True or false
August 13, 2006 | 12:00am
One of the most fun games I’ve ever played with a group is this game called Two Truths, One False. It’s not a very good title for a game – it’s much too obvious and doesn’t really sound right! – but it is what it is. All you have to do when your turn comes is to give two truths and one false statement about yourself. The people in the group then must guess which is the lie.
Here are mine:
1) In 1986, during the People Power Revolution (I was 15), my best friend Lisa and I were at Camp Crame in the teeming crowd. We had finally gone, together with my father, who was busy buying cigarettes for the soldiers, and my mother, who, in typical fashion, stayed in the car while it was parked along Santolan. We were in school early that day, but they eventually sent us home. As soon as we were fetched (we were often at each other’s homes), we went straight to the palengke and bought supplies. Lisa and I spent the afternoon cooking munggo and pancit to bring to the soldiers.
Due to the jostling in the crowd, we lost my dad, but I had been trained well on what to do when lost. My parents were paranoid about such things. I knew that all I needed to do was stay in the exact same spot until he would find us. The idea that we could possibly be in any kind of danger seemed impossible at 15.
Freddie Aguilar came on stage where many showbiz personalities were singing and performing to buoy up the audience and keep them from heading home. We were in the first row, so I could hear the people in charge making decisions as to which singer would be next or what number would be next.
After a while, I could hear Freddie saying he needed someone to deliver a message to the forces stationed at Camp Aguinaldo. No one wanted to go and leave the safe haven at Camp Crame. In spite of the palpable sense of victory in the air, they knew they could still be arrested, killed or picked up by enemy forces. Freddie sat on his haunches and searched the crowd. Freddie, as you know, has beautiful, piercing eyes. Much like a visionary, his eyes roamed the crowd looking for a possible messenger. He sat there, completely calm and contained, certain that someone would be up to the task.
Something about the moment made me want to step up to the plate; without Lisa knowing it, I had raised my hand to volunteer us both. Freddie looked at me and must have asked himself if we were trustworthy. I noted that we were in our school uniforms, as if that very fact proved our good intentions. He made us write down our names and phone numbers on a piece of paper. He handed me a letter, told me to look for Mr. So-and-So along the gate of the camp. He asked us to do our best to make sure that the message was delivered safely to his hands.
But here’s the funny part: more than being afraid of holding that message in my hands, crossing a great distance to the camp, the possibility that I would fail in my mission and history would never be the same again, I was more afraid of leaving my spot and of never being found by my father again.
2) When I was in Grade 5, our teacher told us that visitors would come to our classroom to look for singers. These visitors, she said, were from a big recording company and were looking for new talent. Each classroom would then hold a competition and choose a representative to compete with other reps from other classes. In our class that simply meant either me, or another classmate named Gloria.
This was when I was young, and so therefore completely fearless. The contest took three rounds. In the first round, I sang Where Is Love from the musical Oliver. This was always my competition piece, and I sang it well because the song is perfect for my range. In the second round, I sang Somewhere Over the Rainbow from the movie The Wizard of Oz. This was, and is, a difficult song to sing, so I gave it my all.
In the final round, only Gloria and I remained, just as the class had predicted. Like me, Gloria was a fierce competitor. What added to the fearlessness of the moment was that she was one of my best friends. We were alike in many ways: we both came from artistic families; we were both misfits at school; we were both soaring sopranos. Something about her being my opponent made it more like a game. Often, at the end of class, we would wait for our sundo singing songs to each other! Losing to her would not have been a problem.
For the final round, I sang People from the movie Funny Girl. I think that’s what spelled the difference. I don’t think the judges were prepared to hear a 10-year-old sing such an old song. I eventually won the contest, won a recording contract and recorded children’s songs that came out on tapes. It took me a little less than a year to record around 50 children’s songs. If you’ve ever been to a children’s party, a tape of children’s songs is sure to be playing. That could be me singing Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes.
3) In the early ’80s, my brothers often came home to perform at the Cultural Center of the Philippines in between their studies. These were always major family events, and our ordinary lives were put on hold with the arrival of my brothers. My sisters and I would not go to school for weeks and, instead, would attend rehearsals. The highlight was not really skipping school, and neither was it listening to classical music. The real highlight was being able to eat at Aristocrat along Roxas Blvd. Our family lived in Malate for a decade, so being in the area, visiting our old haunts, was always pleasurable.
A week before the concert, my mother would take us to Shoe Mart along another boulevard, this time Aurora, and buy us our concert clothes. This was indeed another highlight. Our brothers would perform in coattails or the finest barong tagalog. We wanted to look just as chic, after all.
But there was another highlight. At these concerts, Madame Imelda would always make sure to come. You could feel her electric presence as soon as she entered the lobby of the CCP. Photographers would click away, and her gown would catch the flash of camera and magnify the light that always seemed to surround her. She would sweep in with such drama, and I lived for the moment when she would come to the family and kiss us all. It really felt as if some of her magic remained with me.
One night, she invited the family to have dinner at Malacañang. Oh, we were excited beyond belief. We were in a convoy so we could see her limousine. The Palace gates opened and did not stop our old van from entering. We stepped out of the van, and was I ever happy that the dress I had on was grown-up and mature! I remember walking down the hall where the portraits of all the presidents were hanging. The chandeliers seemed huge and the opulence of it all took my breath away.
Suddenly, we were in an elevator. I was surprised that such an old building could have such a contraption. I didn’t know what to expect, but I knew my life would never be the same. The doors opened and the hall was dark. We could see lights darting to and fro, but I wasn’t sure what that was all about. My mother’s hand lay in mine, and we entered unsure if we had come to the right place. My father, a few steps ahead of us, disappeared into the darkness of the room. We followed and, as my eyes adjusted, I couldn’t believe it: lo and behold, it was a disco.
At the center was a strobe light causing the darts of light we had seen from the elevator. Cabinet members and their wives were dancing to ’60s or maybe ’70s music. Strung on the ceiling were Valentine decorations of angels and hearts. And there in the middle danced the Queen.
So, there they are. My two truths and one lie. It is certainly true that one learns much about a person by what one believes to be the truth and even in the rendering of the truth. But far more interesting, perhaps, are the lies we spin and keep.
If you want to know the truth, you can reach me at Rica.Santos@gmail.com
Here are mine:
1) In 1986, during the People Power Revolution (I was 15), my best friend Lisa and I were at Camp Crame in the teeming crowd. We had finally gone, together with my father, who was busy buying cigarettes for the soldiers, and my mother, who, in typical fashion, stayed in the car while it was parked along Santolan. We were in school early that day, but they eventually sent us home. As soon as we were fetched (we were often at each other’s homes), we went straight to the palengke and bought supplies. Lisa and I spent the afternoon cooking munggo and pancit to bring to the soldiers.
Due to the jostling in the crowd, we lost my dad, but I had been trained well on what to do when lost. My parents were paranoid about such things. I knew that all I needed to do was stay in the exact same spot until he would find us. The idea that we could possibly be in any kind of danger seemed impossible at 15.
Freddie Aguilar came on stage where many showbiz personalities were singing and performing to buoy up the audience and keep them from heading home. We were in the first row, so I could hear the people in charge making decisions as to which singer would be next or what number would be next.
After a while, I could hear Freddie saying he needed someone to deliver a message to the forces stationed at Camp Aguinaldo. No one wanted to go and leave the safe haven at Camp Crame. In spite of the palpable sense of victory in the air, they knew they could still be arrested, killed or picked up by enemy forces. Freddie sat on his haunches and searched the crowd. Freddie, as you know, has beautiful, piercing eyes. Much like a visionary, his eyes roamed the crowd looking for a possible messenger. He sat there, completely calm and contained, certain that someone would be up to the task.
Something about the moment made me want to step up to the plate; without Lisa knowing it, I had raised my hand to volunteer us both. Freddie looked at me and must have asked himself if we were trustworthy. I noted that we were in our school uniforms, as if that very fact proved our good intentions. He made us write down our names and phone numbers on a piece of paper. He handed me a letter, told me to look for Mr. So-and-So along the gate of the camp. He asked us to do our best to make sure that the message was delivered safely to his hands.
But here’s the funny part: more than being afraid of holding that message in my hands, crossing a great distance to the camp, the possibility that I would fail in my mission and history would never be the same again, I was more afraid of leaving my spot and of never being found by my father again.
2) When I was in Grade 5, our teacher told us that visitors would come to our classroom to look for singers. These visitors, she said, were from a big recording company and were looking for new talent. Each classroom would then hold a competition and choose a representative to compete with other reps from other classes. In our class that simply meant either me, or another classmate named Gloria.
This was when I was young, and so therefore completely fearless. The contest took three rounds. In the first round, I sang Where Is Love from the musical Oliver. This was always my competition piece, and I sang it well because the song is perfect for my range. In the second round, I sang Somewhere Over the Rainbow from the movie The Wizard of Oz. This was, and is, a difficult song to sing, so I gave it my all.
In the final round, only Gloria and I remained, just as the class had predicted. Like me, Gloria was a fierce competitor. What added to the fearlessness of the moment was that she was one of my best friends. We were alike in many ways: we both came from artistic families; we were both misfits at school; we were both soaring sopranos. Something about her being my opponent made it more like a game. Often, at the end of class, we would wait for our sundo singing songs to each other! Losing to her would not have been a problem.
For the final round, I sang People from the movie Funny Girl. I think that’s what spelled the difference. I don’t think the judges were prepared to hear a 10-year-old sing such an old song. I eventually won the contest, won a recording contract and recorded children’s songs that came out on tapes. It took me a little less than a year to record around 50 children’s songs. If you’ve ever been to a children’s party, a tape of children’s songs is sure to be playing. That could be me singing Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes.
3) In the early ’80s, my brothers often came home to perform at the Cultural Center of the Philippines in between their studies. These were always major family events, and our ordinary lives were put on hold with the arrival of my brothers. My sisters and I would not go to school for weeks and, instead, would attend rehearsals. The highlight was not really skipping school, and neither was it listening to classical music. The real highlight was being able to eat at Aristocrat along Roxas Blvd. Our family lived in Malate for a decade, so being in the area, visiting our old haunts, was always pleasurable.
A week before the concert, my mother would take us to Shoe Mart along another boulevard, this time Aurora, and buy us our concert clothes. This was indeed another highlight. Our brothers would perform in coattails or the finest barong tagalog. We wanted to look just as chic, after all.
But there was another highlight. At these concerts, Madame Imelda would always make sure to come. You could feel her electric presence as soon as she entered the lobby of the CCP. Photographers would click away, and her gown would catch the flash of camera and magnify the light that always seemed to surround her. She would sweep in with such drama, and I lived for the moment when she would come to the family and kiss us all. It really felt as if some of her magic remained with me.
One night, she invited the family to have dinner at Malacañang. Oh, we were excited beyond belief. We were in a convoy so we could see her limousine. The Palace gates opened and did not stop our old van from entering. We stepped out of the van, and was I ever happy that the dress I had on was grown-up and mature! I remember walking down the hall where the portraits of all the presidents were hanging. The chandeliers seemed huge and the opulence of it all took my breath away.
Suddenly, we were in an elevator. I was surprised that such an old building could have such a contraption. I didn’t know what to expect, but I knew my life would never be the same. The doors opened and the hall was dark. We could see lights darting to and fro, but I wasn’t sure what that was all about. My mother’s hand lay in mine, and we entered unsure if we had come to the right place. My father, a few steps ahead of us, disappeared into the darkness of the room. We followed and, as my eyes adjusted, I couldn’t believe it: lo and behold, it was a disco.
At the center was a strobe light causing the darts of light we had seen from the elevator. Cabinet members and their wives were dancing to ’60s or maybe ’70s music. Strung on the ceiling were Valentine decorations of angels and hearts. And there in the middle danced the Queen.
So, there they are. My two truths and one lie. It is certainly true that one learns much about a person by what one believes to be the truth and even in the rendering of the truth. But far more interesting, perhaps, are the lies we spin and keep.
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