My grandmother
is already in her 80’s. My father and I decided that it was time for me to go
back home and be with my grandma and spend some quality time with her. We heard
that she was getting weaker and losing her appetite. She wasn’t really sick or
anything. She was probably sad, being alone and old.
In her younger
days, she was said to be very scrupulous with her outfit and look. She wasn’t
vain, but back then, good and appropriate grooming is a must. She felt that as
a public school teacher it was her duty to present herself neat and
appropriately clothed.
The women of my
family always look up to her because of her sense of style and her matriarchal
manner. And obviously not all of the femme fatales of the clan really like her.
Some were envious; so green with envy that they would employ character
assassination and gossips, and even gross criticisms about her clothes, shoes,
and bags. But despite all that, my grandmother would go on with her life and
wouldn’t give a shit.
My grandmother
came from a big poor family living in a corner of the baranggay. My great
grandparents were tenants cultivating a one-hectare rice field owned by a
wealthy family from Quezon. I always remember her story of how she breathed
prayers when she washed the clothes down the river, praying that may she never
become a labandera, or whenever she works in the fields she would pray
that may God spare her from becoming a farmer. It was her dream to
become a teacher. And with patience and diligence in her studies, she graduated
from the University of Santo Tomas and became a
public school teacher.
Her real luck
came when she met my grandfather. Tall, dark, and handsome- these were the
qualities he was looking for in a guy, and my grandfather had all these
qualities. She had to be a pakipot of course so that the elders of the
town wouldn’t think that she’s a loose woman, but inside her she really prayed
that may this dark gorgeousness would ask to marry her. And they did after
years of courting.
The love between
the two opened doors for my grandmother- a new found freedom, a new life, a
better home, and a milestone away from her poor life. She always said that
she’s really lucky to marry a man who had money. They were able to build a
house together and send their children to good schools. With the extra money
that they earned, they both helped her parents and her brothers and sisters,
and even helped some of her nieces and nephews in sending them to school.
Eventually, her
children grew up, finished college, married, and went on their own paths. Two
of her daughters went to the US to become
nurses. My father stayed and opened a store near the town market. A few years
later, the store had to be closed. Business won’t work if they were more like
charitable missionaries doling out canned goods and rice to abusive clients
than shrewd merchants who can outdo a mob of thick-skinned stingy parasites. He
eventually left for Italy with my mother.
My sister and I were left behind with our grandparents.
It was in those
years that she could finally afford to have a room of her own, a boudoir as one
might say. She had closets filled with beautiful classy clothes and dresses and
a dozen pair of shoes. I don’t remember her collecting bags. I only remember
that one Louis Vuitton bag she got from her children as a birthday present,
which she still keeps until now-just one mighty hand bag through the years. The
centrepiece of her boudoir was this wooden dresser mirror, finely polished and
with beautiful wooden engravings. She kept all her things there- those creams
she used for her skin and face, the lotions with fruity and flowery scents,
lipsticks of many shades, make-ups and powders, and my grandfather’s colognes
and other sweet-smelling fragrances from abroad. For some strange reason I was
never able to know, she kept my grandfather’s colognes in her dresser mirror. I
remember that she was very fond of two perfumes- Dior’s Poison and that brown
bottle of Yves Saint Laurent.
When we were
kids, we were always late for the Sunday mass because my grandmother would take
hours and hours to prepare and dress up. One Sunday morning, as we were waiting
for her downstairs, I decided to go up to her dressing room to check if she was
ready to go to church. I gently knocked on her door and she let me in. I sat
there in a corner of her room, watching her prepare. It was a mesmerizing
scene. She was already in her Sunday’s best, gently retouching make-up on her
face, then her lips. Her ritual would be concluded with graceful showers of
Poison or her YSL perfume.
She was very
beautiful and refined, even though she was quite a probinsyana-not too
flashy but quite flamboyant for a provincial public school teacher. I was quite
proud of her, knowing that people looked up to her. Sometimes they would make
fun of her calling her Doña Enchang. But she never pretended to be one
of those nouveau riches of our town. I’d say that she was simply lucky to have
a good life.
The death of my
grandfather was a devastating blow to my family, especially to my grandmother.
I still believe until now that it was that private space, her boudoir, which my
grandfather reserved for her, which helped my grandmother move on in life. From
then on, it became a sacred place where we were not supposed to go inside and
play.
Sometimes my
sister and I would venture inside her boudoir. I would look into the mirror and
stare at my reflection, thinking about what went through my grandmother’s head
and why she takes so long to dress up and prepare. Every time we venture
secretly inside her dressing room, my sister was gradually learning the value
of each colour and hue of every cosmetic in my grandmother’s dressing mirror,
and eventually picked up the woman’s hours-long ritual of prepping up. I was
quite curious about her perfumes and the colognes my grandfather left behind. I
would get one bottle and spray them on my wrists and arms and smell those
fantastic scents, registering the moment in my memory.
The boudoir was
a reflection of my grandmother’s matriarchal dignity, her aesthetic discipline,
and how she carries herself. The sacred privacy of her boudoir conveyed her
conservative values (something I religiously observed and picked up in life).
Her dresser mirror is her aesthetic discipline and philosophy- that beauty must
have a purpose, and when it has a purpose, it must be religiously and
diligently cultured and should not be an element of vanity (something I never
got, or refused to believe in or understand). The closet of beautiful but
inexpensive dresses and shoes is her order of ethics on frugal but efficient
living. And finally, her one and only hand bag, yes, that Louis Vuitton bag is
her example of life that chooses quality over quantity. It sounds as if my
grandmother were Imelda Marcos. No way. She’s waaay too different from that
bitch. She was a true public servant- a public school teacher. Many of the
citizens of our town became her student- from the lowly families working in the
woods and the fields up to those professionals in private companies and those
who are in the Munisipyo.
When I returned
from Italy, I was saddened
to see that the boudoir was gone. It has now become my special uncle’s bedroom.
The old dresser mirror was placed in the room opposite together with other old
stuff of the past.
The once strong,
vibrant, and youthful was now fragile and sad. I was saddened to see that the
grandmother I used to observe and admire was now like a crestfallen forgotten
myth. I wanted to revive in her the past.
One can try to
revive her past by cleaning up the dusty dresser mirror, filling up the shelves
with creams and cosmetics, restore the former glory of her boudoir. But that
won’t be enough to breathe life again to her body and soul. Time has already
left her marks on my grandmother’s skin and the burden of senility has made
life around her quite dull.
But now we’re
all coming back home again. Grandchildren will be mirrors where she can look at
again and make her smile, remind her of the past, the good times she had, the
challenges she has overcome and the future of her family. Her children will be
the familiar scents that made her life sweet and the memories of dear old
grandpa. And the moments we will share will be the robes that will keep her
warm and feel home again inside this once empty house.
