My firstborn son, Luis, wrote me on my birthday. Pls don’t read this if you’re gonna complain “ANG HABAAAA”.
This is for us mothers who think the world of our children and for us writers who love words and for us mother-writers who, more than any gift in the world, feel letters from our children are priceless and all we want in the entire galaxy.
Note: I begged my son to be my assistant on the last year I served our country under PRRD when it FINALLY dawned on me how hard it is to find someone worthy of my trust. He has passed it with flying colors.
I have always been uneasy when straightforwardly expressing my inner feelings and thoughts in the way that you curiously seem to enjoy more than anything else in the world. This is a stark contrast that has made you so effective at doing what you do in the world of government communications.
You are without question the bravest, most frank, and—should the situation call for it—fearlessly confrontational person I know (much to the dismay of the Communist Party of the Philippines, as well as a couple of hapless restaurant managers). In fact, were it not for our matching noses and African lips, I would probably suspect that I was secretly purchased off the streets of Quiapo at half price as a baby.
So there I was for the third or fourth time in the past week, staring at a blank word document.
Why was it so hard to write? It felt like there was a knot of roots lodged in my throat, an angry grey fog floating inside my skull. I sank lower in my chair.
The question hit me, followed by the answer—a one-two punch of an epiphany.
How does mom do it?
The answer was there for the taking, the same principle you have always lived out, elegant in its simplicity: damn what people might think.
Speak your full truth, in all its beauty and ugliness. Roses complete with thorns, clouds complete with storms. Only then do words mean anything. Anything else is meaningless.
The truth of what I want to tell you on your birthday is complicated, and multi-faceted. It is incomplete without some ugliness, some resentment—I guess life is often the same way. First and superficially, but it is undeniably there. And anything I write will feel insincere and cheap without it.
This has been a frustrating year for me. I am not made to be an executive assistant. My temperament, unrelated past experience, skillset (or lack thereof), forgetfulness, and desire for equal outcomes made this past year frustrating a thousand times over.
I often felt like I was thrown into the deep end, and then berated for not knowing how to swim. I was glared at when small things went wrong, and met with a hand in my face and silence when they went right—day in and day out for a year as I sprinted up and down the stairs to my workstation for what seemed like fifty times a day, to the incessant beeping of Viber and executive orders I had no idea how to respond to. I found myself sometimes comparing myself to my siblings—who seemed to effortlessly receive two-fold affection, at a fraction of the responsibility.
To say that this past year has been easy would be a lie.
But to say that it didn’t make me love and look up to you more? Untrue to an even greater order, funnily enough.
I eventually saw the enormous pressure placed on your shoulders, a weight that would flatten most people.
Instead you stared it in the face and dared it to do its worst, bore it with dignity, and accomplished so much in so little time. I constantly reminded myself of this when I felt lashed out at for simply being the nearest person around—that the burden you had taken on was something else—a rare literal and figurative death sentence simultaneously.
I reasoned that if, in the enemies’ countless efforts to snuff out your existence, all they managed to accomplish was an occasional spike in morning irritability—then I would gladly do my part in this win.
From watching you, I experienced what competence in the face of conflict looks like. From watching you, I learned how to square up in the face of a challenge.
So with the dawning of 2022 I followed your example as best as I could, immersing myself in pursuits that I loved: frequent walks, workouts, meditation, and my studies. They helped me look at things from different perspectives.
Stepping away from the center, I found my own. And I saw that I had, many times, been missing the forest for the trees. The point is not to avoid the hurdles, it is to choose them.
Thank you for entrusting me with such an important task. For taking me along on this journey against such a worthy enemy. For allowing me to grow, for not babying me—and for giving me a front row seat to your journey with PRRD—a tour de force in a powerful life.
Real power.
Power that stands alone in a field of opposition so adamantly that it eventually inspires thousands of others to the fore.
Power that stares directly into the gaping maw of the beast, and deliberately plants its feet in the line of fire between danger and a little boy.
Power that gently takes the hand of an abandoned girl and leads her against the dark tide of a rapidly fleeting dark past, towards a tomorrow where she has a chance to manifest every little bit of light inside her, previously shunted into obscurity by circumstance and tyranny.
Power that is aware of its own mortality, and therefore knows what is actually worth fighting for.
One of the memories I will keep from the past year was during one of your many trips to Las Navas, Samar—a historical NPA hotbed.
As we drove past a blur of uneven hills and forestry, the army convoy driver’s radio crackled. He raised the black box to his bald head, listening to indiscernible chatter. Then without warning, he had switched gears and slammed on the brakes right before two imposing hills ahead on either side of our road.
In under a minute, four other army vans had taken positions around our vehicle, as convoy boxed us in defensively. I heard the even, rhythmic sound of combat boots crunching on gravel on both side as members of our esteemed AFP milled past our side windows in a single file of olive green.
“Get down.” You told me and Rafa.
And we complied, ducking. And in true millennial fashion, we simultaneously pulled out our smartphones and Facebook messaged our barkadas goodbye.
From our vantage point on the rubbery van floor it seemed something was slightly off. It was a bit too spacious, empty. Someone was missing. So we looked up and noticed why.
There you were still. Sitting upright and calmly in full view, a steady, defiant look in your eyes—almost daring any NPA snipers to take a shot.
And in that moment I knew that you truly believed that your cause was worth dying for. Unafraid, and perhaps even almost looking forward to dying. I thought it was a little crazy. But I sat up too, seeing your example.
“You see, in their last moments, people show you who they really are.”
Thankfully those turned out not to be our last moments. But in that instant, you convincingly passed the test stated by Christopher Nolan’s Joker.
I learned that day from the strongest of mothers, and the strongest of political figures that the two share the ability to love in different forms.
As a boss, you showed me how to love with fearlessness.
As a boss, you showed that it is important to find the few, priceless, irreplaceable things that alone will give you power to go meaningfully through this life in all its beauty and difficulty.
Thank you for giving me a chance to play my role, no matter how small it may have been, under the landmark administration of President Duterte.
For making me stronger and reminding me that I will have to do well in my future paths as well, because executive assistant-ship is, for me, about as good a fit as OJ Simpson’s leather glove was.
Yet, I will cherish fondly the amazing people that I met this past year: workmates, AFP personnel, IPs, government workers, SMNI staff, and others.
Same goes for the odd memories of how little of a shit you gave to regular hate from elitists— as you were frequently more affected when you thought your hair didn’t look good on air.
Or you shrieking frantically when my favorite cat would get too close, then yawning later on in that same day as you crumpled death threats and harassment lawsuits before chucking them in the trash. It was a curious thing to behold. I am glad that I experienced it.
And though it is ending with the coming of July, I am also happy to have my mother back.
As that mother, you showed me how to love with compassion.
I saw the way you seethed with anger when mothers of NPA recruits would come to you for help. I saw the way you beamed at our IP children who returned, and the sadness in your eyes when you saw those that did not. The way you took it upon yourself to give the children of our country the same chances you and dad once carved out for me and my siblings.
And as you faced your challenges and hurdles, I now face my own. And it is a humble one in comparison to everything you have gone through, but I am not ashamed to admit that I am scared by the prospect of medical school. The doubts within me obscenely outnumbering the certainties.
But I am not overwhelmed. Because I am your son.
You taught me to speak my truth—my full truth. To square my shoulders. To do my best in the face of adversity. And to enjoy the pursuit of something worth loving, a fine point of balance between fearlessness and compassion. Thank you for the blueprint on how to carry oneself through life.
Ending on a note amusement, I find I’ve somehow written close to two thousand words on this paper that so convincingly defeated me earlier this week. �Good things seem to happen when I ask myself ‘how does mom do it?’
So that’s what I’ll do as we step into the next chapter of our respective lives.
My birthday wish for you is for you to be able to build a beautiful home for you to rest in, and if needed, to continue working in (I don’t think you will ever retire—you’re too stubborn for that).
Thank you for including me in the story that has just ended, and for supporting me in my medical journey ahead. Please pray for me in UERM. No matter what happens I will always be proud of you.
Happy birthday, mom, and I love you.
She Writes 