The earliest memory of my childhood that I can remember is I’m talking to a woman at the receiver’s end. It must have been a woman who is cuddling me and assisting me while talking to someone on the phone. I’ve been saying “Mama daw” all over again. I’m having a hard time back then what the phrase meant or it is somewhat absurd if understood in the Filipino language. But later on as I came to know my roots and learned that there’s a big part of me that is Capulena, I understood what the phrase meant.
When trying to remember that scene in my life, a woman in her prime, brown-skinned with full bangs is what I can imagine. Later on I found out through the pictures I came across that my mother looked that way in her early years. And it was not to mention the fact that I’ve been calling that person through the telephone “Mama daw” so she could be very much my mother.
One of my fondest memories is that our house rose above the ground – a typical abode at that time. There are at least four big posts supporting the floors of the dwelling. At its right side facing the front of the house is a jetmatic. It is termed “bomba” by the locales. One needs to climb the stairs to reach the front door of the house. The stairs is connected to the front porch of the house – which is also connected to its front door.
Upon entering the house one could observe that it is wide with little furniture. In fact the space is a multipurpose area. It can serve as a nap place during siesta time. One has just to take out the rolled weaved mat called “banig” and the family especially the children can enjoy the cool temperature in the receiving area during hot seasons. There are about two rooms all of where a cloth hanging on its door. The cloth is called in the place as “kurtina”. It is to have the privacy because those days some rooms don’t have door panels. I remember there is a creek in front of the house where a Rosal plant is in bloom alongside. Someone would always assist me when crossing to the other side of the creek because I once fall off.
I had the fondest memory with my Lolo Poldo, my mother’s father. I would sit beside him in one of the staircases. He would then sing for me and later on taught me to sing. Then it has been our past time to sit in the stairs and sing. We would often sing the song “Mariano nga Buta” which goes:
Ayaw Inday pagtamay-tamaya
An sangkay ko hi Mariano nga buta
Kairo man san tawo kay lagas na
Maupay, maupay an pamustura.
I’ve been a favorite entertainer in the house. When the family gathers they would often call me and let me stand in the middle, front or at the top of the table – anywhere where the small crowd could see me sing my childhood anthem.
I had no slightest memory with my father, a biological father at that. Most of my toddler memories were just supplanted by my mother as I grew up. She said my father was a Muslim soldier. He was assigned in Samar where my mother lived. They met their and ended up in a romantic relationship. From what I heard from my aunts and uncles, my father is a good man. He would bring something for the family or joins them in their favorite pastime - tuba session. According from what I heard in our place. My parents loved each other. So therefore, I'm a love child. I was born because my parents loved each other. Mother even said that Father asked her hand in marriage but in Islam way. Mother felt betrayed for Father never told her that he already had his first wife (and first family). I don't really know if it is a good thing that Mother didn't accepted the proposal for if we were Muslims nowadays I wouldn't have enjoyed the liberty and woman empowerment I am enjoying now. But may be it would have been better also for finding a partner in life wouldn't be much of a fuss for marriage I guess is arranged between families. (By the way, for those who do not know why I am saying this is because I am now in a situation of an unrequited love. And I so hate myself for being a one-man woman. Why can't I look at other guys?!)
I knew from the very start that I don’t have a father. Even though my mother introduced me to a father figure and taught me to call him “Papa” but then I knew from the start that he is not really my father. His title as a father to me remains as a name. It could be a part to blame on me because maybe I didn’t gave him the chance to be a father. But, would one not accept other person if they heartily accept you? I don’t solely blame my stepfather for the hostility that was built between us. I think it is a mutual understanding and feeling that one is just not what you asked for but unavoidably was part of the unwanted bargain.
(under construction)
No comments:
Post a Comment