Former first lady Imelda Romualdez Marcos, my aunt, revealed to me over dinner how she often wondered why I kept cropping up in her life. A believer in fate and destiny, she contemplated on her own question, drawing from her long and vast experience with people and how they play and have played different roles in her considerable lengthy life.
That night, she was finally able to figure it out, like a switch being turned on in her head. She declared with certainty, “You will write about my legacy.”
I was taken aback. I felt unworthy. I was soon engulfed with an immense sense of the Imposter Syndrome. On the spot, I started to doubt my abilities as a writer and felt like a fraud to have perhaps projected myself as capable of writing about her life, vast achievements, and accomplishments. I asked myself, “Who am I? Ano ang ‘K’ ko?” But I trusted in her infinite wisdom that she saw something in me that I had yet to realize about myself.
Years later, I found myself in the forgotten, dark (because there was only a single flickering ceiling light to guide me), and unventilated attic filled with old clothes in the late President Ferdinand E. Marcos’ San Juan home, untangling one of many twisted balls of my aunt’s ternos on a thick dust-layered floor. It was here that I recalled that long-ago evening when my aunt said that my role was to “write about her legacy.” Picking up ternos in tatters off the floor, I couldn’t help thinking I needed to save her legacy first … before I could write about it!
My grandmother Remedios Trinidad Romualdez was an interna at the Asilo de San Vicente de Paul in Manila, where she was raised for most of her life by nuns before she married my grandfather, a widower 16 years her senior. She was 27. At the asilo, she learned how to embroider. She excelled in it. Soon the nuns would help sell Trinidad’s embroidered handkerchiefs to their patrons. It was because of her beautiful embroidery that one day my grandfather’s relatives asked for Trinidad, along with another interna, to come to the Romualdez house in Pandacan. My grandfather’s relatives, you see, were looking for a wife for him and with the help of the nuns at the asilo found two likely candidates. The girls were asked to bring samples of their embroidery for the Romualdez women to pick from. Little did they know one of them would be picked to marry the youngest of the Romualdez brothers, Vicente Orestes. My grandmother was chosen because when the girls were asked to join in a family favorite pastime of music, she did not shy away from being asked to sing. And the other girl did.
My grandmother Remedios Trinidad Romualdez died when my father was barely three years old. I never knew her. My dad, who was just a baby when she passed away, barely knew her too. All he remembered was how transparent her skin was that he could see how blue her veins were on her neck and cheeks as she carried him in her arms.
Among the first few ternos I unearthed was this particularly unique color combination. I sent a photo of my new find to my cousin Sen. Imee R. Marcos, the one who suggested I work on her dad’s house in San Juan.
She texted back, “Oh it’s the Remedios colors!”
“The Remedios colors?” I asked, intrigued.
“Yes, it’s the favorite color of Remedios,” she explained. “Mom (Imelda) used to make me wear those colors because her mom (Remedios) was morena too. Mom would wear those colors even if it didn’t suit her only because they were the favorite color (combination) of her mom.”
Discovering beauty was an everyday occurrence, like finding 30 ternos tightly packed in a small baul or intricately embroidered callado and burda kimonas in living room credenzas, even ternos jumbled up in forgotten ‘panahon kupong-kupong’ suitcases.
My love for embroidery and ability to sew, thanks to the Assumption nuns, came at an early age. So, to have discovered beautifully crafted and embroidered ternos and barongs in a house long abandoned was heaven. I found light and joy in the darkest of places. Indeed, every day I was filled with the joy of finding things unexpected. What started off as a recovery project, in which I was tasked simply to sort, document, and store photographs, books, and other memorabilia, was soon extended to clothing. Despite environmental conditions (dust, broken and faulty lighting, humidity, termites, cobwebs, grime, and the paranormal), there was so much joy in finding what was once thought lost or forgotten. And finds as pretty as my aunt’s ternos made it all worth it!
Every day I would catch myself immersed in the amazing artistry and color showcased in the latest batch of ternos unearthed, blown away by the creative minds behind these designs and the people who labored to convert drawings on paper to pieces of threaded masterpieces. Every nook and cranny contained batches of beautiful handembroidered Filipiniana. Discovering beauty was an everyday occurrence, like finding 30 ternos tightly packed in a small baul or intricately embroidered callado and burda kimonas in living room credenzas, even ternos jumbled up in forgotten “panahon kupong-kupong” suitcases, some damp from leaks coming from the attic roof. I even found ternos found strewn on floors used as scratching mats by stray cats coming in through broken glass attic windows! There was no masking those beauties! I realized then this place now stands as the depository—or even reliquary of sorts—for a vast reference collection that encompasses the glorious age of Philippine embroidery, including what could be a complete collection of the different types of callado embroidery, some of which have long since disappeared like the communities of craftswomen who used to make them. More on callado embroidery in a future article.
All ternos recovered were laid out flat and folded along the seams, with the terno sleeves folded at the shoulder and tucked in front of the dress or in some cases taken off altogether (sleeves can be sewn back after cleaning). Ternos were stored and made ready for the next step in conservation. More on that in a future article.
One morning I received a message from a cousin living abroad. He was following my progress in the San Juan house via FB and said, “Eliza, keep up the fabulous work. Hartzell Spence (writer of Marcos of the Philippines) told my father that ‘Imelda would be a cultural educator who would strongly influence the development of modern Filipino culture in art and outlook.’ Eliza, you are in the middle of making this all true… Good luck!”
After reading his message, I couldn’t help chuckle and shake my head remembering how it all began. Bored from almost a year of Covid lockdown, I was tasked to retrieve anything related to my uncle and aunt from the property. To think, I was almost convinced what I was doing was just a whole lot of housekeeping!