Iba Namang White Christmas

Habang ako’y nagda-drive pauwi kagabi ay aking napuna na may mga butil-butil ng niebe (snow) na lumilipad. Matagal-tagal na rin namang kaming naghihintay ng snow, kahit na hindi ko paboritong libangan ang mag-shovel nito. Sabi kasi sa aming weather forecast, maaaring magkaroon daw kami ng 1-2 inches ng snow. Yey, White Christmas!

Pagbangon ko kaninang umaga ay dumungaw ako kaagad sa labas. Kakarampot naman pala ang snow na bumagsak. Ang kuripot naman!


Dahil konting-konti lang ang aming snow (above photo), siguradong malulusaw at maglalaho na ang lahat ng ito bago pa mag-Pasko. Sang-ayon ulit sa aming weather forecast, wala na kaming  snow fall bago mag-Pasko dito sa Iowa. Mapupurnada yata ang aming White Christmas!

Nainggit tuloy ako sa mga lugar dito sa Amerika na maraming snow ngayong Pasko. Noong nakaraang araw lang, ay pinadalhan ako ng aming kaibigan ng photo na kuha niya mula sa Morristown, New Jersey (photo below). Parang scene sa Frozen ang dating.


Sa Morristown, New Jersey ako unang napadpad at nanirahan dito sa Amerika. Tatlong taon din akong lumagi doon. Dito ko naranasan ang aking kauna-unahang White Christmas, na noon ay nakikita ko lamang sa mga pictures. Dito ko nasabing para akong nakatira sa loob ng Christmas card.

Nang ako’y bata pa at naninirahan sa Maynila, hindi ko inakalang ako’y makakaranas ng White Christmas. Nagkakasya na ako sa mga dekorasyon namin sa aming classroom sa paaralan ng mga Christmas tree na pinuno ng mga bulak para magmukhang may snow. Sa bulak lang masaya na ako.

Tapos sa klase kakanta kami ng “Dashing through the snow” at “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas.” Ano ba naman ang malay ko sa snow at White Christmas? Alam ko lang noon ay “dashing through the flood!” Kinakanta rin namin ‘yung “Frosty, the Snowman.” Pero ‘yung Frosty alam ko at gusto ko. Ito ay isang brand ng ice candy noong bata ako. Masarap siya!

Taong 1991 nang nakaranas ako na pumuti ang kalsada sa Maynila. Pag-gising ko isang umaga at sa pagdungaw ko sa labas, ay nakita kong medyo maputi ang aming paligid. Nag-snow sa Maynila?! Pero nang aking kilatisin, hindi ito snow, kundi abo pala! Abo mula sa pagsabog ng Mt. Pinatubo.

Taong 1994, aking nilisan ang Pilipinas. Hindi para makakita ng snow o maghukay ng yelo, pero para tugisin ang aking mga pangarap sa buhay.

Ngayon, makatapos kong maranasan ang marami ng White Christmas, iba na ang gusto ko sa Pasko. Ibang puti na ang gusto ko, hindi snow. Puti, tulad ng puting buhangin sa beach ng Zambales.  Puti, tulad ng kesong puti sa loob ng bagong lutong pandesal. Puti, tulad ng bagong kaskas na niyog sa ibabaw ng puto bungbong.

Umulan na lang sana ng bagong kaskas na niyog. Samahan na rin sana ng pag-ulan ng puto bungbong at bibingka. Teka, masakit yatang mabagsakan ng bibingka!

Hay, nami-miss ko na naman ang Pilipinas.

Sa lahat ng mga Pilipino sa iba’t-ibang lupalop ng mundo, ano mang puti ang pumapaligid sa inyo – maging ito’y snow, o kaya’y abo at lahar, o puting buhangin at malinaw na dagat, o kaya’y disyerto, o mga puting semento, o kaya nama’y mga kumpol na bulak, o tambak ng puting basura, o kaya’y maging bagong kayod na niyog – kayong lahat ay aking binabati ng Maligayang Pasko!



Beyond our Shores

(This article was published in Manila Standard Today, Diaspora section, February 9, 2012. This is an English translation of my earlier post “Ibayong Dalampasigan.” The original Tagalog piece may be more nostalgic, but I hope the message transcends beyond the translation.) 

Eighteen years. It seems like yesterday.

It feels only the other day that I woke up to the music of speeding tricycles and the crowing of Mang Karding’s fighting cock. Not too long ago when I walked down our narrow street in Sampaloc. Only yesterday that I inhaled Manila’s warm breeze and the belching smoke of the jeepneys. It was like I just blinked my eyes, and yet eighteen years have passed since I left our motherland.

I am one of the millions of Filipinos who migrated to another country. I grew up in a world where one of the eminent dreams of many of our people is to leave the country. Though it may not be directly indoctrinated in us, but we often hear from older folks, “study good my child, and when you grow up, you can go to another land and have a brighter future.”

As a child I heard stories of our neighbors who went overseas. Like Mang Juan*, who lived three houses down from us. He left for Saudi and there he earned “tons of money.” Tons of money – at least that was what we conceived in our young mind. That money was what Mang Juan used to erect a small sari-sari store in front of their house, where my mother used to send me to buy vinegar.

Or Junior, the eldest son of Ka Linda who lived across our house. He became a seaman and sailed to different places around the world. I could tell if Junior was home, for he always threw a small party for his drinking buddies and there would be a noisy bunch of merry men in our street again. Even Junior’s younger brother also became a seaman. Because of this, Ka Linda was able to renovate the house they offer for rent.

And Nena, who lives in the apartment down the street. The slender and beautiful Nena. She went to Japan.

Even in my own relatives the stories were the same. There was Tata Emo, who sold a few hectares of their field in Bulacan, so he could go to Saudi. However he did not withstand the loneliness of Saudi. He came home and went back to farming. At least his carabao was happy to have him back.

Another is Tito Rey who also departed for the Middle East. He stayed there for a number of years where he endured the searing heat, homesickness and loneliness. There were many birthdays of his children that he was not around to celebrate. But in exchange he was able to send them through college, and they even afford to build a house of their own in Marikina.

There were also my two aunts, nurses who made it to America. I know that without their help I would not be able to chase my dream. Up to this day, these aunts of mine continue to support our relatives in the Philippines. May God continue to bless them.

(photo from here)

But not all who went out of the country had a happy ending. Let’s return to Mang Juan. I know that financially they were better of. However, one of his sons, and perhaps due to the fact that he grew up without a father figure, became lost and got hooked to drugs. I always saw him in our street, with eyes so red, while walking and flying at the same time. If Mang Juan only knew what would happen to his son, would he still have chosen to work overseas?

And Nena. The slender and beautiful Nena. What really happened to her?

Despite these, we do not dwell on the sad stories, for we need to do it for the future of our families. That is why it is not surprising that our generation followed the footsteps of the one before us, and we also took our chances to find our luck beyond our shores. I have cousins who are in Saudi, Singapore, Macau and Canada. I have friends who are now in Australia, China, Middle East and here in America. We are like dust, blown by the wind and scattered to the different corners of the earth.

If I really think about it, only a few of my friends and especially my classmates stayed in the Philippines. The great majority left for foreign lands. Such a sad state for our country. And just like the song of Gloc-9, truly “Walang Natira.”

Eighteen years have I been living in the land of Uncle Sam. There are many things that have changed. I shed my carabao English as my tongue is not twisted anymore, and I can speak English now with an American diction. I don’t call somebody by saying “Psssst!” anymore, but I still turn around when somebody hollers “Hoy!” I now prefer spaghetti sauce that are somewhat sour like real Italian sauce, rather than the typical Pinoy sauce that is sweet. However I still like dried fish and salted eggs.

But there are things that still have not changed. My nose is still flat and I have no plans to have it changed. My color is still dark even if I don’t spend a lot of time under the sun anymore. My Tagalog is still impeccable. Still coursing in my veins is the noble blood of my ancestors. True, I left our homeland, but that does not mean my love for her has changed. Never a day passed that the country of my birth, have not brushed my mind.

One more thing: The new generation of our people still dreams of getting out of our native land. Would it ever change?

(*some names were changed).