Helpers of the world, unite and take over

The first person who embraced me at Heathrow Airport in October 2002 was not my mom or my dad – they were the ones who saw me off at NAIA 16 hours prior. The hug came from another woman, a former family employee. Ate Elena was once my yaya (like her sister Maria who was my sister Jazmin’s) among other roles in her 20 years of working for my family (very Marcos era minus the dictatorial rule). Being the youngest of the boys, I would be taunted by my brothers who would say that I was adopted and that my real mom was actually one of the household helpers, anyone who happened to be working for us at the time. I’m cool, it’s not like I got scarred emotionally and downed bottles of Fundador and slashed my puffy cheeks and stared blankly at the sky, crying and wondering why oh why…I could do more childish things than that, purely innocent gestures to compensate for the various relational displacements. One was puppy love. Being the baby in the family, I was well provided for, but somehow I wanted to compensate for this wealth of attention by projecting my own self-lack on the hapless creatures who would have lived longer or at least enjoyed their short existence in this world lest I had not taken custody of them. There was the hamster, the turtle, the Chinese chicken, also frogs, spiders and all sorts of finned creatures.

Interestingly, no puppies were involved in my childhood infatuations.

I eventually got tired of animals and moved on to humans, girls to start with. One at a time, hinay-hinay lang as my mom used to say when I got too gluttonous or takaw-mata. I wasn’t too sure about non-humans for a while…they were either vapid or hostile , or worse, lovelorn dogs who refuse to leave you alone. When you’re a kid you want a pinch of repulsion and square miles of private space. Anyway, my first puppy love of the human kind was one of our household help whom we’ll call Cecilia. Her fiery beauty was matched by an equally flaming tongue – that’s pretty much the only way she can make me eat my food and shut my trap at the same time. I tried not to fight fire with fire, I was much more subtle in my strategy: I gently raked through her lovely long hair, and when she was all cooing and sighing in pleasure, I painted the comb with Texas bubble gum and locked those follicles with glee and dread. She would wail as she tried to untangle the gooey mess. Her mother, the family labandera, instead of reprimanding me, targeted Cecilia and hysterically pulled the latter’s hair as if she were riding a rabid steed. I knew I won when I saw Cecilia’s mother pull a knife and slice through the triple decker of human hair, plastic comb and epoxy gum.

I was a wicked child, and now I’m sorry, Cecilia.

Six years after my natal day, Nora Aunor was awarded the Best Performer award for her performance in Atsay. From Nora Aunor’s website: "It was said that Vilma and her entourage walked out of the awards ceremony when Nora’s name was announced as the winner. Nora said at her acceptance speech, ‘Mali ang hula nila.’ In a recent article that came out regarding the 2002 Metro Manila Filmfest controversy, the incident between Atsay and Rubia Servios was again discussed. According to the article, a few days before the 1979 Metro Manila Filmfest Awards Night, Vilma Santos was a guest on Inday Badiday’s TV show. Among the guests that day were several psychics. Ate Luds asked them to predict who would win the acting award and everyone said Vilma Santos. Don’t know whether the psychics were being polite since Vilma was present or they just didn’t know how to read their crystal balls."

That’s why when Nora was announced the winner, she remarked, "Mali ang hula nila."

I adore Nora Aunor’s faint rebuff.

Echo the hundreds of thousands of domestic servants and overseas workers: Mali ang hula ninyo (Mga p***** #@&%!!). The false prophecy might pertain to the illusory rosy economic climate in the country.

The latest forecast now concerns the newfound glory of overseas workers abroad. One such winner is ate Elena, good friend and family. She was my stand-in nanay when I was living in England; she even proxied for the real thing during my degree show-exhibition at Goldsmiths.

In a letter she wrote last week, just hours before boarding the plane back to London: "I am Elena Micua, I come from a poor family in the town of Sta. Lucia, Ilocos Sur. My parents are only farmers. I have two sisters and four brothers. Dahil sa kahirapan hindi ako nakapag-college, that’s why I went to the city of Manila to find a job in order to support my siblings and my parents too. Pagkatapos ng mga five years ako’y nag-asawa at di nagtagal, minalas naman siya at binawian ng buhay ng maaga; sa madaling sabi I had a son. When my son was two years old, I went back again to Manila for his sake..

"Then one day I met my old friend and she convinced me to go abroad and recommended me to her employer’s friends at pinalad naman at nagustuhan nila ako. First we stayed in Kuwait because of the war, then my employers took me to Jordan. After two years of experience, they took me to London. Now I am still working for them. After five years in London the government gave me an "indefinite stay" status. Then I met and married an Englishman and got British citizenship. And thanks to God, because He gives everything I ask for, I feel happy because I have a very good husband. He is kind and understanding. He helps me in supporting my family."

Family is a word that is in the heart of every Filipino, both home and abroad. One time, while I was living in the university residence hall my mother phoned and asked why I did not have Filipino friends in London. Apart from the double fact that I was probably the only Filipino in Goldsmiths at the time (at least to my knowledge) and the first Filipino to be accepted in the Fine Arts program, the few Filipino students and professionals I met in London were the kind of snotty kids I entertained for a while in Manila and now have been trying to get away from. I don’t choose my friends for their gender, religion or nationality. It’s character, poise and audience impact – whatever his or her makeup is.

This Hail Mary full of Grace Kelly Filipinas I met in the house of Ate Elena were mostly domestic helpers working at the posh houses in Sloane Square, Notting Hill or Knightsbridge. Like ladies who lunch, the brilliant atsays possess a quiet but self-assured elegance. Very old school breeding. Unlike ‘dem grand dames though, these women are not in their home countries tending to their own households and children but away in strange and oftentimes inhospitable kingdoms. Away, says the atsay! And in her flight others would fall prey.

Artists Vanessa Beecroft and Ugo Rondinone could collaborate on an art piece involving Filipina domestic helpers. Customize their uniforms into hard-edged and cruel battle gear, a cross between Alexander McQueen’s screaming valkyries and Santiago Sierra’s exploited slaves. Block them into submissive positions, holding not basahans but kutsilyos. Cue Mona Lisa smiles.

What a funny picture to send with a balikbayan box!

After busying herself for two months with preparations for her only child Allan’s wedding in Manila, ate Elena beamed a different kind of smile. A smile one fourth-filled with pain and three fourths of joy, courage and pride.

A simple thanks to the ate Elenas of the third world. You may not know it but you have taken over much of this universe.