My Mama Tutu

MANILA, Philippines - Since as far as I can remember, Marichu “Manay Ichu” Maceda has been the epitome of unyielding class. She loves conducting herself in a dignified, almost stately manner that puts her within esteemed company of regals, monarchs, possibly even queens. My grandfather, Lolo Pinggot, would always tell his seven children, including my mom and her sister, known to many as Manay Gina, to “learn how to eat with paupers and walk with kings.” Well, Manay Ichu was the living embodiment of that — a woman with ceremonious flair who could turn on both the hoi polloi and the glitterati at any given minute.

While having enjoyed some time in the political limelight herself, as her grandfather and eventually my mom and my dad JDV did, she often saw herself vacillating between well-wishes and philosophical contempt for the country’s top political leaders. She was always either a crusader or a political cohort — never a bystander and never in between. In all aspects of her life, however, that had the potential to go awry, her hair was the exception — neatly draped or tucked depending on the occasion, and possibly the only thing in her life that was never in a state of duress. It’s kind of how you would never encounter Imelda Marcos or Princess Leia, pre-Return of Jedi, looking disheveled or with their buns undone. Manay Ichu always looks so put together.

She is also perpetually absorbed into some form of arts and crafts, whether it be piecing together photos or souvenirs for a scrapbook, crafting necklaces, making personalized nametags, or weaving together thoughtful floral arrangements for family events. She seems to handle her crafts with thoughtfulness in the same manner that a geisha would her fanfare and tea ceremony. Like a regal, she always wears a uniform, the spectrum of which scaling only from red to black. Seeing her in any other color might mean that you’ve gone mad or that the Mayans were right and it’s the end of the world.

The eldest of seven siblings, Manay Ichu has always had this keen sense of wisdom and understanding that belie her years as Manila’s most effervescent debutante back in the day, eventually the wife of a statesman, doting mother of five and grandmother of 10, and bosom friend to the showbiz elite. And yet, despite her cadre and table of achievements, she is that sister of mom’s who would often have us record her TV shows on VHS when we’re abroad, who would give us lessons on fine dining over caviar cake and glasses of wine and then instruct us on how to act accordingly in public situations.

She’d be that sister of mom’s who would give us rules and restrictions on how to behave in out-of-the-country trips, on how not to be pilfered from by gypsies at a train station (but would herself be the very first one to fall victim), or who, right before she sleeps, would mount a piece of scotch tape between her brows to prevent wrinkling.

Yes, in as much as she had her wisdom and élan, she also had her endearing absurdities. In the same manner that she is that sister of mom’s, she is also, well, that sister of mom’s. I lovingly call her “Mama Tutu” — tutu being the Hawaiian word for grandmother, which is what her grandkids enjoy calling her. The namesake has likewise spilled over to her other nephews and nieces.

“You’re such a dumbie!” she would exclaim after any of us would commit the slightest error, or utter the silliest thing. Look “dumbie” up in the dictionary and you’re likely to find … nothing. It’s the one word that she originated that has become part and parcel of our clan’s lingua franca as adobo and laing have become staples of our Sunday lunch.

On occasion, she would brandish a toy for my lil’ niece Isabella, and then later on, her lil’ sister Gabrielle, and conduct herself as though there had been a secret or fascinating back story that only she and the young ones shared. She was always the favorite of a Vera Perez child. She took care of them. She took them shopping. She sang to them. It made me look back at my own childhood spent with Mama Tutu. I don’t remember much but she would remind me on occasion.

Other than seeing her regularly on Sunday lunch at the Valencia Gardens, our family’s ancestral home, our bond had been created as early as when I was still a toddler rolling around in California. She would tell me years later, “Christopher, I used to make sipsip your uhog when you had sipon because you couldn’t breathe.” TMI = too much information. But it had been that very thought that created a bond between us almost immediately, in the same manner that she would pay a visit to my niece Isabella when she was younger, watch cartoons with her, and then take her shopping.

Nowadays, Mama Tutu and I bond, not over shopping sprees but over the lunch table, especially when we talk about JDV. Like her, my father is dignified and well-entrenched in Philippine society. And yet, like her, he had his many eccentricities (read: absurdities). He had a slew of telling anecdotes that Mama Tutu and I enjoy unearthing on several occasions. Like that time JDV experienced his first Christmas in Valencia, and he didn’t know how to act around these rambunctious in-laws of his. Or that he was astonished when he received a gift for the very first time in his life and didn’t know what to do with it. “Open the gift, Joe!” Mama Tutu said. Laughter erupts, Mama Tutu most likely spearheading it, and the ritual of Sunday lunch and storytelling at Valencia is as alive as ever.

Recapitulating these stories as though we were hearing it for the first time is what brought me closer to Mama Tutu. In fact, the simple recollection of them — from childhood to adolescence — is what I look forward to the most when attending Sunday lunch. Such that a Sunday lunch without Mama Tutu making kwento seems rather, incomplete.

On the eve of her surprise party for her 70th birthday, orchestrated by her family and friends, I arrive not feeling so well because of a holiday flu that was brewing inside me, but astonished by the number of people who came out for Mama Tutu. I’m sure they had their own stories to tell of her; and perhaps to them, she is someone else — a daughter, a sister, a confidante, an ally, a political cohort, an ex-wife, or a friend.

I look around and see her friends and family getting kilig over the fact that Tito Ernie, the man who fathered her five sons, said sorry for all those times he disappointed her when they were still together. I see her five talented boys, Manoy Snookie, Manoy Erwin, Manoy Ernest, Manoy Edward and Manoy Edmond, with their growing families, each besting each other on who would give the most rousing and heartwarming performance (and who is, in fact, the favorite). I hear the testimonies of her closest friends, her family members, and then witness the video retrospective for Mama Tutu, from her childhood to present.

While it reified the fact that Mama Tutu was indeed, an extraordinary lady, it was also telling of a beautiful life well-lived. At 70, surrounded by her growing immediate family, her extended family, and her friends who have, in a way, become family, the smile on Mama Tutu’s face couldn’t have been any wider. This was a woman who was happy and couldn’t ask for anything more.

Happy birthday, Mama Tutu! I love you. Love, one of your many dumbies.