The golden ticket
It official: we’ve totally effed the world with too much Aqua Net and limos. Whereas global warming was then a fear, it is now an everyday reality. Indian summer in February may seem that the Mayans were right with their predictions. It is melting everything, except for my writer’s block.
My Air Cheapo (my cheap aircon that’s aiding in this global massacre… I’m getting a ceiling fan installed, okay? Lesson learned!) can’t even cool my bedroom anymore. DVD marathons are now accompanied by a sauna function, rendering me useless for such extreme workouts like Pilates and Power Plates.
So now that we know the world is in a permanent bad mood, what are we going to do with our country? May is total game time, folks. If you’re not registered… shame on you. This is perhaps the most important election ever. Now this is not me trying to endorse a candidate. I guess you can say politics is in my blood. And if you are a cynic who thinks that whatever happens, the country is headed for an Amy Winehouse-type nervous breakdown, elections still matter. I know it’s natural to doubt it, like doubting anyone who has gold teeth. But people, give it a chance.
When I was a kid I was a very willing puppet for my parents. The world of showbiz had rejected me at the age of six. So I decided to find another stage: the political stage. Back then, showbiz wasn’t yet a convenient substitute for something we call school to become a senator. I mean, seriously: remember HRE Caligula? He made his favorite horse into a senator. So I love how history can sometimes repeat itself so inventively and entertainingly. (My Pomeranian is named Caligula.)
Anyway, I begged them to let me dance to my dad’s jingle, to the chagrin of the voting public. My quadriplegic performance drew more pity than endearment, but I guess I now know where those sympathy votes came from. For my dad’s first term, I was seven and I was told I was going to be a Fancy Ball Queen in Iloilo. It was a contribution to the city; it’s not about birthright but a charity thing. Nevertheless, I had started having a very abnormal obsession with Princess Diana, so I adopted a British accent and called my dad’s constituents my “subjects.” Not even the velocity of my mother’s iron fist could stop me. I was queen! The following year I had to give up my crown and I literally had a bitchfest with my successor in the Plaza of Jaro. My mother was horrified and my father amused as I held on to my crown with determined hands and kicking feet. Yes, I had that special something already at that age. Whatever it was, it wasn’t grace.
Through all the pageantry that distracted me as a child — which is what also distracts a nation during election season, I find — my belief in the political system lies with the three most influential people in my life: my mother, my father and my grandfather.
My grandfather lived it all his life. He was so hands-on in keeping the nation sanitized that he would even take buses and check if the public transportation system was not gypping the public. One day he caught a conductor stealing and he sent the conductor to jail, and fed his family while their breadwinner was doing time. This was just a random check; imagine what he did in his everyday life! He lived frugally and his self-denial was a benchmark of his solidarity with the people. Whatever he did in the Palace and his multiple terms in the Senate, he practiced at home. We had a long dinner table where family members and the entire household staff ate together. There was no divide. My father told me a story that once my grandfather decided to treat him at Waldorf Astoria for a state visit. Refusing to sponge off the government, he asked for the set lunch. “I’ll have the entrée, my son will have the salad and for dessert we’ll figure it out later.” Fair was fair except my dad found salads as appetizing as toenails.
Mom and Dad made a good team at home and in Guimaras. My mother was a fashion model, later an item of admiration of actor Michael Caine, during his Alfie days. This was a very big deal to me. It may have overshadowed the many things she did in her tenure as a public servant. She got into it as a supportive wife; she believed my fun-loving dad had more in him. Politics made my father a compassionate man, and although I knew deep inside the Hermés he was a true proletariat. He had this thing where he didn’t really dig rich people and said stupid things to them just make things unnecessarily uncomfortable. But to the real people, as he calls the less delusional populace, he was all heart. He remembered their birthdays. Also, he was too honest for the game. He said what he wanted and didn’t care. Not in a crazy attention-whore kind of way, like some senators are doing. That was just the way he was. People still remember him to this day for his liberal mouth. He added a lot of laughter to the session halls, for taking the stiffness of congress and helping to make it more approachable. His artless ways had a refreshing candor.
My mother was admirable and I saw her work in close proximity. Never in my life have I seen someone work so hard, tirelessly and almost blindly, to send other peoples children to college and feed families. Her one amazing trait was that she remembered people’s names. It was almost scary how she did it. It wasn’t the Anna Wintour assistant-whisperer kind of thing; she just was involved with each person she was assisting. She even knew the names of the kids. She lifted a forgotten province called Guimaras into a brand name for fine mangoes and fabulous diving getaways. She told me that Congress was not as rewarding as being governor — not because it didn’t matter; it was because she just liked working with people and seeing results before her eyes. Like me, she has a Polaroid personality. That’s why I am in the newspaper business.
She was so diplomatic and graceful that next to my dad, they both augmented each other’s unique talents. I may have my gray areas when it comes to them in my personal life (curfew being a chief complaint in my early days) but I love them as politicians. One thing all three showed me was that politics can still change people. It can still inspire. Their work is what makes me vote. Sure we’ve had a bit of rough patch, but this is the time we can actually have a president we can love and not coup on. It’s our choice, if you haven’t noticed.
Last Sunday I had a writer’s meeting and one of my friend’s asked “Do you think you’re nationalistic?” Of course. The Boyfriend came up with the best answer: “I’m optimistic”.
So it begs the question: Who gets your golden ticket?
