All the way till May

Tradition is a good thing, family tradition even more so. It’s how all kids are schooled in the value of blood ties.  

Each year we get to assemble with our kindred at least once, in clan reunions held during the yearend holiday season. In our extended family’s case, it’s at least twice for the year, unless something unfortunate happens, when someone leaves ahead.

On Christmas Eve we gather at my aunt’s place in La Loma as we have done for decades. She’s been gone a year, my Tita Clarita whom I called Ninang, for that was what she was to me. The younger sister of my mom, she and Ninong (I was ring bearer at their wedding way back in 1950) always hosted the clan reunion a day before Christmas. My Mom and Dad played host exactly a week later, on New Year’s Eve, which also happened to be my Mom’s birthday.

Now all these old folks are gone. Only one sister remains, my Titang or Tita Nenita, as the sole surviving matriarch of a clan that has spawned at least three other succeeding generations since the Christmas and New Year get-together tradition started. Now we number about 60 or 70 when everyone’s in town, and all the newborns are brought to the party.

I can’t remember too many of the names of the third and fourth generations. But it’s their obligation to know who I am, as the oldest Tito or Lolo of the second generation, and to attempt to bring my hand to their foreheads. Depending on their size, I allow this to happen or wave the gesture off and initiate a high-five instead.

On Christmas Eve, we still conduct the party at my Ninong & Ninang’s place on Mayon St. in La Loma, a stone’s throw from the lechon makers and the old cockpit. Gifts are exchanged, paper bills pressed to the palms of the “kids,” especially those of the clan fringe or poorer relations who only show up at this one blessed time of the year.

A highlight of the reunion that the kids look forward to is the largesse or tossing of coins that provokes a wild scramble in the crowded sala, all the way to the stairwell. The larger the denomination, the more frenzied the scramble on all fours, at the constant risk of getting struck in the noggin by a fresh volley rained on the melee by the still relatively young aunts. 

One notices how one’s own kids, who were at the forefront of the scramble some years back, now stand casually at the back, content to pick up stray coins and pass these on to eager-beaver adolescents and those still in their teens. Toddlers, too, are held back from the central fray by their yayas, although they get their slim pickings, too.  

Absent this year were two entire families. Cousin Sonny who’s been staying in Houston finally had occasion to host his wife Marilu and their four grown-up kids for the holiday season. They were also due to meet up with his younger brother Rey and his small family in Washington D.C. before the year turned.

Despite these seven or eight cousins, nephews and nieces missing, it still seemed that the constantly growing broods were putting the old wooden house under severe pressure, especially during the half-hour scramble for coins, when it seemed to quake from floor to rafter.  

At least two young guys came in collared T-shirts with the RP map over the heart. One had it in yellow.

All these past weeks, I couldn’t help but note, each time I saw a Pinoy or Pinay wearing a similar tee, that a fresh sort of nationalism seems to be a-borning.

It goes beyond making a fashion statement or allowing for a hint of political affiliation. I’ve seen other lines of T-shirts that are being propagated in supermarket shelves or among tiangge stalls: with the faces of Rizal, Bonifacio, Aguinaldo et al. as prominent chest display. Or the flags of the K.K.K. Or very simply the Philippine flag or its colors, which have also become a favorite staple among jackets.

And I see this new merchandise being snapped up, not only by balikbayans. Well, perhaps everyone has a balikbayan relative or buddy due up, and for whom it’ll serve as a gift. But no doubt they’re selling — no more so than that inspired idea of planting the craggy outline of our archipelago over the left breast. 

Of course we know that a certain presidential candidate has adopted this signature shirt — originally in black, with the map in yellow — for his electoral campaign. It’s also said that that signature tee was made especially for their grieving family. I understand that orders haven’t let up for that special edition that honored the memory of beloved Tita Cory, our grandest and gentlest matriarch. Those who can’t wait for their orders to be filled by the lucky manufacturer content themselves with other color combinations.

Are they all for Senator Mar who has his in standard blue and yellow? Are they all signifying that they’re for the Noy-Mar tandem, which seems a sure thing if the elections were held now? Maybe not. Maybe it’s not as direct an evidence of support for the frontrunners as that icon of a yellow ribbon that also adorns the orig T-shirt.

For there have been increasing numbers of copycat designs, and buyers can simply be expressing a love of country, or pride in the fact that Manny Pacquiao, Efren Peñaflorida, Arnel Pineda, Charice Pempengco and Wesley So all happen to carry that flag close to their breasts — whether it’s music, ringcraft, chess or street heroism that soothes the savage one of the world.

I choose to see and feel a surge of nationalism, in the wondrous guise of hope — hope that in the near future our more nefarious aspects of tradition will crumble. I think not all buyers and wearers of such RP-flag-adorned T-shirts and jackets will go yellow come May. But that a good percentage of these nationalistic fashionistas will do so — for there appears to be a correlation between loving that map, priding in it, and carrying that strong hope that things will change for the better for this craggy archipelago so close to our hearts.   

My cousin Marissa, here for her annual holidays from Dubai where she supervises a hospital, was all smiles when she approached me at the Christmas party. I was surprised to hear from her that she knew that I usually wore a yellow Noynoy wristband, which at that moment seemed absent. She expressed her desire to acquire one, said she had been all over Greenhills and other shopping centers, hoping to see a specimen that she could take back to Dubai this month. In fact she said she wanted quite a number, so she could distribute them among all the Pinay nurses, whose jubilation would be assured upon receipt of such a token gift as a Pinas souvenir.

“Bakit, kay Noynoy ba kayong lahat dun?” I asked, bemused.

“Oo, kuya,” she replied. “All the way till May.”

 “Talaga, ha? Walang atrasan?”

“Wala, kuya. Si Noynoy talaga dapat ang maging presidente. Nang magsimula naman ang pagbabagao.”

“Hmm,” I chortled like a patriarch. “Kakataba naman ng puso ’yang sinasabi mo.”

And with a grand gesture of benevolence, I told her she could have mine for the nonce, while proceeding to retrieve the desired object from my bag. 

 Marissa was beside herself with joy. “Best Christmas gift ko ito, kuya.” 

“Eh ’yan na talaga’ng Christmas gift mo mula sakin, ha-ha.”

Such is Pinoy tradition, a sharing of dispensable wealth, ha-ha, which for the most part is that growing glimmer of hope for a better future for the younger generations. The coin of hope is what we can toss their way, while confident that this early in the year, the national sentiment is overwhelmingly for the symbol of change apparently bequeathed us by heroic parentage, as well as fate.

I was glad to note that my expat cousin Marissa’s and my conversation triggered more expressions of support in that crowded sala, meaning along the same lines or towards the same direction. I knew my own two younger brothers here are for Noynoy and Mar, and not just because they’re following their kuya’s suit.

A recent weekend in Cebu brought forth the same acknowledgement from among a variety of Cebuanos I fell into conversation with — writer-friends, car drivers, waiters, hotel managers, bar girls, even a resort spa attendant.

“Kusog si Noynoy dinhi, ‘Nyor.” The reasons given were exactly the same. Whatever detractors say of his lack of experience, etc., he’s not going to tarnish his family’s name, and he gives hope for an administration that could be the exact opposite of what we’ve had.

“Hanggang Mayo po ’yan?”

Like my cousin, the Cebuanos I spoke to were one in replying: “All the way till May.”

Hooray for family, then.