Dahil nag-team building ang mga call boys at call girls ng Makati sa Batangas netong Linggo lang, nakalimutan kong Mother's Day pala sa araw na 'yun at kelangang bigyang pugay ang mga pukeng nagluwal satin dito sa mundong ibabaw. On second thought, maski pala naalala kong Mother's Day noong Linggo eh hindi ko pa rin makakayang batiin ang mommy ko ng Happy Mother's Day sa teleserye ng totoong buhay.Hindi ako showy. Sa buong hinagap ko, wala akong maalalang pagkakataon na binati ko siya ng Happy Birthday o Happy Mother's Day o Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Hindi ko rin siya magawang yakapin o bigyan man lang ng bading na bading na beso-beso. Siguro kasi andun pa rin 'yung pagbabakasakali na kung hindi sila naghiwalay ng daddy ko, malamang sa malamang eh larawan kami ng isang normal na pamilya ngayong nagmo-malling malling lang tuwing Linggo; malamang sa malamang eh hindi ako nagpapakaputa ngayon at namumuhay ng carefree, bummer lifestyle na parang mga Alabang Boys lang. Siguro kasi punumpuno lang ako ng kaangasan sa katawan kaya ultimo pagtext ng isang forwarded Happy Mother's Day ekek eh hindi ko makakayang gawin. Siguro kasi sa dami ng buwakanginang pagsubok na ibabato sa'yo, magiging defense mechanism mo na ang mag magpaka-emo, magpaka-angas, magpaka-bato.
Pero alam kong alam niya na ang lahat ng pagpupursige ko sa buhay, ang lahat ng sakripisyong ginawa ko, ang pagpapakaputa ko sa kasalukuyan at pansamantalang pagtalikod sa mga pangarap ko eh para sa kaniya at sa utol ko. Alam kong alam niyang wala akong ibang gusto kundi ang mapabuti ang kalagayan nila, ng dalawang babaeng pinakamahalaga sa buhay ko ngayon.
Bilang pagpupugay sa babaeng nagbigay buhay sa pambihirang class S na nilalang na si Lio Loco, ibinabahagi ko sa inyo ang akdang isinulat ko at napili bilang isa sa mga lathalaing inilimbag sa "If My Life Were a Book" contest ng Philippine Star.
Pinapaalalahanan ko na naman pala kayong ang post na 'to eh walang kasing-pang-Maalala Mo Kaya. Maghanda ng panyo at tissue paper. Babaha ng balde-baldeng uhog.
Mabuhay ang mga pukeng naging daan para makaranas tayo ng mga halu-halong emosyon sa teleserye ng totoong buhay, ng mga patawa't hinagpis, ng mga nakakabangengeng tagumpay sa buhay at saksak-puso, tulo ang dugo moments! Happy Mother's Day sa mga magigiting na ina, single ina, magiging ina, feeling ina, at sa lahat ng puke ng ina!
Mercy, Mother, Mercy
By Lio Loco
A few months back, I read about an Irish-American boy’s story. It was a miserable story told hilariously, something that will make you sprightly and awake even up to the wee hours of the morning. And truth be told, his miserable Irish Catholic childhood was the culprit why I got a reprimand from a fuming mother on two counts – (1) laughing like an insane hyena when the rest of the folks were asleep, and (2) sleeping when the rest of the folks were about to wake up.
The boy’s name was Frank McCourt. And glaring at his black-and-white picture of unkempt hair, freckled cheeks, and a curious estimating stare on the book’s cover, I realized how much of Frank’s idiosyncratic chronicles were another boy’s as well – mine.
Nearly two decades ago, I became a reluctant first-born of a middle-class Tsinoy from the city and a young, ambitious woman from the province. How they met remained a mystery to me but I have my probable guess. Having drained my neurons to a non-stop slew of soap operas (courtesy of housemates-turned-telenovela addicts), I have deduced a more common plot that would fittingly explain the faded love story of my parents: Girl from the province goes to the city to try her luck. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl fall in love, cohabit, and procreate. And as in most recycled telenovela twists, boy gets smitten by another lover, leaves the girl, and abandons the child.
“We split the kids. I take the boy, you take the girl.” I remember how dad seemed to be different at that time, speaking in tones of finality I never saw in him before. I was four. Sean, on the other hand, was three.
“No, I can raise both of them on my own.” My mom was resolute, declining the fifty-fifty deal.
End of the argument. My dad walked away. My mom packed our bags and headed straight to the nearest bus terminal.
During our entire journey back to her hometown, my mother hardly spoke. She was close to becoming a mute and in the event that I wanted to pee, drink, or eat something, she uttered only a few syllables in response. The unfeeling kid that I was, I now figure that I was too dense to even notice that my mother just had the most difficult decision in her life. Back then, I was too preoccupied with trifling things to even consider the weight of my mother’s burden. I was unmindful to take note of the changes, too lazy to even think about why we had to move and live in my grandmother’s house in the province and contend with a looming teenage life without paternal guidance.
When I began to study, hardly anyone knew about the past that I’ve tried to keep hidden. Hardly anyone of my classmates knew that I am a product of a broken family and that my father abandoned us before I even had the maturity to deal with the ugly truth. I shunned that hideous part of my life because I wanted to belong, because I was afraid to be cast away; something I should have never allowed myself to feel in the first place. But secrets will never be such forever. When my mother decided to become an OFW in some Middle East country, the conspicuous absence of my parents in PTCA meetings brought the skeletons in my closet in full view to the public.
My sister and I were mocked, laughed at, pitied even – unsolicited emotions I would be more than glad to return to the assuming kibitzer untouched. That was the time when I finally understood everything, when wicked reality finally sank its sharp fangs on me, when comprehension dawned on my young existence. For the first time in my life, I felt how it was to be “orphaned.”
It was difficult to live a normal life like any kid with a perfect set of parents did when a fatherless childhood, in all its vile ugliness, kept shoving itself up your face. I felt how it was to be humiliated in the class as your grade school adviser calls your attention because your parents have failed to show up in the freakin’ parents-teachers dialogue since time immemorial. I felt how it was to be laughed at by classmates because they have fathers who teach them how to dribble a ball properly and you have none, so you try to learn all by yourself but you end up doing a lousy basketball stunt anyway.
How it was to get worried over a “swollen head” after two days of being circumcised because you can’t seem to have the guts to tell it to anyone, and if only you had a father you'd have sought a “man-to-man talk” with him right there and then; but since you don’t have one, you have no other choice but to bring the “delicate” matter to your female nurse cousin. How it was to live on a steady diet of cheap instant noodles because your mother abroad has yet to send some money, and your grandmother is tempted to borrow cash from your 5-6 dealer neighbor because she doesn’t know how else to feed two growing mouths the next day. And then you think of your bogus father and wonder if this crippling poverty would have ever been possible had he not deserted you.
It sucked to be ogled at by everybody like some suicidal monkey caged in a zoo, people throwing fake sympathies, watching your every move, awaiting every mistake you commit because for them you were an oddball and you were only expected to do nothing but blunder. Because as a scion of a broken family, you were bound to be branded by a judgmental society as a failure.
But I did not succumb to the lousy, stereotypical expectations. Because I was never born a defeatist. I became non-conforming, one who would never let commonplace things get the better of him. I focused on my studies, furthered my knowledge, devoured every book, every newspaper, every reading material I could lay my hands on. I became preoccupied with academic organizations, inter-school competitions, and worthwhile hobbies. I kept myself busy in the hope that all the miseries and frustrations I felt would be overcome by the academic triumphs I had.
When I graduated in high school, I became the class valedictorian and it felt good. I felt that was the time to finally avenge. I savored every drop of vindication I had for all the people who laughed at us and told us that we were no good. I thought it was pay-day for me. But I was wrong. For soon I realized that seeking revenge to all those who did us wrong, my father included, would do me no good. I realized it was futile to retaliate. And in that sudden realization, I discovered that a more potent human emotion resided in my heart. That was the ardent desire to pay homage and respect to one of the most important persons in my life – my mom.
As I look at the countless medals and awards I received, I see the picture of a woman brave enough to hurdle the innumerable adversities that came her way. I see a resolute face of a woman who made a life-altering decision seventeen years ago. A determined woman who took the pains of taking care of other parents’ children in some faraway place while never having the chance to take care of her own because she wanted them to live. A selfless woman who was able to raise her two children single-handedly, helping them find their own places under the sun. A woman who only wanted to be happy but never really experienced genuine happiness.
Today I am already through schooling, having graduated as a Cum Laude last November. I am about to join the work force and soon I will finally turn my dreams into reality. When that time comes, I will offer it to my mom as a testament of her immeasurable toils and hardships on raising me and my sister. I know that’s still many years from now but I am not daunted by the waiting. Because I know that one day, it will happen… One day, my mom will finally experience true happiness…
Indeed, Frank McCourt’s life, and his idiosyncratically poignant telling of it, made an impact, an indelible mark on me because I figured out how much of his story was similar to mine. Both of us lived miserable childhoods. Both of us were born in quirky, imperfect families. Both of us always had the desire to lift our family up from the sinking quagmire of poverty, that eternal, inextinguishable flame to make their lives better. We both had dreams. And we both believed in the triumph of the human spirit.
Frank McCourt’s mother’s name was Angela, after whom he titled his book – Angela’s Ashes.
My mother’s name is Mercy, and in her name I christen this story.
The two most important women in my life, so far.
