Today marks the 15th year of my grandmother's passing on to eternity. Today, we remember her.
When persons die, a lot dies with them: the stories they are yet to tell and cannot say anymore, my stories that he/she will never know; his/her childhood, the butterfly he chased when he was four, her first crush, how they struggled during the war, what he felt during specific moments…. such things… their story, they cannot tell anymore. It will all die with them.
In a way, dying is like a storybook closing. And everything else we can recover from remembrances of others are mere adaptations. We can no longer catch the vividness, the poignance, the intensity of life as the one passing on felt and experienced them--just mere photocopies in black and white.
Last Wednesday, my father told us stories about my grandmother during the war; how she and her siblings were orphaned at at early age, before the war she had to leave her siblings with relatives living in Nueva Ecija. They were together again during wartime though. Lolo Francisco, my Lola's father, was a litsonero. He died early because of some illness. Lola Ana worked in a tabacalera (tabaco+lera= cigar factory) near Ayala Bridge in an area that is now known as Tabacalera because of its history. (Historically, Pandacan, Singalong, and Paco served as living area of Filipinos flocking Manila from the provinces for its promise of work opportunities. Sta. Cruz area up to San Miguel were littered with cigar factories which were then in boom. Manila was truly the capital city not just in terms of its historicity but also because of the vigour of its industries and business enterprises. There were even tramvias or electric trains ala San Francisco. Before the war, Manila is called the Paris of Asia for its beautiful bridges--the original bridges connecting the rest of Manila to Binondo and Sta. Cruz.) Lola Ana also died early. My grandmother had to work and wash laundry for American soldiers. Being able to finish Grade 7, she can speak English well. Her colleagues ask her to converse with the soldiers on their behalf. She was also able to teach some of them the basic rudiments of English and counting. It seems, Grade 7 then can take you many places already. She also sew clothes and became a master seamstress after the war.
From Ada (we call our Lola, Ada. Ada=Lola) when she was still alive, comes stories of survival during the war: how people ate grilled coconut meat and ate sisid rice (rice from sunken commercial ships carrying rice that men had to dive to have something to eat). She said they were luckier. Some ate stray cats and city rats.
My father told us why Lola Payang's family were not really relatives but were really close friends of my Lola's family. During the war, when you eck out life together, everyone becomes close family despite being unrelated biologically. He told us where the old tradition of holding Pabasa every Lent came from… When news of the Americans returning and the Japanese surrendering reached Manila one fateful day in 1945, Japanese soldiers aimed to bring everyone with them in defeat. They struck everyone--man, woman, child--with their bayonets. Lola Payang, my Lola and the rest of my lolos and lolas, who were just children then, walked in the midst of all the carnage and came out of the thick alive. All alive. Since then, the family made it a point to hold Pabasa annually, religiously, as a thanksgiving.
When my grandmother died fifteen years ago, we had a picture of her displayed. In that picture, she was in her early 20's. Her long, hair was naturally wavy, a barrette holds it to keep it from falling on her forehead. It was neat and polished which was also chic that time. She was sitting on a hay-covered field. She was so young. And so beautiful even in that sepia-colored photograph.
I only wish I had her tell much more of her life when she was still with us. (Or maybe asked my sisters and brothers to make her tell stories. She wouldn't do that for me because I was the black sheep of the family.) Anyway, these are all just small broken sherds of a bigger jar. Mere fragments. There are more stories that we cannot know anymore about our history as a people--and my Ada's history as a person. All of those stories went away with her when she passed on.
I wish I can record everything. I wish I can remember every detail of her life, of my father and mother's life... of mine. I wish not to waste any memory.
Yes it is true that everything is ephemeral and that everything will change, pass, stop, cease… But it is always our history as people and our personal histories as persons that unites and ties us to that tapestry that is our shared humanity. Our stories are all weaved together--generation to generation, family to family, from tribe to tribe, from age to age--we are all running along one loom.
As for me, as long as I live, I will tell stories--made-up ones from my alternative universe, which are also MY stories indirectly (on the premise that anything we write says something about us), and those that are truly mine.
One of my greatest fears is that I have not done something my heart have set out to do, or at least tried, which I will forever regret not doing. I want to say it all. I don't want my stories to be untold. I don't want my love to die with me. I want to say my Iloveyous. I want to speak with my words so I and others may not forget and waste such color, such beauty, such vibrance found in life. Stories puree those magic and preserve them not in jars but in letters.
I want to say everything! I want to say what my soul feels, what my heart shouts, what my eyes witness. I don't want them to be forever lost when I'm gone like strorybooks closed, locked, with keys thrown away.
In this way, the weaving goes on. The tapestries of history are continually made. And with such color!
*for more on this era, read:
http://digitaledition.philstar.com/newspaper/showArticle/57057/share/A-hidden-historical-landmark-echoes-Philippine-cigar/
In a way, dying is like a storybook closing. And everything else we can recover from remembrances of others are mere adaptations. We can no longer catch the vividness, the poignance, the intensity of life as the one passing on felt and experienced them--just mere photocopies in black and white.
Last Wednesday, my father told us stories about my grandmother during the war; how she and her siblings were orphaned at at early age, before the war she had to leave her siblings with relatives living in Nueva Ecija. They were together again during wartime though. Lolo Francisco, my Lola's father, was a litsonero. He died early because of some illness. Lola Ana worked in a tabacalera (tabaco+lera= cigar factory) near Ayala Bridge in an area that is now known as Tabacalera because of its history. (Historically, Pandacan, Singalong, and Paco served as living area of Filipinos flocking Manila from the provinces for its promise of work opportunities. Sta. Cruz area up to San Miguel were littered with cigar factories which were then in boom. Manila was truly the capital city not just in terms of its historicity but also because of the vigour of its industries and business enterprises. There were even tramvias or electric trains ala San Francisco. Before the war, Manila is called the Paris of Asia for its beautiful bridges--the original bridges connecting the rest of Manila to Binondo and Sta. Cruz.) Lola Ana also died early. My grandmother had to work and wash laundry for American soldiers. Being able to finish Grade 7, she can speak English well. Her colleagues ask her to converse with the soldiers on their behalf. She was also able to teach some of them the basic rudiments of English and counting. It seems, Grade 7 then can take you many places already. She also sew clothes and became a master seamstress after the war.
From Ada (we call our Lola, Ada. Ada=Lola) when she was still alive, comes stories of survival during the war: how people ate grilled coconut meat and ate sisid rice (rice from sunken commercial ships carrying rice that men had to dive to have something to eat). She said they were luckier. Some ate stray cats and city rats.
My father told us why Lola Payang's family were not really relatives but were really close friends of my Lola's family. During the war, when you eck out life together, everyone becomes close family despite being unrelated biologically. He told us where the old tradition of holding Pabasa every Lent came from… When news of the Americans returning and the Japanese surrendering reached Manila one fateful day in 1945, Japanese soldiers aimed to bring everyone with them in defeat. They struck everyone--man, woman, child--with their bayonets. Lola Payang, my Lola and the rest of my lolos and lolas, who were just children then, walked in the midst of all the carnage and came out of the thick alive. All alive. Since then, the family made it a point to hold Pabasa annually, religiously, as a thanksgiving.
When my grandmother died fifteen years ago, we had a picture of her displayed. In that picture, she was in her early 20's. Her long, hair was naturally wavy, a barrette holds it to keep it from falling on her forehead. It was neat and polished which was also chic that time. She was sitting on a hay-covered field. She was so young. And so beautiful even in that sepia-colored photograph.
I only wish I had her tell much more of her life when she was still with us. (Or maybe asked my sisters and brothers to make her tell stories. She wouldn't do that for me because I was the black sheep of the family.) Anyway, these are all just small broken sherds of a bigger jar. Mere fragments. There are more stories that we cannot know anymore about our history as a people--and my Ada's history as a person. All of those stories went away with her when she passed on.
I wish I can record everything. I wish I can remember every detail of her life, of my father and mother's life... of mine. I wish not to waste any memory.
Yes it is true that everything is ephemeral and that everything will change, pass, stop, cease… But it is always our history as people and our personal histories as persons that unites and ties us to that tapestry that is our shared humanity. Our stories are all weaved together--generation to generation, family to family, from tribe to tribe, from age to age--we are all running along one loom.
As for me, as long as I live, I will tell stories--made-up ones from my alternative universe, which are also MY stories indirectly (on the premise that anything we write says something about us), and those that are truly mine.
One of my greatest fears is that I have not done something my heart have set out to do, or at least tried, which I will forever regret not doing. I want to say it all. I don't want my stories to be untold. I don't want my love to die with me. I want to say my Iloveyous. I want to speak with my words so I and others may not forget and waste such color, such beauty, such vibrance found in life. Stories puree those magic and preserve them not in jars but in letters.
I want to say everything! I want to say what my soul feels, what my heart shouts, what my eyes witness. I don't want them to be forever lost when I'm gone like strorybooks closed, locked, with keys thrown away.
In this way, the weaving goes on. The tapestries of history are continually made. And with such color!
*for more on this era, read:
http://digitaledition.philstar.com/newspaper/showArticle/57057/share/A-hidden-historical-landmark-echoes-Philippine-cigar/