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I
come from a Roman Catholic family with an extremely
contrasting social and economic standing. My father
was the only son from a highly educated, dignified,
and well-known family in our city. He was a young lawyer
from Ateneo, and one of the most eligible and handsome
bachelors in our city when he married my beautiful and
poised mother. My mother is the only daughter from a
very poor family with three uneducated, hardworking
brothers who are farmers, and a widowed mother who worked
as a laundrywoman. My paternal relatives are all religious,
while my maternal relatives are not.
We
are three children in the family, and I am the middle
child. My father died when I was two years old. I heard
stories from my mother of the difficulties she went
through relating to her in-laws. As a result, I grew
up not fully respecting and trusting my aunts. But I
idolized my paternal grandmother. She became soft towards
my mother when my father died. Although she was by nature
aloof and strict, we deeply respected her. She gave
our clan dignity. She, together with my father and aunts,
gave me a sense of pride in our name and made me desire
to carry on and be the best that I can be. Because of
them, I was able to overcome whatever shame I felt because
of my poor relatives on my mother's side.
I
relished the stories I heard from old people in the
city about our “glorious past,” and these helped me
overcome my insecurities. My father was very kind and
humble, they say. He was a fair judge, was loved by
the people and hated by the mayor. My paternal grandmother
was a brilliant teacher, one of the two pensionadas
from our town sent to Cornell University . She
was adored by her students. Although a woman of few
words, she caused every student to love to learn in
her class and was highly remembered. Thus, in 2005,
the school she taught in decided to name its library
in her honor.
We
grew up with my mother's family because, when my mother
married, they became part of our household. I loved
my maternal grandmother so much. She took care of me,
I think, more than my mother did. Later, I stayed with
her at the farm and went with her anywhere she went.
We visited the farmer-neighbors; we hiked to the next
barrio to visit my cousins; we hiked to our house in
the city when transportation was hard to find; we harvested
camote, cassava, corn, and palay;
we picked herbs and mushrooms; we took baths at a creek
with the carabaos nearby; and we drank tuba
in the barrio.
I
also love my uncles and feel so loved by them. I even
thought I was their favorite when I was young. They
expressed their love for me in many memorable ways.
They climbed coconut trees and picked buko
for me to eat and drink. They let me ride with them
on the back of a carabao or on a raft pulled by the
carabao to break up the soil for planting. They brought
me pasalubong , like bananas, from the farm
when I was in the city. They slaughtered a pig for my
birthday or when I came home for Christmas when I was
in college.
Since
my father died, we gradually became poorer. This gave
me the impetus to strive harder in my studies and to
avail of scholarships. I also pitied my mother, my maternal
grandmother, and my uncles. Because they were so helpful
and kind, they were so gullible, easily duped and taken
advantage of by cunning people around us. My mother
was a schoolteacher at the barrio where our farm is.
Even though she had only very modest means, people borrowed
money from her without paying her back. People who rented
the first story of our house always delayed payments.
There
was once a lessee—a Chinese man with a Filipina wife,
three small children, and a helper—who demanded that
we use a different, separate doorway and my mother conceded.
We opened up a wall and, since we had no money, we used
a temporary chair as our stair for several months. One
day, the chair broke. I fell and suffered a long, deep
nail scratch on my leg.
My
mother was in Manila then with the wife of the lessee.
I cried so loud not only from the pain and fear of tetanus
but from the stark realization that my mother actually
conceded to such an arrangement, overlooking her family's
safety. We all got angry, and an uncle immediately closed
the side door and opened the dividing panel so that
we could pass through the main door once again.
When
my mother and the lessee's wife came home, the latter
shouted and was angry the whole day. But my mother just
ignored her. I was so dismayed by my mother's silence
that, by about seven or eight in the evening, I went
down and shouted at the lessee's wife and told them
to immediately pack up and leave the house. She was
shocked by my outburst and appealed to my mother, but
I was firm. They packed up and left our house that evening.
Since then, I learned to fight for our family.
My
mother's brothers farmed the land of my father's family,
but they often sold the crops without our knowledge
or were unable to refuse people who wanted to get something
out of the land. This angered my father's sisters who
felt they were unable to enjoy the full benefits of
the land. They decided to give up a large portion of
it to farmers through the Agrarian Reform Program. This
angered me, my siblings, and my mother. I hated my aunts
and blamed my uncles for our growing misfortune. I promised
myself that when I had earned enough money, I would
file a case against the farmers and our local DAR and
get back the land.
Indeed,
after several years, when my salary increased, we went
to court and won. But, upon the other party's appeal,
we lost and were unable to appeal. By that time, other
matters occupied my attention. That year, 1998, I was
sent to Italy where I made my crucial decision of surrendering
my future to God. It was the year I started to give
up those things I had been holding onto in my heart,
including the land issue.
I
was a good student. I was also well-loved by relatives
and admired by neighbors and friends. As a child, I
would join a Sunday school on the sidewalk or at a neighbor's
house. In high school, I had a best friend who was active
in the Free Methodist Church and who on several occasions
invited me to join her. I admired her and her strong
involvement in their church. I was also attracted to
their church's family atmosphere.
As
a student, I loved books. I remember reading books from
a book rental store in the neighborhood. One book that
I read was “The Cross and the Switchblade.” (I did not
realize it was an evangelistic book until 2005. I saw
it in a pew in the church I went to in Taiwan . As I
scanned it, I discovered that the story was familiar.)
A gangster leader is involved in gang wars on the streets
of New York City until he gets converted. I remember
how I cried reading that book before and praying the
Sinner's Prayer written on one of its pages.
I
always thought I was the most responsible child in the
family. I often was the family treasurer when my mother
left the house. I was also fond of accompanying her
on errands. I acted like my mother's observer, listener,
and protector. When I was a sophomore in high school,
I encouraged my mother to remarry and she accepted one
of her suitors.
My
stepfather had the rank of a datu of a tribe
in Mindanao . He was one of those who sought for the
return to the natives of whatever benefits had fallen
into wrong hands in the guise of a Foundation. Our house
was always filled with the guests of my stepfather from
the mountains.
At
first, I was very hospitable and compassionate. But
I gradually experienced hardships. I realized that my
stepfather had no income and that my mother's small
income as a schoolteacher was being shared by more people.
I also found it hard to concentrate on my studies, having
to do the chores—washing dishes, cooking, cleaning—most
of the time. Sometimes I studied in the dining area
with mosquito nets and sleeping guests all over the
place. At first I I tolerated the inconvenience but
gradually, I began to express my disappointment to my
mother and often contradicted my stepfather in his views.
My stepfather appeared to be unfazed. He appreciated
my frankness, which encouraged me to be fearless in
expressing my opinions.
Then
I left for UP Diliman. When I went home during one Christmas
break, I learned my stepfather did not come home anymore
and preferred to stay in the mountains of Mindanao .
Many years later, we heard he was killed.
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