatever evil lurking in that place—had the guts to go past the gates. Many of my classmates insisted there was a kapre who lived there. Others said there were duwendes. Whatever it was, I never ventured anywhere near the grotto.

This covered walk that connected the old school grounds to the new college building was the setting of one of the creepiest legends in town. The utility boys who used to spend their nights nearby were said to have witnessed the galloping of a knight on horseback right on the walk's roof. Like the chained nun, it was also said that the ghost knight was dismembered, without a head on its body.

As I write this, chills are running down my spine. And I'm seeing flashes of the headless nun sequence again. Gotta run!

Let's Volt In!

The year was 1978. There should have been rallies and protest marches staged by the Philippines' diminutive citizens. There should have been widespread display of contempt for the blatant oppression of our human right to watch Voltes V and, yes, to see it to its very end. It was the cruelest thing any President could do to any underaged constituent. (Of course, we were not aware at the time that each of us young children already owed the World Bank some millions for some luxuries we never enjoyed and never will. And what could be worse?)

But we were powerless against Marcos and the group of parents who pushed for the ouster of our favorite robot-hero from national TV. Powerless to go out in the streets and let our little voices be heard—"Let's volt in!"


They thought children would quickly forget. We didn't. We never forgave Marcos for his transgression. By 1986, some of those kids of 1978 were old enough to flock to EDSA and fight back. Along with the multitudes of People Power heroes, they succeeded in ousting Marcos from a position that he had no intention of letting go of. It was revenge at its sweetest.

The Piano

As I said many times before, my family was very traditional. There were certain things that we children had to do and one of them was learning how to play the piano. My mother’s family, which had more influence on our growing years, was never the musical kind. Very few could carry a tune. Almost none could play an instrument. And most were tone deaf. The turntable in the living room was used only during weekends when my father, who at least had an appreciation for music and who could sing well enough, was home from the city where he worked. But I’m digressing.

Anyway, our piano teacher was the wife of a great-uncle (who was long dead before we kids were born) from my mother’s side of the family. Everything was sort of informal; there were no such things as Grades 1 or 2 or any higher level for that matter. Classes were held in Lola Pepang’s living room where her antique piano proudly stood. There were kids around my and Pie’s age from our neighborhood who went with us to piano school. There were older girls and very young ones and I think my sister Odie, who was about 5 at the time, was the youngest of them.

My heart wasn’t into it but I had to admit the solfeggios were fun. Plus, the fact that we went to class with groups of friends made leccions always enjoyable. I went from John Thompson to “The Harebell” to Edna’s colored booklets to American classics.
But before long, our friends dropped out one by one, followed by Ate Margie, then Pie, then Odie. By 1981, I was the only one left in my batch. But I didn’t mind going solo because by then, I already had hopes of becoming a virtuoso. Despite my lack of musicality, Lola Pepang seemed to believe in me too. I had mechanical hands and they could hit keys with an agility I never knew they had. My mentor must have noticed it too so she made me learn nifty finger exercises from a book called Duvernoy.
I was a high school freshman and into my next concerto by the time I stopped going to Lola Pepang’s. I knew I’d never be good anyway. Besides I had grown into a teenager who couldn’t squeeze piano lessons into her increasingly hectic “social” life. But at least I found time to do some self-study. I had my cousin Ate Chona teach me how to read notes. I tried to play pop, which my teacher never approved of and some other pieces like “Fur Elise” and a few more till my interest waned.
I haven’t touched any piano since I was in my mid-20s. Then one day, I fell in love with an antique Schmoller & Mueller in a shop selling pre-loved furniture from the US. It had a very handsome case that was quite imposing. I sat on the bench and run my rusty hands on its keys and before I knew it, I was playing “The Harebell”, my very first piece which I learned many years ago and still knew by heart. And oh, it made this beautiful grand music that could only come from old pianos of its kind.

Pray my husband gets it for me!