November 4, 2021

Ang Bahay ng Hawaiiana (or Where I Was From)


"Una pequeña encomienda"-- was how 

a 2.5 square kilometer estate

was described when it was

awarded, on February 15, 1590,

by Governor-General Santiago de Vera,

to Friar Pedro Bautista

y Blazquez-- Custos Superior

of all Franciscans friars in

Las Islas Filipinas.

 

Situated on the delta of two rivers--

now known as the San Juan River

and the San Francisco River, the estate

has a hilly topography with lush

vegetation. It had eight water springs;

a creek ran through it; and,

already a thriving Indios settlement--

with its own culture, economy and religion,

when Friar Bautista came and imposed

the encomienda system upon its inhabitants

and founded it as a pueblo (brown-skinned

natives were called Indios; Filipino is

a term reserved for Spaniards born in the

Philippines-- the Peninsulares.)

 

An encomienda (from the Spanish word

encomendar, to entrust), as legally defined

in 1503, was a grant to a conquistador,

a soldier, an official, or a cleric of a specified

number of conquered non-christian

natives or Indios living in a particular area.

The grantee, the encomendero, could

then exact tribute from the Indios in gold,

in kind, or in labor. The encomienda did

not include a grant of land, but in practice

the encomendero gained control of lands

inhabited by the Indios-- usually using

religion as a tool of subjugation.

 

And that is exactly what Friar Bautista

did; he extracted tribute on the hapless

Filipinos by way of forced labor and

construction materials to build his chapel

and monastery for the sole benefit of

the Franciscan Order and select

high ranking government officials.

Friar Bautista thereafter dedicated

the chapel to Our Lady of Montecelli

but which, from the very beginning,

was already popularly known as the

San Francisco del Monte church.

San Francisco in reference to

Saint Francis, founder of the Franciscan Order

and Del Monte, Spanish for on the mountain,

to distinguish the place from the

San Francisco de Manila Church in Intramuros,

Manila and also because the area was hilly

(the church was later on dedicated

to its founder and named the

Basilica Menor de Santuario de San Pedro Bautista).

The encomienda took on the name of the church and

thus became known as San Francisco del Monte

or simply Frisco to the Indios.

San Francisco del Monte as a town was

not so much founded as christened,

Christianized and its inhabitants enslaved.

Hand in hand with religion,

the monastic orders assiduously

mastered the native dialects

rather than teach the Indios to speak

Spanish language effectively denying

them the linguistic key to Western

civilizations. Thus, the Philippines,

unlike other Hispanised

countries of Central and South America,

stood out as an anomaly because the Spanish

language never became the

archipelago's lingua franca.

 

Seven hundred meters downhill from

Friar Bautista's church was where

my maternal grandparents:

Thomas and Antonia-- arbitrarily

re-christened Dada by my baby-talk babbling

elder sister, the first grandchild of the clan,

a name by which Dada will be known by all her

grandchildren, chose to settle in

the 1920s (--more than three hundred

thirty years after Friar Bautista

founded Frisco).

 

Frisco was just an outlying town

when Thomas and Dada settled there

(Today, San Francisco de Monte

is now a district of Quezon city,

bisected by two major thoroughfares,

Roosevelt Avenue and Del Monte

Avenue and bounded by West Avenue

on the east, EDSA on the north,

Quezon Avenue on the south,

and Araneta Avenue on the west.)

 

Dada was not a Frisco native,

she was a Bisaya-- probably from Cebu,

more likely Siquijor; Thomas, a Tagalog from

Rizal-- probably from a place now

known as Tanay.

 

Dada was born at the turn of the century,

four years after the Americans decimated

the out-of-date Spanish ships in the

two-hour Battle of Manila Bay-- ending

Spain's hold on the Philippines and

paving the way for the Americans to occupy

Manila.

 

When the Americans first saw Manila,

they saw a shit-hole. And as they explored

the countryside and the back of beyond,

what they saw was an even bigger shit-hole

-- populated by illiterate bedraggled derelicts.

The Spanish colonizers had not bothered to

educate the Indios, had not developed

agriculture, and had built structures

only for the sole benefit of their soldiers

and civilians. What the Philippines had

were a lot of magnificent and imposing

churches, even in the remotest of the

barrios-- built by forced labor using

construction materials, gold and cash

extracted from Indios as tax tributes.

The Indios were in a far worse situation than

they were three centuries ago-- but hey, they

got churches that looked good; the sad

thing is that, even today, most Filipinos

actually believed that those damned Kastila

improved our race by giving us their religion

and their culture-- and erasing the religion

and culture we already had.

 

It took a decade of American colonization

before Filipinos were able to shed the

shackles of their Spanish colonial past.

White drill suits became de riguer.

Suddenly, young Filipinos were strutting

around in white americana and

straw boater hats-- still segregated,

still unwelcome in exclusive American

establishments-- not unlike the blacks

in white America, but were, technically,

American citizens-- uneducated

Filipinos pretending to be Americans--

second-class brown American citizens.

 

Dada's hometown was far removed from the

goings on in Manila. Dada's hometown,

like most Visayan island towns,

was predominantly hilly, with little flat

arable coastal land so that even slopes

of 40 to 45 degree angles were cultivated.

Most islands were overpopulated, its

inhabitants mostly exploited tenant farmers

trapped in farms still operating under the

Spanish encomienda system-- or variations

of it.

 

With the change from the stagnant

Spanish rule to a dynamic

American rule. There was restlessness

among Filipinos-- especially among the

Bisaya, men left their barrios in search

of better opportunities. Some found

employment in the rubber, copra, and

hemp plantations in the nearby island

of Mindanao; Some ended

up in cities; some made it

only as far as the docks where they

hanged around the quayside

waiting for a chance to go further.

 

It was at this time that a gringo who

went by the name of Oswald Steven

was sent by the Hawaiian Sugar Planterss

Association to set up a recruitment office

in Cebu City. Steven was an auctioneer

and real estate salesman in Honolulu

and had fought in the Philippine-

American War, a savvy veteran who knew

his way around the Philippines and was

familiar with the ways of the Filipinos--

who, because of the Spanish colonizers, were

largely uneducated, unable to read

and write and could barely understand the

American English language. Steven, per

newspaper reports, also ... had the

reputation of luring many a hard,

round dollar from a reluctant fist through

his persuasive eloquence on the auction

block in Honolulu. A wolf dropped amongst

lambs.

 

Steven hired three Filipino assistants,

a married couple from Cebu and a man from

Siquijor island, and coached them on

how they have made out in Hawaii,-- though

never having been there. The three told how

they wore rags when they left the Philippines

but were now well dressed, sporting clothes

of the latest cut, American shoes, pocket

watch and chain. Adapting to the many dialects

spoken in various islands, Steven and his

cohorts described how laborers could

earn in Hawaii four to six times their

customary annual earnings. Steven visited

the islands of Bohol, Panay, Leyte and

Siquijor and, using a steamer he

bought in Hongkong, transported his

recruits to Cebu for eventual shipment

to Hawaii. Recruitment went on high gear

from 1910 onward and as an added

incentive even offered bonuses

for men who immigrated with their

families.

 

The typical contract was for three years.

Workers were promised $20 per month for

10-12 hour days for 26 days every month,

free housing, fuel, heat and medical

coverage.

 

To a Bisaya, Steven was a godsend.

Most signed up relying on the hype

and the promises made by a

glib-tongued hustler. Unknown

to the Filipinos, Steven recruited

them to intimidate the Japanese workers

who were agitating against cheap wages,

legal restrictions and racism.

The Filipinos were mostly hoodwinked as

unwitting scabs, relegated to the worst

jobs, terrible living conditions,

and the lowest pay. To keep the status quo,

Steven purposely recruited the most

illiterate of the peasants in the

Philippines. The Filipinos were called

Sakadas-- a term probably derived from the

Ilocano phrase 'sakasakada amin', meaning,

barefoot workers struggling to earn a living.

(It came to be applied to all agricultural

workers recruited from the Philippines.

The term may also be from the Spanish

los sacadas, roughly imported ones.

A term for migrant workers in and from

the Philippines, doing manual agricultural

labor. Within the Philippines, Sakadas

work in provinces other than their own.)

 

The Brigham Young University's Filipino

Laborers Collection, culled from the

records of the Hawaii Sugar Planters

Association-- which include approximately

100,000 labor records, passenger lists

for vessels transporting Sakadas between

Honolulu and Manila between 1906 and 19490

show that by 1910, there were 2361

Filipinos in Hawaii (An estimated 120,000

arrived between 1906 to 1934.)

 

The Brigham Young University collection

listed quite a few Sakadas with the

surname Castro-- Dada's maiden surname,

but I never felt the need to fact check.

I don't have to, never doubted it;

but the real reason is respect.

Respect for a woman who never

spoke about it for reasons of her own.

A family lore it will remain-- and,

it will only be for those who believe.

There is another reason I do not doubt

it-- a profound one, which will become

apparent at the penultimate of this

wee narrative.

 

Dada's family would have been in Hawaii

sometime in 1910-- when Dada was eight

years old. Dada would have stayed in

Hawaii for at least three years, maybe

more, maybe her father signed up for

another stint and returned as an

exHaw for another three years. Maybe

three years more after that.

 

Dada, the Hawaiiana (as returned Sakadas

came to be called by barrio folk),

returned to the Philippines, met Thomas,

fell in love, got married

and eventually settled in Frisco.

They had five children (-- of which

my mother, Auring, was the fourth child.)

 

And then World War II happened.

 

Dada was thirty-nine years old.

 

By Christmas of 1941 Japanese troops had

advanced across central Luzon towards Manila;

by New Years day of 1942, the Japanese

had occupied Manila. The Americans fled.

 

Neither prayers taught by Spanish friars

nor American arrogance could halt the

advance of the pestilence that would

engulf the Pearl of the Orient.

More than three years of starvation,

torture and death followed.

 

When the war situation became critical

for Japan in October 1944,

General Tomoyuki Yamashita

assumed the command of the

Fourteenth Area Army to defend the

occupied Philippines against the Americans.

 

Yamashita ordered his men to destroy all

bridges and other vital installations and

then evacuate Manila. However,

Rear Admiral Sanji Iwabuchi, commander

of the Imperial Japanese Navys 31st Naval

Special Base Force ignored the order, and

along with his 16,000 men, barricaded

intersections, converted buildings into

fortresses, and booby-trapped stores.

 

Manila's tumultuous history could not have

prepared Manileños for what was about to

happen when the first American troops crossed

into Manila at 6:35 p.m. on February 3, 1945.

 

What followed was twenty-nine days

of intense urban warfare that

resulted in the catastrophic destruction of

Manila-- only Warsaw suffered more,

architectural heritage were reduced to rubble,

80% of the southern residential district were

torched, and during lulls from American

bombardment, the Kempei Tai and

Iwabuchis troops rampaged throughout

the city-- a rampage

that brutalized the civilian

population. Thousands were tortured

and killed, countless women were raped,

their husbands and children murdered.

 

Just hours after the American forces rolled

into Manila-- Japanese troops rounded up

more than a hundred suspected guerrillas

and their families and herded them into

the Dy Pac Lumber Yard then proceeded to

behead the men one after the other

in an assembly line of horror.

Women and children, including infants

were bayoneted.

 

More than three hundred sixty civilians

were rounded up and herded into the

dining hall of Saint Paul's College

where the chandeliers, rigged with

explosives, were dropped to the floor

and detonated.

 

In the same afternoon, Japanese

marines stormed the Red Cross headquarters

and murdered fifty civilians, including two

infants. Five hundred civilians were set

on fire in the nearby German Club. A house

at 1195 in Singalong was converted to a

house of horrors-- troops cut a hole in an

upstairs floor then marched blindfolded

teenagers, grandfathers and forced them

to kneel. A marine would then cut each mans

head off with their shin gunto and kick

the body into the hole.

 

The surrounding towns of Manila were not

spared. Marauding Japanese troops attacked

families in homes, butchering them in

the streets.

 

Thomas was among those rounded up.

He was never seen again after that.

 

Several days before the last of his

men were annihilated, Iwabuchi was said

to have committed suicide,

but his remains was never found.

Yamashita surrendered several weeks later.

He was tried, convicted of war crimes

and executed on February 23, 1946.

In a classic dick move Japan had honored

and enshrined Yamashita and Iwabuchi

as war heroes at the Yasukuni Shrine.

 

The battle left 1,010 U.S. soldiers dead and

5,565 wounded. An estimated 100,000 Filipinos

civilians were killed, both deliberately by

the Japanese and from artillery

bombardment by the U.S. military force.

16,665 Japanese bodies were counted within

the walls of Intramuros alone.

 

Dada and her children: Ramon, Estella,

Ernie, my mother, Auring, and "Baby" survived.


Twelve years later, I was born.

Dada was fifty-five.

 

I like to think that I am a Batang Frisco--

an indigenous specie, technically though,

I was born in the Sampaloc District of

Manila, specifically at the

Mary Chiles General Hospital in Gastambede

street (now F. Dalupan street,

named after the founder of the

University of the East; Alonso de Gastambide,

on the other hand, was a captain

of the Spanish Navy.

Sampaloc, Manila was a Franciscan

Mission later on developed as the Barrio Obrero

during the American Period. Modern Sampaloc

grew out of the old town of Sampaloc,

the Legarda Estate, the Sulucan Estate,

Barrio Balic Balic and the Old Santa

Clara Estate that was bid out during

the American Period.)

 

Mary Chiles General Hospital started out as

a small clinic with a capacity of four beds

in the old Mission House of the Disciples on

Azcarraga Street (now C. M. Recto avenue).

It was established in 1911, a few years

after the Spanish-American War, by

Dr. W.N. Lemmon, an American missionary,

at the height of the bubonic plague in

Manila mainly for American missionaries

stricken with the disease. Later,

Dr. Lemmon, through a substantial donation

by Mary Jane Chiles-- a devoted disciple

of Independence, Missouri, U.S.A, was able

to buy the building on F. Dalupan

street -- a historic building where

Jose Pepe Rizal used to chill with his

homies (Felice Prudente Santa Maria,

in his book 'In Excelsis', tells

us how Rizal got the nickname Pepe.

Saint Joseph or San Jose was the putative

father of Jesus Christ. In Latin,

San Joses name is always followed

by the letters P.P. for

pater putativus. In Spanish, the letter P

is pronounced as peh giving rise to the

nickname Pepe for Jose.)

 

A short walk from the Mary Chiles Hospital

is the University of the East, where

my mother, Auring, was then an employee,

probably a student, too.

I imagined Auring, when it was time,

walking to the Mary Chiles General

Hospital, walking into the delivery room--

all by herself, and giving birth.

At least seven of us, me and six of

my siblings, were born in that same hospital.

 

But I did spent the first seven years

of my life in Frisco and thereafter

intermittently: during most

school breaks and a forced

sabbatical when I was fourteen.

 

The Frisco of my childhood offered

enough open spaces to appear to be

Eden still. Frisco was Dada's rickety

termite-infested stilt-legged old

house that creaked with every gust of

wind or rain; Frisco was waking up

with morning sunlight streaming

through the cracks of the capiz windows

weaving a loom of shadows across my bed,

dusts dancing within a streak of sunlight,

tuyo, dilis frying, the sound of the

siyansi doing battle with the kawali as

bahaw is magically transformed to sinangag.

Frisco was the diabetes inducing

preserved sweet Kamias,

the sweet-sour pickled mangoes; it was

pancit palabok bought at Blumentritt

market. Frisco was drawing a glass

of cool water from the bangga.

Frisco was juvenile incursions

to the mysterious paminggalan (where

left-over food were stored in plates balanced

on upside down drinking glasses standing on bowls

half-filled with water-- to keep out ants)

to break off a piece of panutsa,

it was raiding Dada's stash of

lemon drops hard candies. Frisco

was cooking rice with pandan in a palayok on

on a kalan at Dada's 'dirty kitchen'. Frisco

was the blaze of red orange light at dusk

as the sun buried itself beneath the horizon,

the melancholic 'tookoh' of the

resident tuko to mark the end of the

day; Frisco was meditating on

Johnny de Leon's 'The Deck of Cards',

having fun with Slyvia la Torre and

Oscar Obligacion in 'Oras ng Ligaya',

laughing with Bentot in 'Tang-Ta-Rang-Tang'

while Dada cooks dinner; it was listening to

'24 Oras' and 'Gabi ng Lagim' before I

sleep. Frisco was reading through

stacks of Graphic Magazines--

some dating as far back as the 1930s,

and counting the stacks of 'Mickey Mouse'

money in a baul. Frisco was being lulled

to sleep by the croaking

of a million frogs on rainy nights,

of cicadas chirping. Frisco was Dada's garden,

the 'bahay kubo' at the front of the house,

the Duhat tree, the Santol tree, the

Kaimito tree, the papaya tree,

the Kamias tree, the Pakiling tree.

the huge Sampaloc tree. Frisco was

shooting mayas with a borrowed escopeta

in the snake infested 'gubat'.

Frisco was standing at the edge

of the 'bangin' as the sun set on the west.

Frisco was the joy of hitting tin cans with

a 'tirador' and standing in the rain without a

care in the world. Frisco was

Dada's 'silong' with its tenants:-- the

chickens, pigeons, and pigs,

a cat named 'Ming-ming', a dog named

'Boogie', and another named 'Prince'. Frisco was

the myth of the 'ahas tulog'-- a black rat

snake, that lives on the attic and keeps the

house rodent free. Frisco was watching

triple-features at the Del Monte Theater--

using Dada's name for free admission,

the sights and smell of the palengke,

the magical train rides to Albay.

It was the calming tune Dada hummed

as she sat before her Singer sewing machine,

the hourly chime of Dada's wall clock,

the cavo-rilievo image of the Christ with

carved in eyes that follow your

every move, the flower Dada puts behind her

left ear-- always on her left ear.

Frisco gave me a sense of permanence,

that it will always be there for me,

a place I could come back to

no matter where I go, even if I get lost.

It gave me a sense of belonging.

It was the only Frisco that mattered, a

microcosm contained in Dada's yard.

This was my Frisco.

This was where I was from.

 

I was in second grade when things

changed. Suddenly, I was the

only one in Frisco-- which I didn't mind;

then I was told to leave as well.

Frisco was the only home I knew and

being told to leave felt weird.

It was at this point that my other

childhood began to unravel-- my

not in Frisco childhood.

I rejoined my family in a dingy

rented 2-bedroom apartment that had

a comical Dickensian vibe to it.

It was just around a corner from school.

...no more school bus rides to school,

I remember thinking; then I was told

that I had to stop going to school.

I remember glancing at my new school

bag that Dada had bought for me.

I remember a sudden constriction in

my throat and an empty feeling on my

stomach. It felt like I was choking

and, for a second, thought it was

my asthma acting up again.

Everything went blurry after that.

Unhappiness was yet unfamiliar,

I know now but did not know then,

but I knew then that it was not a

good thing. Things happen or don't

when you are poor; things that do

happen happened because things

that should have happened don't.

I don't think the world starts to come

into focus until you're fifteen;

up until then you just take what you've

got and roll with it.

 

Twenty-fifth of August,

it was a hot, muggy evening.

It was a Friday, a school day,

but I wasn't in school-- Ive been

PMAed and dropped at Dada's in Frisco.

Turned out it was also my fifteenth birthday.

Chit's husband, Ney-- an Ilongo, bought

four bottles of San Miguel Pale Pilsen

and two packets of sweet spicy dilis

to celebrate (Chit first appeared,

already in her late teens, in Dada's

household when I was maybe ten years old,

from whence she came from I never inquired.)

We sat in the sala on Dada's Narra set

with the distinctive rattan weave pattern

of octagons on the seating and backrests,

me on the sofa, Ney on one of two

matching chairs, Ney watching TV,

me scowling sightlessly

into the middle distance.

Dada's house, a bigger, wooden version

of a bahay kubo on stilts, was perched up a

steep rise on the northwestern corner

of the 800 sqm estate, and

from where I sat I could

see-- beyond the opened front doors,

across the caida con azotea,

a swarm of insects swirling

around the light on a MERALCO pole

that curiously stood in the middle

of the compound. The mosquitoes too

were on a frenzy that evening

and the pyrethrum laced fumes

filtering through the solihiya

seemed only to encourage them

(and my asthma as well.)

There was another small detail

that have passed unnoticed:

I havent had alcohol before.

Nobody asked. I dummied up.

No sense ruining the party with

such a small detail, and, besides,

the buzz felt good. One last small

detail: it was the first time I

was treated like a grownup-- an

adolescent, at least. It was the

end of childhood. That, I suppose,

was worth celebrating. I squinted

and looked at the streetlight again.

Somehow things were beginning to

come into focus.

 

I was back in school the folowing

year, Dada saw to that. Dada also

found casual work for me at the

university, for pocket money,

she said. All was well;

then I was told to leave

Dada's house-- again.

 

Twenty-fifth of August-- again.

My twenty-first.

I woke up early to wash all my

clothes, slept while I

waited for them to dry, stuffed

them all in used plastic grocery bags--

all my worldly possessions in two bags.

I said good-bye to Auring.

I left to go home to my Frisco.

A Frisco not of Friar Bautista's

making, but my own.

Thus, ended my other childhood-- my

not in Frisco childhood.

This was where I was from.

 

When you're twenty-one, you think

you hold the roadmap to your life.

Its only when you get to be twenty-five

or so that you begin to suspect you've

been looking at the map upside down.

A lot of things went south after that

mainly due to bad choices, bad

judgment and simply

because I was just plain stupid.

But, I got better at life and later

on made a few right choices and even hit the

mark a few times.

 

My story ends here;

but then...

 

Dada died.

 

Grief is a tricky thing.

It dislodges things deep within us

setting free memories and feelings that

we had thought gone to ground long ago.

In that indeterminate period they call

mourning, we are buffeted with recollections.

Things we never really thought through,

things we took for granted. Sometimes it

makes me think that maybe tears fill up our

eyes to make us see a blurry world, maybe

to mask the ugly, or maybe to teach us

to look beyond the blurriness, to see

beyond, for there lie our collective

unconscious-- our deep-seated beliefs,

our spirituality, our instincts, graciously

bequeathed by those who came before us.

There was one overpowering image that

engulfed me-- a vivid mental image of

the wedding picture of Thomas and Dada,

interspersed with memories of Dada with a

white flower behind her left ear

-- always in her left ear.

They came in waves. Maybe Dada

was speaking a language that

is heard not just with ears. A

coded missive from a reticent woman

who had persevered against

life's worst onslaughts, a woman who

had lost her beloved in a war not of her

own, a woman who had risen above the

uncommonly cruel cards life had dealt

her. Maybe words were not enough to

express her thoughts, maybe there was an

inability to summon the right word,

the apt thought, the connection that

enables the words to make sense,

the rhythm, the tone. Maybe spoken words

would be to loud or too much,

maybe a dance, a gesture, maybe

something else is more fitting.

Then it all clicked into a new

understanding in my mind. It was

only then that I understood

what the flower behind Dada's left

ear meant. Dada was conveying a message,

a lamentation-- perhaps the only way a

Hawaiiana could: that she is taken

and she awaits the return of her

beloved.

 

Indeed, there is no tombstone that

bears Thomas's name even as Thomas

is-- undoubtedly dead; but, not for Dada.

For Dada, it was an ambiguous loss.

And so she waited.

 

You hold on to hope... draw strength

from it.

 

I went to see Frisco after that.

It was not the same.

It looked the same.

It was the same Frisco that

Friar Bautista founded,

the same Frisco the damned

Kempetai butchered, but it felt

different; it was no longer

the place I grew up in.

It seemed it never was.

Frisco was not a place--

it was Dada;

and when Dada died,

the Frisco I knew died with her.

 

... you just take what you’ve

got and roll with it.