EDSA soirée

this is my first entry for the first round of LASANG PINOY. the first month launch centers around ninoy's death anniversary, august 21, which makes it but fitting to launch this monthly project on sunday, the 21st of august.

that day in 1983 changed the life of our nation 22 years ago. the sequence of the inevitable that culminated in the events of the first people power of february 1986, the first the world had ever seen of a revolution by the people won by prayer and peaceful demonstrations, would give filipinos something to be truly proud of after decades of humiliating decline on the world stage. for some strange reason, i will always look back at that time as one helluva street party catered by street vendors and ingenius entrepreneurs. it was probably one of the best parties i had ever attended in my whole life. 'til now. even after being part of edsa dos, which wasn't much of a party for me, as i never relished the thought of some midget fence-sitter aceding to power on the toil of a few good men and women.

it was 1986 and classes had been called off. my english teacher at the time had appeared on tv somewhere, kneeling in front of a tank, a rosary clasped in her tense hands, her face a mask of desperation and agony. and no wonder. she was only a few feet away from the first wave of tanks that marcos had ordered to disperse the huge crowd that had gathered at the edsa-ortigas intersection (grabe, wala pang flyover don, not to mention that weird looking golden statue of mama mary being pooped on by birds). she would later recount hearing the engines of the tanks coming closer until that excruciating moment when the engine died and she could see clearly the faces of the young soldiers who emerged from the tank's bowels. her face would become one of the most famous images of the revolution of the middle class against marcos, immortalised in the international news magazines at the time and the coffee table books that sprung up after marcos' ignominious exit to hawaii. it was a turning point, in a strange way, of the way i viewed her, too. that day her face was flashed all over the anti-marcos papers (it could have been malaya; inquirer was just like a tabloid at the time) i saw not just my 9th grade mrs badoy, but the fearless pura badoy, willing to face down tanks and use her booming voice --- not just in the classroom to discipline us high school brats --- but to compel hundreds of other frightened activists to get on their knees and pray the rosary with her.

in 1985 my dad was part of the CAPM, or the cory aquino for president movement that collected over a million signatures to convince cory to run for president. (in fact, he is immortalised in a coffee table book, too, as he recounted his role in the CAPM and the turmoil of those times).

before that, around 2 years before the signature campaign, my dad came home with 3 yellow shirts with the face of a smiling man in glasses emblazoned across the front of it. on the back were the words: "the filipino is worth dying for." (years later, my dad, disgusted with the turn of events in the country that would lead to erap's presidency and then edsa dos, would empathically say, "ninoy was wrong. the filipino is NOT worth dying for!" he left for the united states 4 years ago and has not returned since to the philippines) i was only 12 at the time so i lost the battle to get one of those shirts. my mom got one by default and of course my older sister, being the eldest in the family. my dad told us shirt-less siblings, "when you understand what he died for, then i'll get you your own shirts."

but it wasn't until i was 14 did things begin to make sense. by then, the shirts were no longer being manufactured so i contented myself with stealing my mom's or sister's shirt and wearing it to school --- just to be cool, because at the time, i was in a school filled with the children of diplomats whom i knew would never have a shirt just like mine. there was something about ninoy aquino that was 'cool' to me at the time: he was articulate, his daughter had been my classmate briefly in 7th grade, and now, my signature was part of a million that would push cory to run as the widow president. those were exciting days, right before the events at edsa. i remember boycotting san miguel beer around christmas time --- yes, i was already drinking beer at the time. i remember watching people flock to the polling booths on that long ago morning of feb 7, 1986 at the public school a stone's throw away from our house and wishing fervently i could vote. i even remember sitting beside the namfrel poll watchers as they tallied the votes. in all our precincts, cory won by a huge margin. but the televised comelec results would reveal a different story.

on the 2nd night of the vigil at edsa, my kuya and his girlfriend announced that they were going to edsa and stop any more tanks that marcos and ver would send. my kuya's girl turned to me and asked if i wanted to come along. i looked at my parents quickly. my dad, without any hesitation, said, "of course you should go. this is history in the making!!!" the thought that crossed my mind was, "cooooool. camp crame is THE place to be!" i got my sister's ninoy shirt and tucked it into my walking shorts. high waist pa ako non. (hanggang ngayon pa naman but that, as they say, is another story) i remember the grown ups --- or rather, the older-ups --- packing tons of food in the trunk of the car. it didn't cross my mind that i could get hungry in the next 24 hours we would be 'hanging out' at edsa.

we parked near the cubao flyover because the 'relevant' stretch of edsa was virtually unpassable. there was a festive mood in the air as we made our way down edsa towards crame. barkadas of teens were chanting as they passed by, in kapit-bisig fashion, yelling, "asan na mga tangke??? lusubin nila tayo kung kaya nila!!!" this followed by boisterous shouts and peals of laughter. i couldn't help but laugh along.

there were vendors everywhere selling everything and anything. from flashlights to more ninoy shirts to little filipino flags on barbecue sticks. by the time we got to crame i had seen car after car parked facing the wall, the boot open, filled with crates of food and tetrapacks, some for sale. "matinik", i remember thinking. i had stepped on so many squished plastic bags and straws filled with remnants of what had been mirinda pepsi or coke. barbecue sticks littered the way. there were karitons filled with balut and boiled peanuts. as night descended upon the throngs, the kariton-drivers lit greasy kerosene lamps and these flickered uneasily along that stretch of highway that looked more like a park scene rather than a battlefield of the forces of right and wrong. or the forces of a sundered friendship between ramos/enrile and macoy. flattened cartons and banigs were now lining the road. we really were going to meet those tanks in our probinsya mode beddings.

all night long i munched on the egg and pimiento sandwiches that my kuya's girlfriend had packed in the trunk of the car. i sipped from zesto tri-a-packs (di ko masabing tetra pack yon kasi mukang triangle e) and from time to time, bought mirinda from the passing vendors. my kuya cracked some balut eggs at around 4 am and had me drink the soup. at that time i didn't know how to eat a balut standing up. there were no plates to be had so my ka-artehan in balut eating were sidelined for the time being.

there were many false alerts throughout that long night. mostly it was the vendors who would run past, shouting, "parating na sila, mga dalawang tangke din yon!!!" we would get to our feet and cluster uncertainly near the island, knowing only that if tanks really did roll towards us, we would all scream in unison and pray that god be on our side. we must have burst into song so many times that night, the words "ibon mang may layang lumipad..." fluttering in our breasts and flying towards the stars every time someone told us that the tanks were not coming, not yet, not yet, but do not waver for we know not the time when they will be upon us.

the tanks did not come. not that night. we would hear over radio veritas that there was a tank or two in the succeeding days, but our day was not the "chosen one". when i remember our disappointment at having avoided a confrontation, i shake my head bemusedly but at the time, it was like a big party at the fort and we young ones were just too eager to embrace danger. we were, after all, at that point in our lives when we sought excitement and adventure --- and this kind, we were sure, would make us heroes not only to our friends but to an entire nation. if anything, those frenzied 5 days of edsa defined my teen life as the time i crossed over from being a party-hungry girl to someone who had purpose not only in my life but for the life of my nation.

after edsa, it was only a matter of time before i was signing up for volunteer service to one of the poorest provinces of the country at the time. it meant nothing to me at the time to get a high paying job when so many in the country were living in poverty. i knew i always had my comfortable middle class life to return to after a year of service but this was the promise of my youth, my mid-teenaged years when i was part of the crowds who cheered and yes, wept, when the dictator and his crazy wife fled the country. i was one of those who could never be comfortable touring malacanang palace or the malacanang of the north in laoag, who nearly threw up when i saw macoy's preserved body in a glass coffin, lit up by a solitary spotlight while triumphal classical music played from hidden speakers. to this day, the sight of imelda marcos makes my blood boil. i want to put my fingers in her thickly coiffed hair and pull every strand apart, just before she steps into her limousine.

it was during that soirée, while i munched on my favorite cheese pimiento sandwich, sipping from my brother's balut and zesto drink, that something hardened within me, turning me off forever to a life in pursuit of caprice and comfort. as long as people suffer, i vowed in between bites, i cannot relax. ever. what that man said years ago will make sense in my lifetime, that we, pinoys, are indeed worth dying for. i dedicate my life to the realisation of this truth. i will prove my dad wrong and perhaps call him home in the process of doing so.

today, 2 years away from my beloved homeland, i miss the taste of balut most of all. here in belgium, it costs a terrifying 1.50 euros. that's 100 pesos for one little egg!!! next year, i will be able to buy my 9 peso-balut again from that vendor just outside the heart center, maybe after aikido practice. or so i hope.