Driven by my love for my child, my country and my wishful thoughts on the recently concluded presidential elections I was able to write a short story, Three-Week Philippine History in My Home. For me, writing it was a need to be fulfilled and an outlet – that I may breathe it out and emotionally unload, so to speak.  But then the article turned out to be so stirring, that it had apparently touched the hearts of its readers moving them to comment and react. Most of the comments are inspiring, encouraging me to be strong and be steadfast in inculcating our own culture to my children while growing up in this foreign land. Others made me feel insufficient about “painting the picture” and “not showing everything”. All these comments and reactions merited me deep reflection motivating me thus to write this sequel which I entitled… « A Lifetime Philippine History » .

Lhyanne’s down-heartening classroom experience had really put her down for several days. Her enthusiasm about “The Philippines” turned out to be like her favorite shooting star with that bright streak that had rapidly burned itself out. I silently watched her as she gathered the pile of undistributed pictures and put them in the trash bin. How my heart ached witnessing her as she painfully glanced at the objects she just threw away.

“Hey Lhyanne, did you know that there’s two more holidays left for this month? Isn’t that going to be fun, huh anak?”

Lhyanne is markedly less excited when she answered, “Ma, je n’ai pas l’école from May  12-14. Aussi, en vingt-quatre.”

“Wow, so that would mean a very long weekend for all of us!” I exclaimed with implied thrill in my voice while noting down the dates she mentioned. “What about watching movies, anak? Is there any new film that you want to watch? We could go to the cinema altogether on Thursday the 13^th. Your choice, hindi kokontra si Kuya, right Jeboy?” I asked my son who just entered the room along with his notebook that I have to sign.

“Yeah, right, Lhyanne. Ikaw ang boss ngayon, huwag lang Alice in Wonderland.”

“Whatever. Si tu peux, on va juste regarder ici. Mag-download na lang tayo sa Limewire,” my daughter replied as she stared sharply at his brother.

The three of us looked at the same direction as my husband came rushing next to me, grabbing the mouse from my hand and clicking an icon on the computer’s desktop. I asked him what he is doing.

“Mamaya ka na mag-work ma cherié, counting na ngayon sa Pinas. Panoorin natin kung sino ang nananalong president.”

I secretly pressed my foot hard onto my husband’s, warning him with a BIG NO written all over my face. Good heavens, he understood and excused himself to check the food in the oven. My son followed him at once.

I only thought it wasn’t the right time. Just not yet. I knew I could not shield my daughter forever from the harsh realities for she will soon confront the real world but I wanted her to discover gradually why Philippines had become what it had become. I could feel that she is still in that “well of disappointment”. Mentioning Philippine elections to her will only trigger her frustration. Breaking it all at once would torment her young mind. I certainly would not want my child turning her back on our homeland.

After few days of contemplating, that very morning of Ascension holiday, I found myself confronting my daughter’s teacher over a cup of coffee. I let him decide on which language are we going to talk. He chose English.

“Madame Rayray, it is not as you think I did. I have never seen my class as lively as that day when Lhyanne had her exposition. Everybody participated. Everybody had a question that I had to help her in answering these questions,” he lengthily explained as I accused him of forgetting his role as a classroom teacher.

“Well, then, you shouldn’t have missed to point out that every country has its own highs and lows. Corruption in the government is universal, even here,” I paused, “You know that, don’t you?”

“I am sorry. I realized where I gotten short of explanation. It’s now clear to me that the pressure of her classmates’ reaction affected her so much. Last Monday, she was sad and she isolated herself from her friends and I swear, I spoke to her and did my best to make her feel okay. I also asked her classmates to stop talking about the exposition, made it clear to them that Philippines is not the only country in the world with a corrupt government. My class made a pact to cheer Lhyanne up.”

“That isn’t enough,” I interrupted him.

“Trust me with this, Madame, I will make up to bring back her spirits. Je vous promets,” he assured me.

It was a bold act, I knew. Interrogating a French, and a teacher at that could be so tiresome and interminable knowing that these people love arguments. I was just lucky that he opted us to converse in English. I had plainly explained myself as a mother and expressed my feelings towards my child’s situation which made him promised what I wanted him to do in the first place. Otherwise, I could have been caught-off-guard, grasping for words which could get so embarrassing and exasperating.

 

We’ve had time bonding for family picnics and activities for the long weekend. I asked my employer for a day off on top of the holidays that I may spend more time with my children especially with Lhyanne. I brought her to different parks where our “kababayans” hang about whenever it’s nice out. There, she played volleyball with others and enjoyed the sun.

As she threw herself on the lushly matted grass of Bois de Boulogne park catching her breath, she uttered, “Ma, I met some friends,” her lips pointed at some children playing volleyball. “They don’t speak Tagalog at all.”

“Most probably they were born here,” I answered.

“But they’re Filipinos and they should know a bit of the language, don’t you think so, Ma? I mean, look at them, their skin shows they are one of us, but when they speak, they talk like one of these white people. Didn’t their parents teach them Tagalog?”

She delivered these lines – which I thought at first a joke – with a deadpan expression. I giggled but she maintained an air of calm patience that suggested she’s waiting for her words to sink in and to be answered by me. Slowly, I tried to digest her statement. I sensed my own panic. I quickly explained to her that this is very common in the community and that it is some parents’ choice. “Their integration here in France compels them to learn French and unknowingly they lose their supposedly mother tongue as time goes by,” I added. My daughter had always had this manner of questioning me in the sort of careful, soothing manner which indicates my answers are significant to her. Oftentimes, she catches me off-guard.

“Are we staying here, forever, Maman?” she asked after drinking from a bottled water. I lied down on the grass with my arms folded under my head and stared blankly at the clouds. “You see, Lhyanne… being together is everything. Our family is here – your aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents… almost all of them!  What matters is we are all here together. There’s lot out there whose families are left in the Philippines and are working very hard to support them or bring them here. We are lucky enough that we are complete. We can go visit Philippines anytime and when you grow up, you can always choose where to settle. Whatever that makes you happy, anak.”

With this illumination, I saw her nodded in approval while she pulled out a handful of grass. I sighed with relief.

She ran back to the group of children and rejoined them.  Somehow, I saw the usual glow gleaming back to her eyes. Deep in my heart, I knew my precious would make her way out of the “dark well”.

My son had homework on Greece economic crisis and while he searched the internet I explained to both of them that the world and not only the Philippines is faced with different problems. That unless, each one changes for the better the world shall meet its bleak future. I quoted one of the comments from my short story which had the Desiderata lines --  “Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” “You, as the youth of today are the hope of this world. The future lies in your hands,” I further added. My son, whom I’ve expected to crack jokes and make fun of my statements, was silent. What was he thinking, I deeply deliberated.

            I grabbed that rare opportunity to re-introduce Dr. Jose Rizal, Efren Penaflorida, Manny Pacquiao… to Noynoy Aquino narrating spontaneously careful not to break the spell. My children, my students for the time being, were so attentive, rousing me to direct the topic to them as I subtly locked the door behind me to prevent my husband from popping out and freeing my captives.

            “Jeboy, you are a chess national player here, anak. Your trophy collections make us proud. But it shouldn’t end there. You have to work harder especially with your studies. Would you not want to be one of them, and all of the Filipinos will be proud of you someday?”

            “Siyempre, gusto po,” he briefly answered and looked down to his feet.

            I turned to my daughter, “Lhyanne, what would you like to be when you grow up?”

            She looked up to our ceiling as if she could find an answer up there. And with her nose wrinkled and eyes enthused, she extensively elucidated in her infamous language and accent, “Ma, quand je serais grande, je veux être une artiste et une médicine. Do you wanna know why? Kasi po, gusto kong i-aider yung mga poor people na walang pera to pay a doctor and isi-save ko mga Pilipino from dying. Aussi, I want to be a pop singer and travel le monde and sing for the Filipinos na gaya natin qui vit dans d’autres pays so everybody will be happy. And Ma, I know what you’re going to say next, dapat  mag-aral kaming mabuti to reach our dreams…”

            Voila, my girl is back. I could not get any happier. Only few days had passed and my efforts gathered momentum. And so, the three of us reached a compromise.

 

On May 22, I unraveled a secret to her. I asked her to open her Facebook account and checked on my wall postings. I then instructed her to click on the link that directs to my article. She was stunned to see our picture together and read the story aloud. She reacted on each scene while constantly turning the swivel chair from left to right, different expressions interchangeably registering on her face. It never ceases to amaze me seeing her like this.

            “Maman, c’est quoi Munting Nayon ? »

            I sat up straight searching for words in my very limited French vocabulary inside my head. “Munting – is petite, which means “small” and “Nayon” … hmmm… attend…  “ville”, “village” or community, so that makes “small community”. Yes, “Munting Nayon” means “small community.” It’s a publication of write-ups and news about Philippines and Filipinos around the world so as to reunite us all despite the distance that separates us.”

            “And Ma, tu as une erreur là. Hindi ko sinabing « je lui déteste ». C’est « je le déteste » ce que j’ai dis.

            I laughed out loud to brush away my embarrassment, “That would do, anak, they sounded similar naman eh.”

On May 24, after watching the Musikmakers’ Concert which featured two Miss Saigon’s top performers, Leila Florentino and Stephanie Reese, we extended the lovely still-clear evening holding hands while walking along Avenue Rapp.

            “Aren’t they great, Lhyanne? Ang gagaling ng mga Filpino, ano anak? And there’s more. We are invited to join the flag ceremony and to watch cultural performances at the Embassy on June 12, for Independence Day which also would have an extended celebration on the 4^th of July at Stade de La Muette. There’s a lot in store for everybody! How do you like that?” I interrupted her from singing “On My Own” by Lea Salonga.

            She quickly turned to me with her chin up, left my question unanswered as she arrogantly said, “Maman, I am very proud, we are Filipinos!”

Last June 30, I felt my daughter approaching while I was undoing the laces of my sneakers. "Ma, I watched Noynoy kanina," she said, referring to the televised inaugural address of President Benigno Aquino III.

I sat up straight and grabbed her two hands while examining her eyes. "So how was it? How did it go?"

She sat on my lap, her nose wrinkled. "He spoke Tagalog. Ma, I would like to understand everything that he said. He kept on saying – “Ako rin! Ako rin!” My daughter’s brows met as she asked me, "Will he be able to change Philippines for the better?”

"We’ll see darling… Go turn on the computer and I'll follow after putting the groceries away."

Thus my daughter’s endless series of questions had just begun. . . Hint: Click at any image above to display it in its full size. Hover your mouse pointer over the full-size image and then click at any side arrow that appears or rotate your mousewheel to scroll to the next full-size image.

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