In my life where everything changes depending on the insane devaluation of the peso and the flawed, mind-boggling revamp of the PNP hierarchy, very few things remain constant. One is my scapular. Mahal may decide to throw her small hat into the political ring and run for senator, I will not take off my scapular. I don’t remember how long I’ve been wearing this but I’m sure it has been years. I don’t even remember where I got this. My guess is someone gave this to me at the Lady of Mediatrix Church in Lipa. I have had many viewers, especially of Private Conversations with Boy Abunda, who wrote and e-mailed that they can replace my scapular with a silver or a gold one or a new one – but my scapular stays.
I am who I am – sometimes a trying-hard saint, most of the time a shameless sinner–partly because of my scapular. When some camera men would say that I may put it inside my shirt, I say my scapular stays outside where people could see to whom I’m devoted to. I am strong and sure and safe with my scapular. I don’t go to church on Sundays but I go to Baclaran once a week and during times when I’m out of town, I visit the church of that town and I pray as if I were in the Redemptorist Church in Baclaran. Mama Mary was always there when no one else was. And even when everyone is there, she remains with me. And I’m grateful.
Calamias is a small and quiet barrio where people are kind and hardworking. Half of Calamias belongs to Lipa City while the other half belongs to the town of Ibaan. Many years ago, I acquired a small piece of land in Calamias without any tinge of idea that one day I was going to build my most precious sanctuary there. It was a strip of wilderness where pregnant lanzones trees, tall coconut trees, overweight banana trees, long and proud cogon grass, flirtatious guava trees and all sorts of weeds grew in wild abundance. The eastern boundary of this land was a creek with water running through huge rocks which made an exquisite sound so beautiful and relaxing that it could cure insomnia.
Initially, I wanted to build a bahay-kubo in the property, just like the bahay-kubo of my grandparents in our farm in Borongan, Eastern Samar. A nipa bahay-kubo with bamboo floors where we could take a nap on Sunday afternoons, with only the wind humming sweet lullabies.
Micheal Jackson had just performed in Manila during this time and I heard the promoters built a lovely bahay-kubo dressing room for the King of Pop or The Gloved One – now disparagingly called by the paparazzi as The Cuffed One! I sought out some friends to help contact the promoters as I was interested to buy Michael Jackson’s bahay kubo. There were problems, I was told. I could not buy Jackson’s dressing room.
It took years before I started to seriously develop the small piece of land. It took blood, sweat, tears and a lot of laughter to build my rest house in Calamias. On Dec. 8, Calamias celebrates its fiesta in honor of the Immaculate Concepcion. My santcuary is safe because of my good neighbors in Calamias and because of the intercession of Mama Mary. And I am grateful.
Today, I and many friends and relatives whose lives she has touched, celebrate the birthday of the late Tita Conching Sunico. People would shudder in her presence. Some trembled upon hearing her full, firm voice. I had no idea who she was – except that she was my boss – the Executive Director of the Metropolitan Theater and Founder of the Karilagan Cultural Arts International. Actors, models and singers sang, danced and sashayed in front of The Great Impressario. I would be backstage fixing the props and costumes or I would be part of the chorus acting out either as trees in the forest or waves of the big ocean. And each time she would drop by rehearsals, I would steal glances at the formidable lady whose presence was enough to drive away the lost spirits of the Met.
And again, I don’t know how it happened but like a great powerful eagle, she took me under her wings. She showered me with kindness and love. I learned courage from her. Tita Conching taught me not to be afraid to fail or to succeed. And how she taught me how to laugh in wild abandon. Today, I still draw a lot of strength from the memory that once in my life, there was a lady who was kind to me; there was a Tita Conching who loved me – not for what I had (for I had nothing) but for who I was – a dreamer. Happy birthday Tita!
And I am grateful.