Thursday, February 26, 2009
23 years ago...
i was shivering in anticipation, wanting to throw myself in front of a tank and give mrs badoy's rosary to the young-faced soldier whose face looked stern under his tight helmet. i walked down edsa between cubao and ortigas avenue, there were no ugly MRT tracks and dingy flyovers to cut my view of sky and stars.
today i can remember the smell of fishballs, ice water, and ninoy aquino fans. everywhere we walked, my kuya, his girlfriend, his girlfriend's cute brother who would never give me the time of day, and i, we heard june keithley's voice over radyo veritas, updating us on what was happening in fairview, in crame, in malacañang.
how our hopes were pinned on pin-faced ramos, that treacherous general who could sense the tide turning, and riding on that crest of opportunity. parchment-faced enrile looked then as he still does, pinched, languid, and cunning. i can never trust that man. even when he's six feet under. he makes my blood turn cold.
when we got home two nights later, mommy and chuchi were weeping, embracing anyone their arms could enfold. as my face was squished against my father's jumping chest, i could hear mommy singing --- or was it sighing? --- "he's gone! he's gone! the dictator's gone!!!" the tears glistened on their cheeks and i was moved, swept in the moment and seconds later i was crying, too.
i was there, i thought. no tanks, no excitement, no chance to lay down my life for the country.
the filipino is worth dying for, ninoy had said, and the image of his bloodied face lying in the casket three years before, when cory had refused to have him cleaned up, so that everyone will see what they did to my man, she said, her voice breaking as she crackled into the mike in her garish yellow dress.
i would go into the province of service after college with ninoy's words echoing in my sternum, but would be sick and tired of hearing about the woes of the poor and oppressed even before i was 30.
but today, looking back, i can remember the rush of wanting to be of significance, to make my life mean something in the tapestry of the nation's history.
i was there. 15 years old. a young woman who would always be a late bloomer. there, on edsa, standing with other fervent filipinos who carried a dream: that this great country would be great with us, for us, because of us.
i will never forget that idealism of long ago. it's what keeps me alive, the memory of a long ago love and passion. it's what pierces the mist of indifference to the present administration, that reminds me that no matter how hard i pretend, i will always care.
if blood should spill, i will be there, in the middle of it all, trying to make my mark still. and for always.
today i can remember the smell of fishballs, ice water, and ninoy aquino fans. everywhere we walked, my kuya, his girlfriend, his girlfriend's cute brother who would never give me the time of day, and i, we heard june keithley's voice over radyo veritas, updating us on what was happening in fairview, in crame, in malacañang.
how our hopes were pinned on pin-faced ramos, that treacherous general who could sense the tide turning, and riding on that crest of opportunity. parchment-faced enrile looked then as he still does, pinched, languid, and cunning. i can never trust that man. even when he's six feet under. he makes my blood turn cold.
when we got home two nights later, mommy and chuchi were weeping, embracing anyone their arms could enfold. as my face was squished against my father's jumping chest, i could hear mommy singing --- or was it sighing? --- "he's gone! he's gone! the dictator's gone!!!" the tears glistened on their cheeks and i was moved, swept in the moment and seconds later i was crying, too.
i was there, i thought. no tanks, no excitement, no chance to lay down my life for the country.
the filipino is worth dying for, ninoy had said, and the image of his bloodied face lying in the casket three years before, when cory had refused to have him cleaned up, so that everyone will see what they did to my man, she said, her voice breaking as she crackled into the mike in her garish yellow dress.
i would go into the province of service after college with ninoy's words echoing in my sternum, but would be sick and tired of hearing about the woes of the poor and oppressed even before i was 30.
but today, looking back, i can remember the rush of wanting to be of significance, to make my life mean something in the tapestry of the nation's history.
i was there. 15 years old. a young woman who would always be a late bloomer. there, on edsa, standing with other fervent filipinos who carried a dream: that this great country would be great with us, for us, because of us.
i will never forget that idealism of long ago. it's what keeps me alive, the memory of a long ago love and passion. it's what pierces the mist of indifference to the present administration, that reminds me that no matter how hard i pretend, i will always care.
if blood should spill, i will be there, in the middle of it all, trying to make my mark still. and for always.
