I've taken today and tomorrow off so I can accompany my son to his first two days of college life, mainly to make sure that he knows how to take public transportation to school and to go back home, and that he is well on his way to being more or less adequately settled and independent for this new phase in his young life. I see other parents like myself, patiently waiting for their wards, a bit annoyed by the sticky heat and humidity, but smug in the thought that they are around when needed. I think it is like this for mostly every young man and woman in our overprotective family culture.
I remember that well before my own initiation into college life, Mom made sure that I was sufficiently equipped to keep pace with other commuters each day, that I knew my final destinations, and that I took jeepneys with the correct signage on their windshields. She drilled me on these things, with almost military precision, going through the actual paces, the actual trips, so I could be familiar with the terrain. The breaks from training were, of course, our side trips to the movie houses, to indulge in her favorite activity. At times, I wondered if part of her eagerness to train me was because it provided her with the opportunity to indulge in her most favorite of pastimes. She was such a cinephile.
Not that I didn't myself enjoy those "celluloid breaks," because I in fact did. I loved walking with Mom along Escolta and Avenida Rizal; Azcarraga and Carriedo, too. Along the two former was more frequent. The first of the latter two was to go to movie houses like Dilson, Hollywood, Podmon, and to as far as Cinerama, at the corner with Quezon Boulevard. Such was Mom's stamina when it came to movies. She didn't socialize much, I mean, comparing her with the regular Filipino housewife who, I calculate, spends a fourth of their lives gossiping, I would say she lived a hermetic existence. She avoided pointless banter as much as possible, and when she got cornered by our nosy neighbors who literally barged into our home to gossip with her, she would lament at the day's end that she finished with her chores rather late due to someone's unwelcome insistence that they waste time together.
When I was about four or five, walking with Mom along Avenida or Azcarraga or Carriedo was always a treat. They were meccas of commerce, with every imaginable merchandise for sale, and people who hawk them. At times, out of sheer naivete, as we walked I picked up some of those small plastic toy trucks and cars that caught my fancy, or else a bundle of pastillas de leche or pastillas de langka. I truly thought I could do things like those, that the toys and pastillas were there for the taking. They weren't, of course, and the concerned tindera or tindero came running after us to inform Mom of my deed. I usually got a scolding right there and then on the sidewalk, and when Dad got home, Mom made sure he was fully briefed on the event. He was quite sure, though, that I didn't have the makings of a bank robber or a public enemy (or a politician, for that matter), hence, his often nonchalant reaction.
His nonchalance, however, was not to be mistaken for indifference. It was born of confidence, the kind he imparted to us children on our first day of school each year. He (and Mom, if circumstances permitted) would be present each first day of the school year, just to check on how we were doing. It was the kind of presence that saw us through our growing up years, the kind that made us feel that assurance and help were always nearby. Even as we now have our own lives, which may or may not be as what they have envisioned, looking back at their selfless act provides us with some measure of peace and some kind of hope. We feel compelled to pass this on to our own children, with the prayer that when the time comes, they too shall carry on with the "tradition," if I may refer to it as such. We are forever grateful.
