Home for Christmas - WHY AND WHY NOT by Nelson A. Navarro

I’ve had all kinds of Christmas, many in Manila and in New York, but none half as memorable or poignant as the ones I spent zillion moons ago as this promdi UP student making December flying visits to faraway Bukidnon.

Spending Christmas with the family was one entitlement my promdi generation couldn’t do without. Rich or poor, we believed there could be no fate worse than being alone and lonely in Yakal Residence Hall after all your dorm mates had flown home for the holidays.

And because the December break was always short and Mindanao seemed as far away as Africa, the rule was that smart set always flew and only the peons and cheapskates sailed.

This was ages before Sharon Cuneta made the Super Ferry seem like some kind of Filipino Love Boat. Only under duress and in disguise would any Mindanao-bound student find himself on one of those floating coffins. The humiliation lasted three nights and three days before disembarkation in dreary Cagayan de Oro, only for the torture to extend another day or more on the bumpy and dusty road up to the Central highlands.

Luckily, PAL long before the Lucio Tan era offered less expensive flights than those in the fancy Convairs or Fokkers. Those were the "Mercury" flights on creaky DC-3s, but you had to suffer canvass seats, deafening engine noise and grouchy stewardesses. They operated after sundown and often required a mosquito-ridden stopover in Cebu.

If PAL was out of seats or you wanted to save money, there were other airlines like FAST, Air Manila and Fairways, roughly the equivalent of today’s Cebu Pacific, Air Philippines and Asian Spirit. Last September, I happened to take Asian Spirit to Naga and had the eerie feeling I was on one of those Japanese-built YS-11s I’d taken way back in the mid-1960s. The pilot confirmed my suspicions, but insisted the plane was still "airworthy."

Going home for Christmas was, of course, essential to one’s personal ego and the family’s standing in promdi society. Those were the days when my hometown, Malaybalay, could boast of an airport of the rural missionary type. The big thrill of the day was to be there to see landings and take-offs.

Just before Christmas and right after the New Year, what passed for high society would be out in full force to meet or send off the young Manila-based geniuses. If you’d flunked some subjects or, worse, got booted out of school, this was one show-and-tell scene you absolutely had to miss.

The swellheads from UP always stood out. Only two or three Bukidnon kids a year could muster the right combination of good grades and adequate income to join the great Filipino lottery of life in Diliman. Ours was an upstart elite of teachers, professionals and landlords, few of whom could afford to send their kids to Manila’s exclusive Catholic schools. The net effect was idolatry for a U.P. diploma, especially because getting into the state university was tough and graduating (and on time) was even tougher.

If ever I gave my parents any consolation at all, it was the fact that I made it to UP and there earned my 15 seconds of fame. All the more I had to be home year after year, if only to serve as their very own trophy boy.

Money was tight but we managed. Dad made a good living as a dentist, although part of his income went down the drain because he dabbled in politics and fancied himself a reformist. Fortunately, he also bothered to develop a small ranch just outside town and Mom made it a point to sell ten head of cattle each time heavy tuition and travel bills had to be paid for.

As the eldest and first one to leave for college, I always had my way. "Don’t fight your Kuya," Mom would admonish my four siblings. "We don’t see him that often and one day he won’t come back anymore." It was a given that promdi boys never return after they’ve seen the bright lights of Manila.

My coming-home modus operandi had me running off to my friends and playmates as soon as I hit town. I wouldn’t even bother to unpack. I would come home very late or return the day after. But that was only to change clothes. My parents and siblings would only see me on the run.

The one thing I knew I couldn’t be excused from was family dinner or noche buena on Christmas Eve. But one time, I crossed the line. When I arrived very late into dinner, I was met with dead silence much more painful than harsh words. Christmas always dictated family peace at all costs.

I grounded myself the next day. Mom and I talked and talked, mostly about her youth in Batangas, her dream of becoming a lawyer and giving it up when she married. But that was not the end of her education. She never stopped reading and was unbeatable with crossword puzzles. At one point, she turned somber. "Son," she said in a pleading voice, "Every time you come home, please give me one whole day so I can just look at you. Just one day. And then you can spend the rest of your vacation with your friends."

What could I say? I remember mumbling gibberish and then the strange moment passed. I had absolutely no inkling that it was to be the last Christmas the two of us would ever share in this world.

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Nelson A. Navarro's e-mail address: [email protected]