Of Smokes, Sand in Pillows and Mangoes

Of Smokes, Sand in Pillows and Mangoes

Written for a book in commemoration of the Career Executive Service Board's 40th Anniversary

Published November 2013 

 

 

In Barangay San Gabriel in Laurel, Batangas, I spent four days and three nights in the home of Pacing, a widow with five grown children.  Pacing or “Nanay” was a dark, frail woman with short, dry hair who looked older than her age.  She smoked cigarettes she hand-rolled herself, from plants she had raised, and she was amused to find out that I was a smoker myself, with branded cigarettes at that.  We both loved coffee – while I had my 3-in-1 mix, she heated water for her “kapeng barako” in a beat-up kettle over firewood.  She asked me if I wanted sugar for my coffee; I politely replied, “Hindi na po ‘Nay, may asukal na po ‘yan.”

 

Dinner for all of us was one can of sardines, because as soon as I arrived at their home that night, I ate the sliced mangoes on top of their table.  From the loud whispering I overheard later, I learned that the mangoes were supposed to have been part of dinner.  Nanay put me up in one of the two bedrooms in their home, with a 'papag', no sheets nor blanket, just a pillow filled with sand.  I nearly toppled over from the pillow's weight.  Sand, in pillows.

 

Nanay did not want to sleep with me on the 'papag', even at my prodding, and slept on the floor instead.  She insisted that I was a visitor and I was to be treated with the utmost respect.  There was no toilet; Nanay and the boys had to use the common facilities provided by the Local Government Unit for the Barangay.  Taking a decent bath and responding to the call of nature were a struggle, and Nanay had to ask favors from more fortunate neighbors who had restrooms of their own to give me that luxury.  I counted only about seven houses with restrooms in the barangay.  Nanay also borrowed money from her daughter to buy fish which she then partitioned for each meal I had during my stay.  I spent my nights just talking to Nanay, her boys, her neighbors, then writing in my journal.  I learned from these conversations, among other things, how Nanay and the boys got by.

 

Nanay and the boys did quarrying and 'nagkakahoy' for a living, filling small trucks with aggregates available in some areas of the barangay, and being paid 150 pesos for each truckload.  Occasionally they would carry logs from the mountains and they would be paid only 10 to 15 pesos per yard by the middleman.  Agriculture was not an option in Barangay San Gabriel; the land was barren.  Being in the field of agrarian reform, I found that odd.

 

I offered to go to work with them to the quarry the following day.  Her boys laughed, but I told them I could handle it.  The boys then proceeded to show me the shovel they use to quarry sand.  It was twice my height.  I ended up watching them work, instead.  If I’d attempted to use the shovel, I would’ve probably keeled over and died.

 

Every morning our group would meet at the barangay hall to work on our assignments and compare notes.  These meetings frequently became 'tsismis' sessions about our homes.  One thing we all had in common: we were all starving.  The food vendors had a field day whenever we converged in the hall.  Once, I asked Nanay to buy a liter of Coke, pretending I was craving for soft drinks, but in fact I needed the sugar to keep my energy high.  I needed to eat properly when Nanay could not even feed her own family.  The soda arrived in time before I could faint, thank God.  Nanay kept the liter of soda under my bed for the rest of my stay.  I offered to share it with them, but deprived as they were, they did not take advantage of my generosity.

 

One afternoon, Nanay brought me to a makeshift church, which consisted of a beautiful altar carved into a cave hidden away in the barangay, and where they had mass whenever a priest was available.  On the long walk to the church Nanay told me how her husband died.  He was an alcoholic who fell ill, but the family could not afford to take him to a decent hospital, and so they just waited for the end to come.  Nanay told me all this in such a matter-of-fact way that I just had to look in her eyes for a bit of sadness there. I saw resignation.

 

Many among us who went through the same course have similar stories of the hardships of families in barangays long forgotten.  My own experience in Barangay San Gabriel taught me a few lessons I will never forget.

 

First: I do not have the right to complain.  Air-conditioning not working? Nanay did not have a fan.  Too tired to cook?  Nanay barely had anything to cook.  Dirty water from pipes in my house?  Nanay had no running water in her house.  Having to wait a long time at my doctor’s office for a minor cough?  Nanay couldn’t even bring her dying husband to one.  Simple things that annoy me are not half as bad as what Nanay had to deal with every day.

 

Second:  I should work harder so that the poverty in barangays like San Gabriel would no longer exist, and make it my mission in life to make sure that no other Nanay out there would not know what 3-in-1 coffee is, or rely on plain mangoes alone for a decent meal.  I would lobby every politician I know to promise that they would not let Nanay’s life be the norm for their constituents.  I even called one of them while I was in Barangay San Gabriel.  “Wow, this CESO thing, whatever it is, is getting to you, Christianne,” he said.

 

Third:  I would remember Nanay each time I eat a spoonful of rice and wonder if they had rice at all to eat that day.  I would say a prayer for them.

 

I am a CESO now.  I am now part of a community that takes pride in serving people instead of being served.  Growing up in a political family, I was taught how to smile all the time, to greet and socialize with strangers who knew my name; to be able to blend well with all sorts of people.  It was good training for the job I have now, to be able to relate to farmers and understand their lives.  However, as much as I love being a CESO, I must be careful to not develop a sense of entitlement about it.  The prestige that comes with the rank of CESO is not so much as something to be enjoyed, but to be used for the betterment of the lives of those we serve.

 

In the end, as Nanay took me to the jeepney which would ferry me back to Development Academy of the Philippines to continue the Executive Leadership Program, with half a sack of mangoes as my 'pabaon'. I  welling up, and so was she.  Just as I and my colleagues were about to leave, Nanay grasped my hand through the window and said, “Hindi ka naming makakalimutan, anak” with tears in her eyes.  She turned away, without looking back, and went home.

 

I was crying uncontrollably by then.  I felt so sad and inadequate; I was so stupid to have let time pass and did not do more than I should have.  I had to do something.  There was this little voice in my head that kept insisting, “You should do more.”  What exactly was eating me up?

 

Now I know.  I was going home to my life of privilege, but Nanay went home with her dignity and self-respect intact.  I was in the jeepney, broken.  Hers was a life she was resigned to accept.  I had the knowledge and the power to afford Nanay choices.  I had been sent to live with Nanay for a reason: to prepare me, change me, for things greater than what I have been challenged to hold in the palm of my hand.  And I vowed to myself, looking at Nanay’s back as she was walking away, that I would do my very best to be a better leader, a better manager, a better person – and make inspired and meaningful decisions so that one day, with God’s grace, I will walk with the same dignity and self-respect as Nanay had.  As a true CESO should.