Sometimes young people come to me and say, “When I grow up, I want to be like you!” And I am immediately reminded of the movie “Narnia,” where the venerable lion, Aslan, was told the same thing by its faithful follower, the mouse. “Master, I want to be like you when I grow up.” To which the lion replied, “No, you shouldn’t be like me, you should be like you.”
When our house was newly built, our tasteful architect suggested that we have our sala furnishings done by an interior designer who was the flavor of the time. He would ask her to give us a big discount. Great! said my husband, whose only interest was a comfortable easy chair in front of the TV. I, too, was young and starry-eyed and readily agreed.
The fashion in home interiors in the early ’60s was Japanese, with shojis and interior garden and humped bridge. Zen-like, minimalist, calm and meditative. By the end of the month the promise was delivered. We had all of that in one calm and stylish sala.
But somehow I wasn’t happy in it. Too late I realized I wasn’t a minimalist. I wanted the space to reflect the exuberance and richness of our lives. I didn’t want to meditate in our sala. I wanted to dance and whirl in it, freeing my body to take me where it wanted to. Afterwards, I wanted to curl up on the cool tiled floor and sleep.
Eventually I began to bring out things I had been hoarding—old tapestries, small odd artworks, fussy Chinese pillows—to incorporate into the landscape. Until at last the room felt comfortable.
I think the operative word for being “at home” is being comfortable in your own skin, as you can never be in another’s. As comfortable as my uncomplicated husband was in his easy chair, since it was his only desire.
Eventually, I began to wonder, why is it so difficult to recognize one’s self? Was it because all our lives we were told what to be or not to be, what stereotyped boxes we were to inhabit, to always watch out for what people would say? Parents relatives, friends, even boyfriends and strangers had a say on the shape we were expected to take, even if the shape had no appeal whatsoever. Everyone seemed to be so afraid that we might go astray, that we might get real! For instance, how many men who married great career girls suddenly expected their new wives to metamorphose into competent and happy cooks and housekeepers?
And what a long, long time it takes to recognize ourselves! It is a process. You must be able to stand criticism, to fight for your individuality and uniqueness. Many just give up and become copies of old models they do not quite admire. To become what you don’t like to be is to become a “victim.”
Homogeneous apple pie
And how the world colludes to make us all one homogeneous apple pie! It wants us to believe we must all be alike! I don’t know about you, but these days, I can hardly tell one new starlet or beauty queen from another. They seem to follow some global standard of beauty—shoulder-length wavy hair (straight hair has become so yesterday), fair skin, chiseled nose, deep cleavage, defined butt. And of course the fashion walk, the pose, the 12-inch heels, the designer clothes, the bags and bling (fakes allowed).
I think it’s called wrong globalization. Every metropolis, as well, is into making itself a copy of another. The same malls with unaffordable designer shops, the same Now Showing movies, the same restaurants, coffee shops and the fast food in the basement. They have killed every independent little shop outside. To experience original cooking, you’d have to search for some little old woman in a remote town doing her own thing in a market or a church patio.
Why is it so difficult to sell Filipino food—in fact, the whole Philippines abroad? Because, says anthropology professor Fernando N. Zialcita, what we are peddling is much too close to what they have. “Exotic” sells and that’s Thailand and Indonesia, Nepal and Tibet.
Maybe where we are enjoined to believe in “sameness” is in recognizing that the sacredness in us is also present in another human being, regardless of skin color, persuasion, social status or IQ. And that the same exists in nature and all its creatures. As for all other matters, differences make all the difference.
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P.S. Hey, you know what’s playing right now? “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree”! Drives one into paroxysms of nostalgia-shining moments when Butz Aquino, Joker Arroyo and Jojo Binay were still marching together for a common cause. When my oldest son, Bey, got water-cannon-ed with Frank Chavez at the Welcome Rotonda of QC and arrived at our house dripping wet. When police warned Chino Roces ahead of time, “Tatang, tabi na po kayo, mag-wa-water cannon na kami!” before dispersing the anti-Marcos rally.
Odette Alcantara, Fe Arriola and I, on the prodding of Maris Diokno, marched with the Reds headed by Maita Gomez and Nelia Sancho. We still love them and Satur Ocampo, but they sure can choose all the losers!
As for this Holy Week, I wish to recommend Mr. Edwin Lacierda to the Laughter Yoga of Paolo Trinidad so he can loosen up. Mr. Lacierda is a very sincere sad sack. He counters an imaginative protest movement with a serious barrage of photos of a busy P-Noy at work! Para bang a girl being told, “Ang pangit mo ’day,” responding with a slew of photos of herself looking glamorous. Sya, enough said. Yoko na sali dyan!
