My Other Half: My Kapampangan Roots

Not looking at the same river twice (Pampanga River from the side of San Simon, Pampanga: 2017

After more than 15 years, my family trooped to San Simon, Pampanga, my father's hometown, for a reunion with what remains of the clan members there and some balikbayan relatives from Canada. While I was not particularly close to any member of my father's side of the family, I looked forward to the visit.  Not only did I want my son to  connect with his lolo's (grandfather's) family now that he's already an adolescent; I also wanted to see what the place would be like in the eyes of the adult me.

My family used to go to San Simon twice each year - during the barrio fiesta on the 1st of May and some time during the Christmas season.  I looked forward to those visits as we seldom went anywhere together as a family.  Even if it's just a day trip, the visit to San Simon was the closest we'd have for a family vacation. Of course, the Kapampangan food treats, especially during the fiesta, were a great come-on.  I always looked forward to my stash of leche flan  for take-home. Although I could hardly understand the conversations as I  knew very little Kapampangan, I took delight in being doted on and called "malagu" (pretty). Where I came from, I was nothing but an ordinary lass, but there, I was "malagu". I  would also anticipate the invitation to eat, "mangan tamu."

One of the highlights of the fiesta was the afternoon fluvial parade. What a joy it was to see an unusual procession in honor of Saint Peter, the barrio patron saint. Floats were colorfully decorated, true to the Kapampangan way. Village folks, especially men who were already drunk from drinking sprees that would start in the morning, would turn rambunctious sometimes to the delight, sometimes to the annoyance, of those of us who would just watch from the banks of the river.  How I envied those who were in the floats. Fearing for our safety, my parents (or was it just my mother?) didn't allow us to join the parade but for once. I remember not being able to sleep the night before because of excitement.  It was fun being in one of the boats and being immersed in the river, the closest I could get to swimming in the beach, something that someone from the central plains of Luzon didn't have a taste of as a young child.

The best thing about going to San Simon though was seeing my father warmly accepted and well respected not only by members of his family but also by many of the residents of their village. He was not only warmly welcomed in their homes but was also consulted for important matters. He was seen as someone they could depend on, and more often than not, he wouldn't fail them. I still remember vividly how we had to rush to bring him to a medical clinic after someone hit him with hard wood on the head when he attempted to intervene between two drunks who were fighting.  He was asked to help and ended up having to be stitched. Not all good things lead to good results, something I'd learn more and more of over the years.

My walk down memory lane last Saturday was for the most part joyful. I met cousins who are now in their 70s and other relatives whom I now hardly recognize. I had the chance to see the Pampanga river again, looking more calm but seemingly bigger. I felt a certain sadness though when I saw the now abandoned house that my father helped to build for his parents. Although it was a simple house, some folks would refer to it as the Malacanang of San Pedro, being one of the few two-story houses and being made of concrete materials. while most of the surrounding houses were typical bahay-kubo made of light materials. Now, the house has shrunk to a small dilapidated structure, covered with moss and wild plants, dwarfed by the newly constructed houses of OFW famlies.  How sad to see the fruits of my father's and his family's hard work go down the drain.

I couldn't help but think of the impermanence of things. Glory, money, and social status . . . they all fade. Thankfully, the goodness of my father's heart seems to remain alive in the memory of many of his relatives and the few surviving members of the community who knew him. He may not have been the best of fathers, but he certainly had a kind heart.

"No one steps in the same river twice," the saying goes. I'd say no one visits the same place many times over. The physical structures had changed, the people there changed, and I, the visitor, had changed too.