At five feet, hunched and skinny, she was a wisp of a woman. Her elfin face had delicate, delightsome features accentuated by pretty lips that seemed to be always ready to curve into a smile. Her dark brown eyes were as kind and gentle as her voice and even at an advanced age, the simple beauty that must have attracted many a suitor during her heyday was still apparent. The long, dark hair that she always wore in a bun and only streaked with gray in the front reminded me of Rapunzel's because it was almost to her ankles when down. She usually covered it with a light-colored scarf tied in the nape and at other times, she went bare-headed. Her traditional attire was a "baro't saya" which was a long skirt cinched in the waistline and paired with a simple top that was the usual attire of older women of her day.
With her house only a few steps away from ours, Nanay was a constant presence in my life when I was growing up. There was a cluster of houses aside from our own in the little neighborhood where we lived, each one owned by my mother's brothers and sisters. We were a closely knit group of aunts, uncles, cousins, neices, and nephews that share, not only the common bond of blood, but a beloved and respected matriarch - Nanay. My mother was the oldest of her seven children of 4 boys and 3 girls. I could have been her oldest granddaughter but my hierarchical advantage was usurped by the first and second born of one of my uncles because apparently, I did not come into the world until 9 years into my parents' marriage. Tiny and sickly, I was a little pampered when I was very young. That was at a time when my father was earning well so I was spoiled with lots of toys and nice clothes. Due to my frail health, I was protected and cosseted which unfortunately fed my stubborn nature and I grew willful and an untamed firebrand. Those traits stayed with me even as my parents, particularly my mother, tried to instill in me a more agreeable and pleasant behavior. "Spare the rod and spoil the child" was the dictum of the 50's and as my health improved and I could no longer use the ravages of bronchitis and toothaches and pneumonia to justify my obduracy, the "rod" visited me with startling frequency. But there was Nanay.
Nanay was my protector. She would be upset and in tears at times when my parents, especially my father, hit me for reasons which might or might not be my fault. No, she did not condone my actions. Far from it. But she taught me in ways that were more powerful than the whack of a leather belt or the smack of the sole of a slipper. I frequently spent the night in her house and I would sleep beside her. One night, as we were about to sleep, she talked to me about my behavior. I could not remember exactly what I did earlier but I knew I had a big fight with one of my cousins and I made her cry, which was a frequent occurrence. I was a pint-size dynamo of hot, pulsating energy that was constantly looking for trouble and that day, one of my cousins was haplessly on my path. Nanay, in her usual gentle and calm voice, told me that what I did was inappropriate, that it was not nice. I did not respond but she probably sensed rather than saw my playful smirk in the darkened room because she took my arm and said, "Let me show you how it feels when you hurt others." Then she pinched my arm! She then said, "How does that feel?" I told her that it hurt. Then with the wisdom that came unfailingly with inherent goodness, she basically paraphrased the "golden rule" to give me a lesson I would always remember: "That's how it feels when you hurt others". I realized she was not merely speaking of physical pain but of something more lasting and damaging, one that assailed the emotion.
I was not canonized for sainthood soon after that lesson nor anytime thereafter. But it was a profound message that a young child remembered and was etched deeply into the groove of her psyche. That simple object lesson marked the birth of my conscience, a sensitivity to the feelings of others that held back the venom in my tongue when I felt like lashing out to someone, young or old, who infuriated me. Not that it always worked its magic. The pull of the strong and assertive personality that came to earth with me was ever present and needed to be subdued many a time. That part was intricately embedded in me and that was who I would always be. But if it was a raging storm, I've learned to tame the feral wind.
Nanay's life was a lesson of humility and service in itself. She was always there to lend a hand to any of her children and grandchildren. She was generous to a fault and would give the last scrap of food on her table or the last stretch of supply of rice from her skimpy holding bag if any of her children needed it. Relying solely on agricultural pursuits, most of her children were in a hand-to-mouth existence especially after my father lost his job when I was in first grade. Nanay had rescued us from tha claws of hunger many a time and I would always remember her many acts of kindness. There were days when our supply of rice would be completely gone but in the morning, as we opened our front door, we would find a bag of rice just sitting on the floor. She would leave it there rather than give it directly to us to spare us from feelings of humiliation and helplessness. Another reason she probably did it was because she was trying to hide it from my step- grandfather who was not always in the best giving mood.
The loss of my father's job also brought the loss of our house so during the interim period before we were able to again afford our own place, we lived with Nanay and Mamay, my step grandfather, as well as our youngest uncle, Tio Isis. I remembered those days when I would go with Nanay to the thick grove of guava trees that grew untended in the outskirts of the barrio. There we would gather ripe guavas for household consumption. When there was a big yield of fruits, she would go to town and sell them either in the market or in one of the makeshift stores in front of the elementary school. It was not an easy job. There were times she would stay there from morning till the school dismissed in the afternoon to earn a measly sum. After school she would walk home with us, a bunch of rowdy kids unleashing pent-up energies after being confined for hours within the disciplined walls of the classroom. I treasured those moments when I walked by her side munching on a crunchy guava leftover from the sale, as my wooden shoes left thin billows of dust tossed up unwittingly by the summer-baked ground.
Another memory surfaced as I recalled those early years. When I was five years old my mother enrolled me in the Catholic school in town. That was when life was easier financially and my parents could still afford the expenses of a private school education. I was the only one from the village who did not attend the public school so I had to be walked to and from school everyday. My mother, my step-sister, and my grandmother took turns to bring me to school and pick me up. But from the start, I was not an easy child. There were days when I would throw a tantrum, cry, and refuse to let them leave which meant they had to stay for hours sitting in the school's courtyard until the end-of-school bell rang. Nanay, with her infinite supply of patience, would stay on and wait, sometimes even skipping lunch, so I would not misbehave.
I could never recall a time when my Nanay spoke to me in harsh tones even when my behavior was particularly obstinate. Soft-spoken and caring, her tender heart also showed in the ways she treated others. She seemed to envelope herself in an aura of kindness that stemmed from her deep and abiding faith in God. She was not a church-goer by any means, but her faith played a big role in her life. I still could see her through the haze of the years, a tiny figure sitting on the bamboo floor of the only bedroom in the house at 6:00 PM every single day, rosary in hand and eyes closed, the soft glow of peace reflected on her face making it almost ethereal. She would finger the beads of the rosary, her lips moving in silent prayer as she faced the wall lined with the pictures of the saints of her Catholic faith. At this singular time of her quiet communion with the Almighty, the cares of the world receded, and she was alone with her God.
As the world opened its bosom in an act of renewal in the spring of 1971, she was called home by that God who loaned her life. It was in April, in a beautiful tropical morning when the air was heavy with the scent of fresh grass and the aroma of newly-awakened earth. The summon came. After a protracted illness her end was near. I bundled my two- month old daughter and left the bustling city that had been my home to be at her side. Unable to speak and barely alert, she tried to lift her bony arms as tears cascaded down her cheeks when she saw my baby and me. The goodbye was brief, sad, and poignant but it was a treasured moment. As I mourned the loss of a life that so enriched my own for bestowing in me its legacy of enviable traits - kindness and love, humility and selflessness - I had also rejoiced, for it would continue to live on even as it had ceased to exist. And this, I know!
Yes, she was my Nanay, and I loved her.
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