More Love for Cory

There's no stopping the outpouring of love for democracy's icon even days after her burial. According to a broadsheet, around 1000 people still pay their last respects at Cory's tomb in Manila Memorial on a daily basis.

As for Times Street, there was a small crowd in front of the bungalow where the revered leader lived for most of her life. There was thick wax covering part of the sidewalk from a thousand candles lit for her eternal rest. There were testaments of affection on streamers and posters. And there was a mounting pile of flowers, mostly yellow, that extended to the walls of the house next to the Aquino's. This was the scene that greeted us last morning when we stopped by, flowers and candles in hand, on the ninth day of Cory's passing.

Still For the Love of Cory

As if the stories on TV were not enough, I, two days after Cory was laid to rest, still heard two personal accounts of humble little sacrifices made as final acts of thanksgiving for the leader we lost.


My sister's bestfriend came with her siblings all the way from our hometown in Batangas on the eve of Cory's funeral. They braved the tempest that brought heavy rains and thick fog to Tagaytay's accident-prone highways and lined up to the Cathedral even if their limbs were still tired from the three-hour car ride. After a brief glimpse of Tita Cory, they had to wade through Manila's flood waters to get back to their SUV parked several meters away, after which they were on to another three-hour journey back home in the wee hours of the morning.

My cousin went with the nuns who ran the hospital where she worked as a nutritionist also on the last day of the wake. It was 3 pm. The lines were long and became longer when viewing had to be stopped to give way to the necrological services. As the heavens seemed to mourn with the throngs, not a single person was not drenched, not directly from the downpour but from water dripping from a sea of umbrellas gathered so closely together. When good Samaritans started distributing boiled eggs by dinnertime, she was so famished she thought she must have swallowed an egg whole and then another. By 11 pm, they were praying in front of the casket and were out in a few minutes. The nuns rode back to the hospital while my cousin waited for her husband who got caught in traffic somewhere near Manila Hotel. She got inside the car at 1 am.

Such were the sacrifices of the nameless faces in the crowd, who gave up several hours of their day without complaint, knowing full well that Cory gave up not just a few days but nearly all days of her life for the people she never stopped believing in.

* Photos grabbed from Google search.

The Way to Cory

"Five hours, man!"

So I overheard an apparently very tired female twenty-something obviously referring to the long wait at Cory's wake in La Salle Greenhills which was exactly where we were headed. But my husband Nubs and I were not intimidated.

From the first time we learned of the former President's passing, we knew we were going to pay our last respects, no matter what. The first night we offered a bouquet of yellow flowers and lit candles at Times Street. It was pouring and all the candles were put out by the rain. Yet there was not a shadow of gloom in the darkness. Amid heaps of yellow blooms was a huge Hello Kitty stuffed toy that must have been precious once to the person who brought it but was left there as a final homage to a beloved figure. Amid the downpour that got heavier every minute we stood there, an elderly couple got out of the comfort of their car to hand in a Mass Card. Amid the stillness, the halting of several more vehicles could be heard as we drove away in mournful silence.
At 10 o'clock pm of last night we walked from Virra Mall parking to La Salle in a frenzied pace, not knowing what to expect. Both sides of Ortigas were lined with a hundred cars. There were OB vans from the big networks. There was a big group of nuns outside of Gate 5. And there were throngs of uniformed police that instantly reminded me of rallies past except that, that night, they stood without truncheons in their hands nor scowls on their faces.
The queue snaked from EDSA to Gate 4 to Edsa and back to Gate 4, forming 3 long parallel lines that were at once discouraging to the faint-of-heart. But it was clear everybody was resolved to get a glimpse of Tita Cory one last time and there was simply no room for wimps in this gathering of people determined to do a little something heroic for the hero who passed away. There was a singular energy moving through this diverse crowd of senior citizens and children, chauffeur-driven ladies and women on foot, English- and sward-speaking members of the third sex, executives in barongs and blue collar workers in tattered shirts, families and barkadas, sosyals and simple folk, students and professionals.
The waiting game had an unforced camaraderie developing among us patiently queuing for our turn. We chatted with the married couple in front of us who we learned were employees at PLDT and Smart. The women behind us were OFW's who braved it out at Ninoy's historic funeral in 1983. By midnight, three of Cory's grandsons went out, apologizing for the delay, saying thank you and shaking hands with everybody.
Before 1 am, we were inside the campus. In 20 minutes or so, we were inside the gym. In another 10 minutes, we were standing right in front of the casket. And as I prayed for Cory's deliverance, I did something I haven’t done for many years—I prayed once again… for my country and her salvation.

Yellow Fever

Never did yellow make such a strong comeback than yesterday when Cory Aquino, symbol of democracy, quietly passed away, leaving a divided nation united in grief. It was in 1986 when yellow became in vogue, the color of choice of the widow who became a reluctant President, the mother who willingly sacrificed herself under threat from a traitorous dictatorship and, subsequently, seven coup attempts, one of which almost killed her only son.

Cory's existence in this world had been marked by ironies. She was a private person thrust into the national spotlight by her husband's martyrdom. She was a non-politician forced to rise on the political stage by the unfortunate circumstances of her people. She was a woman averse to power but upon whom power was wholeheartedly bestowed by a nation in desperate need of leadership. She was a courageous spirit who found it in her to fight the cancer that was Marcos's violent regime and, later on, GMA's corrupt government but who was rendered powerless against the cancer that invaded her body during the last months of her life.

Only a saint could have had the heart not to lose faith in the face of such cruel contradictions but Cory was said to have died a peaceful death, unquestioning, uncomplaining, unceasing in her prayers for her country to the very end.

It is this selflessness, this goodness that drive Filipinos to tie yellow ribbons on trees, lamp posts, jeepneys, bicycles and car antennas, that bring forth a sea of yellow flowers in churches all over the country. In a touching display of unity never before seen since EDSA, people are flocking to La Salle Greenhills where the beloved Cory lies in repose. The politicians are there. The diplomats. The society matrons. The movie stars. The church people. And then there are the faceless individuals—not famous, not rich and, most of all, not paid to be there. There are middle-aged women who bring yellow flowers and place them with pride next to imposing yellow wreaths. There are people, young and old alike, wearing yellow shirts both worn and new. There is a host of many others sporting yellow bands and yellow ribbons. There is a Lola with a young grandson wrapped in a large yellow trash bag in place of a yellow tee they say they do not have money to buy.

This is one of the very few moments in our history when we can proudly tell the world we are Filipinos, moving together, praying together, all for the love of the Woman in Yellow.


*All images (except for bottom photo) grabbed from Google.

Kids on PacMom

My ten-year old niece Yanna, whose TV viewing habit is limited to Disney Channel and MTV, caught sight of a dancing Dionesia Pacquiao on a magazine and blurted out: “Mama, she’s creepy!”

Of course, my sister Odie couldn’t help but burst out laughing at my niece’s innocent but somehow truthful observation. It was at that point when Yanna joined in the laughter when her brother Bubbi, aged 12, entered the room and demanded, “Hey, you two, what’s so funny?”

“Kuya, look, it’s Pacquiao’s mommy,” was Yanna’s way of explaining.

And Bubbi’s quick retort?

“Kayo talaga! It’s just Pacquiao pretending to be a girl!”

Separation Anxiety

On her third week (though technically fourth day) of pre-schooling, Indie suddenly developed an aversion to school.

"My school is am baho (Indie's broken Tagalog for stinky)!"

"My classroom is not nice!"

"The floor is dirty!"

"I have too many classmates!"

"I don't like the boys!"

Thus began the horrors of two parents who were all at once faced with a rebellious daughter who was proving to be a little too strong-willed and opinionated for her age. Was our baby a rebel without a cause, I wondered. Or maybe we sent her to the wrong school. Maybe a public school was not entirely a good idea after all. Maybe she would feel more comfortable with kids who spoke English like her. Maybe she'd be better off in an all-girl school.

It would have been a never-ending list of maybes were it not for the fact that it finally occurred to me by Wednesday that Indie would always refuse to enter her classroom if I did not come and stay with her inside. She would cry and sometimes even throw up, according to her teacher, when I was not around anymore.

And then it hit me. Separation anxiety, that was what this was all about.

Poor darling. How could she, a girl of four, not experience it when I, a grown-up of almost thirty-nine, was unable to escape it as well!

The first time I left Indie at school (during the second week) was just as bad for me. I was so nervous I did not leave without first handing her teacher my calling card. You know, in case of emergency. At home, I kept checking my cellphone, fearful of, yes, an emergency call. I was afraid she might hurt herself or something. I was even scared she might choke on her grapes!

When I finally got to be with her after three hours, I hugged her like we were away from each other for days. Of course, she must have felt the same way. I should have known better....

Straight from the Big Mouth of Babes

Last weekend over lunch...

INDIE : (On my sister's buffalo wings.)

           "Gert's cooking is sarap." 

ME : "How about mama's?"

INDIE : "Yeah..."

           (This said as if she was asked at gunpoint.)

ME : "How about my soup?"

INDIE : "The knorr pork cubes are sarap."

Uhmm, did you just spill the beans, darling? Or the cubes rather?

India's Assessment

My little family of late risers woke up unusually early last morning. It was Indie's appointed first assessment at school and everyone was excited. It was a one-on-one meeting with her teacher wherein the teacher is supposed to give the student a series of activities so she gets a starting point with which to measure the child's progress on the next assessment.

It was scheduled at 9:30 am. We were ready by 8. So Indie took off her rain boots, sat on the bed with her drawing board and doodled a bit. We left the house 15 minutes to 9.

Indie the first-time student who came prepared for the rainy day was, not surprisingly, unprepared to meet her new mentor. I had to escort her inside and stay for quite some time in a spot where she could see me. After a minute or two, I knew my little girl didn't really need me there so I headed for the door without looking back.

My husband Nubs and I whiled away the time taking turns with the camera. Sheesh, I really want that DSLR!

Around half of the 30-minute mark, we heard a squeal. Was that Indie? Yes, it was her said Nubs who immediately run to the door. He motioned for me to take a peak as well and there was our baby talking non-stop. That was the Indie that we knew. What we didn't know was that she would be so un-shy so soon...

After the session, the 4-year old had a rush of adrenaline, maybe from that half hour spent with a stranger-turned-friend, independent of her papa and mommy. She was rewarded with a slice of carrot cake at Chocolate Kiss which proved to be not enough for the growing girl. A slice of devil's food cake was in order.

To complete the experience, we had lunch at the famous Beach House which, for the unfamiliar, was situated nowhere near a body of water but very close to a sunken garden or the Sunken Garden. This is where they serve the best barbecue in town. Another reward for the new student, on a momentous occasion in her young life.

Of course, Indie was most likely unaware of the day's importance. And at the end of it, she simply came up with an assessment of her own—

"I like my teacher. She's a nice girl."