Father Tien Tran, the priest who officiated my mother last rites had said:
The departure of someone we love, although it brought us sorrow and grief, it occasioned us to gather, impossible in some circumstances. Fortuitous, therefore, that the repose of her soul in togetherness called for jubilant celebrations.
The Fernando siblings while growing up established dynamics inherited from our parents. From my mother she instilled in us her perseverance, cleanliness, and self sacrifice. My father gave his fair-mindedness, patience and forgiving nature. Both of them had their own weaknesses, but as we grew up, we accepted their failings and we understood them.
In-laws entered our midst. These new entrants carried with them their own dynamics. Sometimes, their values, mores, beliefs, or traditions, came out compatible. But it’s not always the case. One appeared unique. This created animosity. And that disturbed relationships. To lessen its incompatibility and avoid conflict, the best recourse is becoming civil. But the barrier always there. Time dictates when it disappear. Only when perhaps, attitudes change in conformity with the majority.
On my mother’s death, the Fernando’s sons and daughters had so much fun together. They knew and dig the irritants of the sour dynamics. But this time, their uneasiness has gone, because now nobody cares of its presence that make them uncomfortable.
It’s an unfortunate one has left out. Only because of the unique attitude.
I saw my mother last on April 2019. She did one heroic thing. Me, my wife and brother-in-law visited her at the Eden Nursing Home. She mumbled non coherent words while sitting on her wheelchair. Her droopy eyes smiling. She raised up her finger to Obet, my brother-in-law. As though reading what’s going on her mind, I sensed she tried to remember him. It’s Obet’s first time to visit my mom. Inay looked at me and Mur. Her lips formed a smile. A sparkle in her glassy eyes peeped. We stayed in her room for an hour and a half. Then we said goodbye.
At the door in the hallway, as we walked out, unaware, she followed us. She’s neither on her wheelchair nor on her walker. And she rushed to chase us. So overwhelmed of her effort, we came back. Hugged her. That’s the last time we saw her alive.
My mother has three attributes that stands out.
She’s a great story-teller. We’re born without knowing our grandmother and grandfather on both sides. She introduced and revealed them to me. as if I have seen and lived with them. Because of my mother detailed description. Even their nuances, quirks and mannerisms. She spiced up her story with ironic humor. Versions of her story are many. But run on the same theme. It’s her telling that made it new every time. She’s fond of enunciating foul words. So crispy. It didn’t sound dirty. It’s hilarious.
My mother is a champion of cleanliness. No gossip for her, as our neighbor does, she stays at home. She repeats the same chores, or invent, make do with her limited resources.
I am her favorite son. I am her only one, and a slob at that. When at home, I do nothing except reading. And I always leave my book on the spot where I last read. One day, tired of always picking up my clutter; she gathered my reading materials and burn them. So, whenever I heard warning of my stuff cluttering, I had to clean up.
Her other virtues is her attentive hospitality. And sometimes it’s being paid with hostility.
It always puzzled me why my mother whenever we had visitors coming, she treated them King and Queen. She paid premiums for their comfort and well-being. She used to buy on credit to those hawkers from Batangas who passed by our house. Stuff such as pillows, Blankets, Mosquito nets. Sleeping mats, for our guest to sleep in comfort. Those stuff, are for our visitors only. We could not use them. She woke up early. Prepared their meal. Most often, these people were my father’s relatives. They stayed at our house to do their laundry, ironing clothes, sew their dresses. Why can’t they do that at their home in Manila, I wondered… It’s only when my mother ran out of money, her hospitality dived low? This time my mother’s visitors got hostile.
She nourished that hostility not for long. Then she’ll be hospitable again.
My father sampled my head as a billboard of a hairstyle, he trumpeted as the “half-Coconut’s Nut Cut”. (gupit bao).
Tabog and Pepit on seeing I flaunted my new hairdo, contracted me to use my head as bait to catch rats. Naive, I agreed. I am so proud I impressed them.
But not my teacher Mr. Eugenio. He tousled my hair, as if to untangle a bunch of earthworms. He kneeled and whispered:
“Where on earth you’ve got your stupid haircut?”
“From my father.” I said.
“Take me to your father. I’ll kill him,”.
Thinking I’ll be an orphan, I went home sobbing.
“Who bullied you this time?”
I told him. His eyes bulged, looked for his bolo. My mother restrained him.
To perfect my father’s style of a haircut, he needed heads to practise on. He offered his services for free. The sweet word “FREE” became a fisher of heads. Soon, my father’s haircut style became a fad among the youngster. Tabog and Pepit didn’t want to miss the fad.
Parents became fearless. The youngster courageous. They trusted my father untrained hand wielding his delinquent shears and scissors.
To earn the parent’s trust, my father mastered the penetrating concentration of Vincent Van Gogh, the painter, in copying his model to the canvas. My father dangled a half-coconut nut from a guava tree and tried to copy every minute detail of the nut to every head he works on. With clumsy hands working with uncooperative scissors, cuts fell from either ears or nape. Not on hair. Blood flowed. My father stamped his affinity to Vincent Van Gogh who cut his own ears.
When Pepit turns came, he got minor cuts on his nape. Wiping it with ‘katsa,’ (a flour sack) that draped over his shoulder, the blood disappeared.
Tabog turns came, I whispered to my father: He was the one who told me to make my head as bait to catch rats.
“Hmmm. Here’s 65 cents. Buy me a bottle of ketsup,”.
My father draped over the ‘katsa’ over Tabog’s shoulder to work on his head as I got back.
“You know what a ketsup boy?” My father asked Tabog.
“Yeah. That’s our dinner, sometimes.
“I can give you ketsup.”
“Is that for free?”
“Oh yes. But I have to pour it over to your nape and ears. You don’t tell that to your mother. That’s our secret.
Tabog agreed.
The haircut done, my father holding a mirror, he showed to Tabog the ketsup poured over his ears: His wounds concealed. Lots more ketsup over to his nape.
A good talk striker, Dante engaged himself in small talk with the three Filipino drivers of SUV’s hanging out in the shipyard’s parking plaza after we disembarked from our ship in Ft. Lauderdale. These Van drivers hoped to get passenger stood up by their fetcher.
Mur, my wife, had been calling our hotel driver. Three hours later, hungry, and my fuse to burst, I asked the driver, Dante is chummy with if he could take us. And how much is his charge, in case the hotel driver stood us up?
“Yeah. You can use me. Just pay me the same as you supposed to pay your hotel driver”. The driver said.
“We pay 10 dollars each. So, Eighty dollars, total,”. I said.
My wife opted for our hotel Van’s services because it’s 9 dollars cheaper.
When we landed the Ft. Lauderdale Airport going to our Cruise Ship, she secured our transport for 19 dollars each. Bombarded by insinuations of us giving tips to the driver and his helper to unload our baggage, that spike the cost of our transport.
The driver impressed us by his over-enthusiastic helpfulness; opened his Van’s trunk and loaded our baggage. Meanwhile, Mur canceled the hotel Van’s service.
Here’s the slick part. The Filipino’s “trick of the trade” dies hard. It’s imbued everywhere.
Wary of that familiar extra helpful showing of the Van driver, reminded me of the modus Philippine’s airport workers used. They loitered around the baggage carousel; kind, helpful, and polite accosting your baggage up to the exit and then asked money for that simple unnecessary service.
As our baggage settled, and we were on board, the driver still not closing Van’s side door. The driver asked for our hotel‘s address. My wife fished out from her handbag our hotel reservation’s copy.
The driver murmured, but we heard him.
“Hmmm. This place unheard of, far from the shipyard”.
His murmur insinuates, albeit subtle, we have to pay more. At least for consideration. Or, if not, well, we will dislodge our baggage ourselves, and we can go for another Van.
I said. “We will only pay what we agreed on.”
Right away, he closed Van’s side door and drove. Eight minutes from the ship’s Yard Parking Plaza, we reached the Wyndham Garden: our hotel.
Malou, Dante’s wife said, when we get to our hotel. “Who’s that driver trying to trick?”
Pain, my father could endure. But shame hit him hard. An ongoing battle raged inside him. At 18, his laid-back denial of his quicksand marriage nibbled the vibrancy of his youth. He was not ready. Yet, a picture of him being whipped in public by my Lolo Valentin scared the bejesus out of him. He must mend his ways. How? Where to start?
One day, in May 1949, during the feast of the St. Augustine Church, a fun fair held out in Baliwag.
Fancied and struck by the fun fair, not so much of the rides and shows – but how it operates, and its workers. He befriended them, queried their job. His eyes glowed. It stirred his imagination. His spirit soared. New from what he had. He was thrilled and excited to be a part of the circus crew.
My father talked with the Foreman of the fun fare.
“You’ll start as an around apprentice of everything we do for two days. No pay. Only free chow. Our next stop is Unisan, Quezon. Interested?”
Enthusiastic, my father said, yes. Meanwhile, he sorted out the problems hinged on his decision.
First, he needed to extract information from my Lolo Valentin, on his sister who lives in Unisan – something to fall back on in case of mishaps happened. What approach he could use to my mother? Objection is probable. What shield should he used? Then, he needed seed money.
Although my Lolo Valentin looked askance with my father’s queries on his sister, he obliged.
“What…? You want to be a singer, and sell tickets in the rat race show at Perya?
My mother blurted out. Her impressions of a fun fair; the rat race show where gay performers dance and sing as a come-on for people to buy tickets stuck with her. That was what my mother and her twin remembered since that first time their father took them at Angeles City to attend its town fiesta.
“That’s not what I said,” retorted my father. “I said, I’ll try my luck working in a fun fair.” An argument ensued. My mother disagreed with my father’s plan.
But my father decided. As he was not in good terms with sisters-in-law, as he has been an undesirable appendage of my mother.
As for his seed money…? my father was keen on that piggy bank of Nana Puring, my mother’s youngest sister.
My father found me weird when I was 17 years old. I stayed home and do nothing but read Charles Dickens’ book. He wondered why I don’t hang out with boys my age. A neighbor teased my father: “How come, Jessie locked up himself. Is he an “in-between”?
My father got worried. He had four daughters. He didn’t want me to be his fifth.
One night, he said, “Get a break from your books and join me to watch Fistorama, a boxing TV show at Mang Apiong Acuna’s house.
Mang Apiong was the first to have the black-and-white TV set in Riles. As expected, even the boring amateur boxing show has shown late at night, people with odorous breath and day-old fart, stay glued.
Noticeable among the crowd was this one cute girl. She got a well-sculptured neck, smooth and fair with coiled locks on her nape.
When the final images of Lupang Hinirang ended and the TV’s screen swarmed with moths, people bolted out.
I rushed out and waited outside for my father. Then, I saw him talking to this cute girl. From the distance, the girl gave me furtive glances, with a restrained giggle.
“So, what do you think of Elvie?” my father asked while walking back home.
“Who’s Elvie?” I said.
“The girl I am talking.”
“Oh. We’re a TV junkie, but she’s worse. She’s a TV freak. Imagine, she stayed late for that men’s show.” I said.
“Isn’t she cute?” My father asked. I didn’t answer.
Elvie became our neighbor. She and my sister Elsie had a bond. They loved exchanging movie gossips. I hated hearing them talking trash. Elvie rooted for the Love Team of Vi & Bot: Vilma Santos and Edgar Mortiz; while my sister went gaga with Guy & Pip: Nora Aunor and Tirso Cruz III tandem.
Visiting our house turned out to be Elvie’s routine. I got conscious. It forced me to get hygienic. Since then my father wore a mischievous glint in his eyes.
The “Young Love,” the movie which starred the Guy & Pip and Vi & Bot tandem had its Christmas opening at the Life Theater in Manila with personal appearances. Dying to go, Elvie and my sister conspired to convince our parents. My father agreed with a condition that I chaperoned them.
Just in time, my cousin who lived in Manila visited us. She tucked us with her the night before the movie opening on Christmas day.
My cousin gave us a room to rest. My sister went out to wash panties. Elvie and I left alone.
She sat on the sofa opposite me. My heart thudded. She read Kislap Magazine it banners the headline – “Nora Aunor Hindi Tunay na Anak ni Mamay Belen”. Then, on the bottom half, it screamed: “Vi and Bot Love Team, Subok na Matatag”.
I quivered. I stood up, brought the chair beside her, pretended to read the corny article. Her hair smelled Camay soap. The musky fragrance of her skin wafted through my nostril. The Eagle has landed! I planted a kiss on her left cheek. The magazine flew out. She’s expecting it, but she had to react. She slapped me. Not hard enough. It felt sweet.
Along Quezon Boulevard, at Paterno Street, where the Life Theatre is, we thronged ourselves to a sea of people covering the entire street. At 10:00 am, we were able to buy our tickets. The show supposed to start at 12:00 noon.
Hiding from my sister, I dared to hold Elvie’s hand, which she didn’t object.
Loud screaming announced the arrival of Vi and Bot. My sister got disappointed. Guy and Pip didn’t show up.
The theatre’s iron gate plunged down. The crowd shoved us to the gate. We saw Vi and Bot being escorted. The star smiled, waved, and blew kisses. When Elvie saw them, she tap-danced to a record running at crazy speeds. She screamed Vi and Bot’s name without letting up.
Suddenly, she stopped. She asked me where my hands are. Puzzled why she asked that when at the time I clammed the iron gate.
“Someone is taking my panties off”. Elvie complained.
“What!” I swung my head around. All I saw were a sea of heads. Elvie must have been hallucinating with excitement. Considering people were tightly packed, how one could get her panties passed through her feet…
When we got home, my father sensed magic transpired between Elvie and myself. I assumed it erased his doubts about me.
On August 8, 2018, after my youngest daughter’s wedding, me, Mur, my wife, and my three sisters went Casino hopping in Minnesota.
While on the road, we reminisced the good old days when we were growing up. And cranked up old wounds when we had our own respective families.
The gamut of human emotions reeled back at us on our get together marathon. They yo-yoed from cheer, laughter, and joy to woe, gloom, and despair.
We pitched in the positive aura. Malou, the youngest, is the tiny version of Ellen DeGeneres. She had her colorful rendition of clever retorts helped by her facial expressions and gestures.
Ellen, my third younger sister, possess the distressed look of Etang Discher: the disliked mother-in-law of the old Filipino movie of the 70s., aggrieved and sentimental, she’s gracious – endowed, too, of colorful language that bites.
Connie, my second younger sister, is the neutral one. Always act as referee, but an intrigue baiter. One must qualify her spiel. She picks and splices her story that provokes anger. Or plant negative vibes which can sulk.
Connie is the luckiest among us. She seldom loses at the Casino and shares her winnings. I wish I had her amulet of luck.
Mur is our synthesizer. She listens to our talks, laughs with us, and censured me. Straight forward. Neither siding with anyone. Her reasons acceptable.
At the Grand Casino in Hinckley, Minnesota, when we had our buffet lunch, Connie popped up a question.
“Eh, who do you think is the most kind among our father’s children in-laws?
Connie’s question started the cranking up of an old wound. Ellen answered Connie’s question based on one of her last talk with my late father.
Ellen mentioned the attributes of our father’s children-in-law. She left our brother-in-law, the husband of my oldest sister for last.
We kept my late father’s description of him because of its impact. He said. “Long dead, but still a jinx”. The “jinx” part referred to my oldest sister. She endured. She accepted her fate. We sympathized with her.
My brother-in-law mastered the art of looked down at people not belong to his pseudo world: His pretentious world which came forth his crude manner on people near his orbit – his close relatives. He loves associating himself with people of power and influence, and copycat them, but he’s not good at it. He pissed off everybody without him knowing it because he’s detached on his own folly.
Often, he is our favorite deserts whenever we get together without him.
A bunch of ideas has come flashing since my two grandkids; Naiah and Rico were born.
Had I known these intense pleasures of having them, I said to myself, I could have skipped that part of having kids, and go straight to grandkids.
Naiah and Rico are the great inducers of laughs, amazement, and mirth. As grandparents; myself, and Mur, my wife, Naiah and Rico exalt our spirit.
I thought of an analogy. Naiah and Rico are a good bargain. I give them a dollar, and they return a million dollars worth of pleasure.
I am sure, too, that comes a time we will be great allies to a common foe: their Mom and Dad.
Having Naiah and Rico give me the three-dimensional flash of life. They offer me with a sumptuous slow pace of the present. Meanwhile, I and my friends reflect of our memories. Then shifting back to childhood.
Mrs. Manalastas, our Grade three teacher had her maternity leave, and so we had Miss Grace as our new substitute teacher.
Miss Grace was from Malolos: Bulacan’s, capital, and we wondered why an urban teacher tries her luck teaching in Baliwag Central Elementary School.
Most boys in class had a crush on her. Miss Grace always smelled good. Sweet. Amiable. Cute. These boys, to get notice sucked up to her. She is my crush too though not as big as Felix. He can erase the blackboard, clean the eraser or sweep the floor for her. Not me.
Miss Grace changed our class’ morning ritual. Under Mrs. Manalastas we had this “The first number of our program” thing, to start. This is the class’ impromptu program where anyone can sing, recite a poem, or dance. I hated this ritual because, towards the end, there will be an inspection of clean fingernail and hankie. If you don’t have both, Mrs. Manalastas slap your hand with a stick. Roberto and I always had a good slapping every morning. Roberto could never let go of his black thingy under his fingernail, and I never could bring a clean hankie, because, hankie was not a priority for a poor family—food was.
“Show and Tell” replaced our morning ritual. Miss Grace told us, everyone will bring to a class thing we think is interesting. We must show it in class and tell what makes it interesting. This posed a problem among the barrio kids. We don’t own a thing. Even if we do, it’s not interesting. We didn’t hear mention of punishment for non-compliance. That’s good.
That was an acceptable feature for Roberto and myself.
Gualberto Gomez, one of the rich town kids, volunteered to do the first “show and tell”. He brought to class his stamp collections. Every piece of his stamp, he impressed us of what he learned from it. Felix yawned.
“That’s an interesting, Gualberto”, Miss Grace, said, “Now, please clean the eraser for me.”
During our recess, Felix and I saw Gualberto tapping the eraser on the wall outside our homeroom. Felix had his fists bulging in his short’s pocket. “How can we top up Gualberto’s show? He asked.
Another town kid performed the “show and tell”. He brought his collection of miniature cars in matchboxes. Followed by one with the assemblage of text cards. Another with marbles, tops, etc… Rich girls in town brought dolls, Lego, battery operated toys.
The barrio kids’ turn came. No volunteer. So, Miss Grace picked Roberto. He brought a rusted can of Darigold Evaporated Milk. He tilted the can toward the class.
“This is my collection”, he said, beaming: “Cigarettes butts”. Roberto picked one butt out of the can. “This butt is a filter of Kingcups Cigarette. Then he put it backed. He gets another one. “This one, from Oldgold. Picking cigarette’s butt is a good hobby. Try it.” Roberto said.
Miss Grace’s face grimaced with disgust. We stood up in ovation. We applauded him. Now, barrio kids had the courage to join the “show and tell”
Ciano’ng Paksiw performed next. “Paksiw” was not his last name. We called him that because he smells marinated fish. He brought in boxes of dried dung of different farm animals; cow, carabao, (Water Buffalo) goat, horse, dog, cat. He labeled them each, even.
Eulalia brought to class her friend, Suzie, a live hen. She sat her on Miss Grace’s desk in front. And while Eulalia tells her friend’s attributes, Suzie, worried about her chicks at the farm, cackled and pooed. This time, I saw Miss Grace’s amiable face turned sour.
Every barrio kid’s performance added strain on Miss Grace’s face. Young: yet, I saw wrinkle on her forehead.
My turn has come. I brought to class crushed frogs and toads. I spent one whole Saturday on a highway, collecting those frogs that run over by vehicles. Miss Grace cried with my performance.
Felix turn came. He made good preparation. He wanted to impress Miss Grace. He asked for my help. Before Felix’s show, I accompanied him to Mang Oning’s barn of animals and dug up earthworms. We picked the earthworms whose sizes were that of a thumb and longer.
Felix showcased the earthworms to class as Robinson’s family. He picked the biggest and the longest. He introduced it to the class as Mr. Robinson. Then Felix picked the wife. Miss Grace could not anymore get to Felix’s Robinson’s children. She puked so hard. Her amiable face burned.
The next Monday morning, we had a new substitute teacher.
Mocha Uson on her FB post superimposed the following captions; “Ano ang masasabi nyo dito?” “Masagwa ba ito”??? “Pero ito Hindi”??? “Paki- Explain”??? to the video of the late Ninoy Aquino on his flight back to Manila on August 21, 1983. Two female passengers kissed Ninoy.
Mocha Uson compared this kissing to that of her boss’ smooching with Bea King at the podium, during his speech. She is the married woman who works in South Korea.
To retaliate from the big bashing her boss got from the netizens, she pointed out in her captions that both men don the same cloth. Both guilty of the same sin. So, what the fuss?
Looking both videos – her boss’ smooching, the manner transpired insinuated and loaded heavy with malice. While the female passengers’ kissing of Ninoy showed clean fun.
The implication is, she aimed her caption to one who is long dead; one who cannot answer the insinuated malice imputed to him. Just because Ninoy is the icon representation of the “yellows”. It became convenient for her to lump Ninoy as the punching bag of her ire for the “yellows”. But millions of silent “yellows” exist. They are waiting for the opportunity for Duterte administration rot to the core.
This is the reason Kris Aquino went ballistic pouring her heart out in her video. She challenged Mocha Uson to a debate to a venue of her own choice.
Mocha responded to that emotional video of Kris. She said, “It’s not Kris Aquino. This is putting malice to a kiss happened to leaders as his father.”
The cause of disagreement here is the malice she loaded in her captions. She tied it to a person long dead.
Kris Aquino declared Mocha Uson won. She stopped. For what more hair can she pull from a bald head.
Jess Fernando 
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