Some people say that birthday celebrators are prone to accidents and pneumonia. I never bought this crap. What I do know is I become "senti", and introspective and insanely quiet on my birthday. I talk all year round without shame and guilt. On Oct. 29, I become still like an ancient pyramid.
Everytime someone asks me how old I am, I actually cringe for a few seconds like a blushing, confused beauty contestant who is sure to lose. Yes, when pushed against ignominy. I lie. I actually whisper an age lower than 35. I whisper for dramatic impact, acting like a coy virgin, clueless how the impertinent interrogator would react. Some would actually believe my hilarious lie, others would mercilessly bash my face with, "What? You seem to have been in this world forever," implying that I could not be anywhere far from being 70. In a situation like this, I invoke my mangkukulam ancestors to protect me from further harm from mangkukulam strangers who poison the air by accusing me of being older than 35.
But why do I make a fuss about age? Everybody is going to be old anyway. But I must admit I have become defensive about my age because I don’t and will never feel older than when I celebrated my 20th birthday under the moon, in the company of malnourished trees, wrapped in the comfort of the darkness of the Mehan Garden behind the Metropolitan Theater, in the fine dining turo-turo of the late Ata, the culinary master of Liwasang Bonifacio. It was a splendid night. The moon danced, the trees sang, the darkness watched and my friends in Lawton celebrated. It was a feast like no other.
Is it growing old that I am afraid of? Is it growing old and gay that I fear? Maybe, yes. Maybe, no. Why should I quiver in trepidation at the thought of being a lola, when I have lived a full life, when I made the best out of miserable beginnings, when I have been good to my fellowmen (who too will grow old)? Why should I be afraid – when one can grow old and fabulous? But then, why shouldn’t I be afraid – when I see gay nymphets scorn and deride aging lolas who walk flirtatiously the frenzied alleys of Malate? People are not kind to worn out gay prostitutes. But that’s a long time from now. Maybe, by then, some would have invented a pill that would cure fear of old age.
On second thought really, it’s good to grow old. It can be fun. I never thought being 35 and being a shameful liar would be fun. Anyway, it’s not the number of years that matters, it’s the mileage. Who said poetry does not save lives? It does. Read Maya Angelou. She doesn’t only empower, she makes you ageless.
Just like Awards Nights (that is if you’re a winner!), birthdays make you grateful to the people who have been nice and nasty to us in this journey called life. The nice ones make us smile; the nasty make us stronger. I had a lot of both in my life. But I am willing to have more nice ones. Life is good; there were those who were nice and kind for no reason at all. And they matter the most. Just as there are people who are nasty for the sake of being painfully nasty. But as someone said, there is no one you can’t trust, no one you can’t love, no one you can’t forgive. And oftentimes you’re talking about yourself.
Today, I celebrate and pray, not so much for myself, because God has been so generous, that I feel terribly spoiled, but for Nanay to be healthy, for my nephew Jake to have the best future, for my family to be happy, for Bong to be more patient with an imbecile like me, for my friends to have enduring love for giving their hearts to a harassed, stressed-out social climber-friend. And God, just don’t take away from me the power to laugh even at times when I’m expected to cry and crawl.
The great Oprah Winfrey once said that as you celebrate your birthday you can decide either to end your greatest days or begin your finest hours.
The choice is obvious. It’s simply saying that Lola Oprah is also growing old – but she remains inspiring and fabulous.
Today, with a slight fever, I dream on!
Thank you to all.