As a little girl, I loved it when the circus came to town. A colorful truck with a loud horn drove through our streets with aerialists and acrobats on its roof, followed by an elephant wearing a beaded mask. “Saltimbanquis” did cartwheels down the street. Clowns in full costume danced to the music of a brass band.
There was always a part of me that wanted to follow the circus. Painted faces fascinated me. I thought it would be exciting to wear a mask and pretend I was someone else. I was mesmerized by the sad clowns, moved to tears at the sight of the big upside-down smile on their faces.
A barker with a big bowtie announced that the circus was opening soon, and it stirred excitement and a little fear in me. I had heard stories about children getting lost. They followed the marching band wherever it went, and didn’t know how to get back. Then there were some kids who ran away from home to join the circus. Perhaps this is why our parents kept a close watch. We were allowed to get only as far as La Patria Bakery down the street, and then head for home.
The circus set its big tent near Jardin Botanico. I remember the particular smell; a combination of sawdust, buttery popcorn, pulled taffy, boiled peanuts and the pungent odors that came from the animal cages.
Those were exciting times. And so it was that last week, I got that old familiar thrill when I read in the newspapers that the circus was in town. I saw pictures of marching bands and streamers. I looked for the clowns. I made a mental note to take my great grandchildren.
Campaign season
Then I read on, and to my dismay, discovered that the news was just someone’s rather amusing report about the beginning of the campaign season for halalan 2013. I scrapped the plan. No offense. This circus is not for children.
Also in the papers, and all over the social networks is news about RA10175, the anti-cybercrime law.
What is cybercrime? It is any illegal activity committed through the use of the computer and the Internet. For example? Hacking, telemarketing, Internet fraud, identity theft, hate crimes and credit-card account theft. This is just a simple definition. I read the Official Gazette describing the law, and frankly, I can’t quite grasp it all, not in one sitting.
There’s a virtual uprising on the Internet. Thousands are weighing in. They scream, text, tweet and e-mail that the law is unconstitutional, that it gags our freedoms of speech and expression, much like martial law did 40 years ago. Many on Facebook have dressed their walls in black.
Leo Alejandrino (Wired, Oct. 4) says: “The Internet is our Edsa and the social media our People Power.”
My children and grandchildren have asked me what I think. My replies are careful and guarded. For the first time in my life, I think I am looking for a fence to sit on. I am not proud of this. I apologize to the many passionate and vehement oppositionists of the law. It is not that I don’t care about our freedoms because I do, with all my heart. God knows I have lived by them and perhaps am alive because of them. But I want so sincerely to trust the decision of our leadership. I pray that I am not sadly disappointed.
And it was in this not so delightful frame of mind that I contemplated an invitation by a group of college seniors, to be interviewed at home on the subject of “courtship back in the day.” I told them I don’t do interviews, much less on video, but the head of the group is the son of a lady close to my heart. He pleaded his case and prevailed.
They came on a rainy Wednesday evening, two girls and two boys in their late teens or early 20s, with a beribboned package of delicious Mary Grace lemon squares as my “talent fee.”
They had five questions. And in the 40 minutes it took to record my replies, they made me journey back to that gentler time when courtship was an art, and boys dressed up in their finest just to visit their special girls; when slippers were worn only inside the house, preferably the bedroom; the camiseta was underwear; when we needed parental permission to go on chaperoned dates; families had meals together every day; and when car horns were used only in traffic and never to signal the arrival of your date.
Code of respect
I call it an unwritten code of respect. It was an era when a gentleman stood up when a lady entered the room, when visitors and family members greeted the elders upon entering or leaving their home. Courtship back in the day was pretty private. Today we announce it on Facebook. It was like a slow, gracious and respectful dance. There was shyness, a quiet reserve.
It was difficult to bend the rules. But there was one, an insistent star athlete who visited me at the university during class hours. That was a no-no. We hardly spoke. It was enough that we exchanged smiles. Ligaw tingin. Well, at least it was that at the start.
The last question is about harana. Being a city girl, it never happened to me. But I tell them I know how wonderfully romantic it feels. They don’t ask me how I know. And I don’t tell.
They smile when I warn about today’s “click I love you, click now na” courtships; about treating romance and relationships like instant coffee.
As I speak, I get a little carried away by the nostalgia of it all. Suddenly, the aches and pains of age forgotten, I am happy I belong to that time long gone. This high-tech generation is missing so much.
I look at the young faces around me and I feel like lola Basyang, sitting in her rocking chair telling them stories that probably sound stranger than fiction. Do they believe me? It really does not make a difference, but somehow I think they do.
