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!

Old School

I come from an old family. As in very old. My grandparents were old enough to be my great-grandparents; my aunts, to be my great-aunts; and my mother, to be my youngest sister's grandmother. Their values and belief systems were even older than their years. And they imposed their old-fashioned ways on us children who were born so much later than their time.

Let me just give you a few examples of their rules...

1. No loud voices. Anytime. Anywhere in the house.
   
2. No sitting with feet, legs apart.
3. No elbows on the dining table.
4. No talking while eating. (It didn't matter whether your mouth was full or not.)
5. No running.
   
6. No slouching.
7. No butting in when adults were engaged in conversation.
8. Oh yes, no cokes.
   

And a lot of other no-nos...

We were little girls with the big responsibility of behaving like ladies, like yesterday's Maria Claras. It seemed to me they wanted us to act like nuns in a convent! Come to think of it, my folks were far more strict than the Sisters who ran the Catholic school where Pie and I were students.

Wedding of '67

It was the typical Tagalog or, to be more precise, Batangueno wedding of its time. I mean, groom or his parents paid for everything—the feast, the flowers, gowns for the bride and her entourage, etc., etc. Exchange of vows took place in the parish church. Reception followed at bride's home. And so on and so forth. But what happened before the ceremony and the after-celebration? Say 24 or 48 hours before the big day? I was so lucky to chance upon a few very old photos that gave me a picture of some of the preparations that were carried out for my parents' wedding that early morning in September more than 4 decades ago.

I imagine that part of the street fronting our motherhouse must have been closed to traffic to accommodate guests. (I remember we closed that same street for a good 9 days before when my lolo and lola were hermanos mayor during a town fiesta—the one with the famous parada ng lechon—when I was around 8.) There must have been more than a hundred guests. Because that’s our head count for major present-day family gatherings and to think so many relatives were still alive at the time.

The woman with the laddle in the background was the cook obviously. And there seems to be quite a big group of ladies assisting her. See all that meat? Kilos and kilos of different kinds of meat, suggesting that the wedding was quite en grande. By the way, all these were cooked in giant wok-like utensils called tulyasi.

The chop-chop women must have been friends of my lola or maybe some were neighbors. That was a time when the spirit of bayanihan was still very much alive among people living in proximity to each other. The svelte lady in the foreground still managed to look fashionable in spite of her unglamorous surroundings.

How many pigs were slaughtered? How many chickens? How many goats? (Take a closer look at the background.) In my hometown, having one goat dish served during a social event was like some sort of status symbol or some indication of the importance of the occasion. The goat, usually in the form of calderetang kambing, always occupied the same prominent position as the lechon on the banquet table.

Are those really lifeless goats hanging in the background, you may ask. Yes. Exactly how many of them were sacrificed for my parents' union? I bet just enough to warrant protests from PETA had the pro-animal rights group been in existence at the time. I remember when I was 10 I witnessed the slaying of a helpless goat in our backyard for my sister Odie's 7th birthday. It was a pitiful sight and, believe me, there were tears in the poor animal's eyes. But then that didn't stop me from eating goat meat. I still do up to now. Okay, stone me. But hey, this isn't about me, right?

Retro Manila Tours

Back when I was still unaware that Luneta used to be called Bagumbayan where our national hero Jose Rizal was shot to martyrdom in 1896, we would go to this vast park of greens and playgrounds during the summer and spend the morning exploring its open spaces. The gardens were made for tireless children like us who would run and run to our hearts' content and pause only to pose for pictures deemed shutter-worthy by our adult companions and to munch on chips and sandwiches when our little stomachs were finally devoid of the breakfast we took.

The statue is headless (must be the norm when it comes to our old pictures) so I can't really tell now if it was a famous personality in Philippine history or just any Juan riding our national animal, the carabao. I didn't know what possessed my sister Pie to pose with her hand on the statue's foot. It looked dirty! Oh by the way, I'm the one in fuschia pants, Pie in olive and the lone boy is our cousin Ron.

Posing with some creature, obviously long extinct. Or did it ever exist at all?

Our photographer got carried away cropping the shot so it's not very clear now that we were actually standing on the tongue of a humongous hippopotamus. Only Ron seemed happy here. If I remember correctly, it was a bit stinky inside the hippo. Someone must have had difficulty finding the toilet the day before.

I was such a cow when I was little girl, would you believe? The adults had to spend some time convincing me that nothing bad was going to happen if I hopped on the giraffe's back. Take note: I was holding on to Pie as if for dear life.

It also didn't take much to send me into bouts of dizziness before. Look at me here. It was a wonder I was able to stand upright to think my eyes were multiplying everything by two already.

See, I was so dizzy I didn't get to slide!

Snack time. Note that I was able to have a Coke here. The oldies in my life were too far away in Batangas after all. Pie must be counting the number of Cokes she was able to drink while she could! (Also in this picture is our cousin Kuya Totie who is more than ten years older than all of us.)

A change of shirts and the three of us were in Manila Zoo. I wonder what animal was inside that cage. Perfect "souvenir" shot.

And here is a suggestion of a giraffe. I told you headless pics were the in thing in my family those days.

Finally, the perfect zoo shot. It certainly took a long time coming.

I have not seen the zoo since the 70s; Luneta, since college. That last visit was a Manila-by-night tour with two of my friends, Boone and Uncle, during which I had quite an unnerving encounter with a very dubious VanDamme-ish character who asked me for a Marlboro. I hastily threw the whole pack in his direction thinking this was far more horrifying than my ride-the-giraffe experience when I was five years old.

Recycling: 70s Style

Long before the advent of global warming and environmentalism, recycling had always been fashionable in my family. No, it had nothing to do with saving the world we lived in, but everything to do with saving moolah at every opportunity.

My elder sister Pie was an angel in one of those Santacruzans in the town where I was born. She wore my mother's old dress that was reworked into a little girl's gown. Lovely.

The next year, Pie and I were Ave Marias in the same Santacruzan. Our gowns were rehashed from used frocks straight from my grandmother's ancient baul. I wasn't very sure if these were my Lola's, my aunts' or my mother's. But one thing was sure though, these were freaking old, probably as old as time itself. The sewing was taken care of by my two old maid aunts—yes, the same aunts from Children of the War—who were very good with the sewing machine. Our gowns were not bad at all, really. But to wear them when all other kids were decked in new ones at a time when vintage was still uncool! Okay, so we were different. (Together with us in top photo are our cousins Ron, now based in Canada, and Ate Margie, also known as Little.)

The following Santacruzan, I was again an Ave Maria. This time my mother bought applique flowers and beads and I was only too glad to finally see her buying new stuff for my new gown. But lo and behold! the new materials were for last year's outfit. My ever resourceful aunts were merely replacing the blue trimmings with red ones. That's the picture on the left. Take note, I was headless here but the pic still managed to find its way in the family album. Sayang daw e. The two photos on the right were taken when I was among the angels in another Church celebration a few months later. There were no major rehashings or reworkings for this occasion. My mother simply made me "re-wear" my old recycled gown.

Pie was a hila, like some sort of sagala, in one of those religious feasts in August and my mother asked an artist friend to create a gown for Pie and handpaint it. It actually turned out very nicely. Besides it was new—not previously owned, not previously worn—as in brand new. (That's the picture at the bottom.) Come December, Pie was chosen as class muse. What my mother did was to have the same friend take out the poncho and sew in a pair of the mandatory butterfly sleeves. (Top photo.) My mother was becoming creative.

Nah, not really creative. She used the same idea twice, right? Just look at the two pics of six-year old me above and see a re-application of the sew-in-butterfly-sleeves-to-old-gown technique. It's what ad people call two executions of the same concept. Maybe that's why I ended up in advertising...