LANDSCAPE
By GEMMA CRUZ ARANETA
Strangely enough, people thought she was rich, that we are all rich and have lots of money to spare. I think that was because my mother, Carmen Guerrero Nakpil, became an unassailably famous
Gemma Cruz Araneta
writer and an inveterate nationalistic intellectual in the early aughts of what I call the “reconstruction period.” In my eulogy after the funeral Mass, I said that like the mythical phoenix, my mother rose from the ashes of World War 2; she resolutely participated in the country’s reconstruction and that set the tone of how she brought us up.
“The rich and famous” is a cliché we always read and hear. Fame is usually mistaken for fortune; most people believe that one is as rich as one is famous. In my mother’s case, her self-made fame became her immutable fortune and, believe it or not, that fame never transmuted into financial wealth.
Throughout her life, my famous mother had to attend to many “charity cases” (my phrase) as if she were as rich as those opulent philanthropists. Sometimes, I felt they were taking undue advantage of her generosity, but she would explain that most of the “charity cases” were denizens of a shared past whom she was probably destined to help.
While I was growing up in San Juan, there was a woman who came at Christmas time, an ex-schoolmate, enveloped in melancholy, selling pastries that she had baked for the season. My mother would spend a few hours consoling her in our living room and end up buying everything. Another lady friend sold her a pearl bracelet, then other insignificant pieces of jewelry Mommy did not need or want. A former playmate in Ermita whom my mother admittedly bullied came around several times a year denigrating a useless husband, hinting that she needed sustenance; it was pay back time!
When I was in high school, my mother once came home with a load of books she had bought from a colleague who was raising money for her son‘s medical treatment. There were a couple of nephews and godsons whose parents never had enough to pay for their tuition. There was an aunt, Tia Laling, Mommy’s distant cousin who would come around to cook a few dishes; then she opened a small dress shop somewhere in Malate, which we patronized. She would buy fabrics from those Chinese shops on Villalobos, pretty buttons and lace, patterns, and design magazines. While she was in business, Tia Laling made my frocks and some of Mommy’s cocktail dresses.
Sometimes, Carmen Guerrero Nakpil would burst out laughing and tell me that her “good deeds” always boomerang. Yet, she dutifully obliged them all.
My grandma Filomena, Mommy’s mother, was no different; that was probably where she inherited the virtues of compassion and generosity. A few years after the war, when I was already five, my grandma bought me a pair of red sandals, very roughly made with scraps of leather. Enterprising Filipinos were opening small businesses, which our family eagerly patronized. I loved those artisanal sandals so much I would use them only inside the house and refuse to remove them before going to sleep. So, when my grandma gave them away while I was in school, I cried inconsolably and made a tantrum. Then she told me that an unknown man and his son, who was my age, had come knocking to ask for old clothes and shoes. The boy was barefooted and my red sandals were a perfect fit. My lola told me, “That poor boy has to wear girl sandals because he has no shoes. How do you think he feels?” That shut me up, I was being selfish and it was an ugly feeling.
Our parents were not rich but my siblings and I never felt that we needed anything more than what they provided us. We were domestic tourists who enjoyed Sagada, Hundred Islands, the Bicol Peninsula, and Laguna before any of these became must-see tourist destinations. We had a well-stocked library at home, antique furniture, and paintings by Filipino masters bequeathed by family elders. None of us were sent abroad to study but we went to the best colleges and universities in the country. In fact, we are proud of being the only graduates of the Carmen Guerrero Nakpil Finishing School, that is the enormous richness of our inheritance.
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Gemma Cruz Araneta
writer and an inveterate nationalistic intellectual in the early aughts of what I call the “reconstruction period.” In my eulogy after the funeral Mass, I said that like the mythical phoenix, my mother rose from the ashes of World War 2; she resolutely participated in the country’s reconstruction and that set the tone of how she brought us up.
“The rich and famous” is a cliché we always read and hear. Fame is usually mistaken for fortune; most people believe that one is as rich as one is famous. In my mother’s case, her self-made fame became her immutable fortune and, believe it or not, that fame never transmuted into financial wealth.
Throughout her life, my famous mother had to attend to many “charity cases” (my phrase) as if she were as rich as those opulent philanthropists. Sometimes, I felt they were taking undue advantage of her generosity, but she would explain that most of the “charity cases” were denizens of a shared past whom she was probably destined to help.
While I was growing up in San Juan, there was a woman who came at Christmas time, an ex-schoolmate, enveloped in melancholy, selling pastries that she had baked for the season. My mother would spend a few hours consoling her in our living room and end up buying everything. Another lady friend sold her a pearl bracelet, then other insignificant pieces of jewelry Mommy did not need or want. A former playmate in Ermita whom my mother admittedly bullied came around several times a year denigrating a useless husband, hinting that she needed sustenance; it was pay back time!
When I was in high school, my mother once came home with a load of books she had bought from a colleague who was raising money for her son‘s medical treatment. There were a couple of nephews and godsons whose parents never had enough to pay for their tuition. There was an aunt, Tia Laling, Mommy’s distant cousin who would come around to cook a few dishes; then she opened a small dress shop somewhere in Malate, which we patronized. She would buy fabrics from those Chinese shops on Villalobos, pretty buttons and lace, patterns, and design magazines. While she was in business, Tia Laling made my frocks and some of Mommy’s cocktail dresses.
Sometimes, Carmen Guerrero Nakpil would burst out laughing and tell me that her “good deeds” always boomerang. Yet, she dutifully obliged them all.
My grandma Filomena, Mommy’s mother, was no different; that was probably where she inherited the virtues of compassion and generosity. A few years after the war, when I was already five, my grandma bought me a pair of red sandals, very roughly made with scraps of leather. Enterprising Filipinos were opening small businesses, which our family eagerly patronized. I loved those artisanal sandals so much I would use them only inside the house and refuse to remove them before going to sleep. So, when my grandma gave them away while I was in school, I cried inconsolably and made a tantrum. Then she told me that an unknown man and his son, who was my age, had come knocking to ask for old clothes and shoes. The boy was barefooted and my red sandals were a perfect fit. My lola told me, “That poor boy has to wear girl sandals because he has no shoes. How do you think he feels?” That shut me up, I was being selfish and it was an ugly feeling.
Our parents were not rich but my siblings and I never felt that we needed anything more than what they provided us. We were domestic tourists who enjoyed Sagada, Hundred Islands, the Bicol Peninsula, and Laguna before any of these became must-see tourist destinations. We had a well-stocked library at home, antique furniture, and paintings by Filipino masters bequeathed by family elders. None of us were sent abroad to study but we went to the best colleges and universities in the country. In fact, we are proud of being the only graduates of the Carmen Guerrero Nakpil Finishing School, that is the enormous richness of our inheritance.
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