It was Palm Sunday, the day my grandson Sancho graduated from grade school. I was invited and felt honored. Sancho is the oldest son of my youngest daughter. When he was born I went to the States to teach her how to take care of him and all her succeeding babies. He was born under crisis. She was in labor for more than 24 hours. They wanted to give her a Ceasarian section but she refused. The baby was stressed as apparently all babies are after 18 hours of labor. In the end she popped him but he got jaundice.
That’s about the time I walked in. My grown-up daughters made me come after they got home from the hospital. I am terrible at their births. I cannot stand to see my children go through such pain so I get very stern to keep myself from falling apart. But they know I love babies and know how to take care of them. So I have been present at every first birth to teach them everything I know about babies.
Sancho was a dear baby but he was initially nervous and required being carried all the time. When he was newborn and his mother was resting, I would dance him to sleep. I noticed that every night at around 10:30 p.m. he would cry as if so afraid and would not stop until I danced him to sleep, until his mother was strong enough to take over that role.
I remember we had to have his picture taken and we fixed his hair, brushing it upward. He looked so cute, like a little round onion. We were boarding the plane for home the day Princess Diana died. Now here he is all of 14 years old. How time flies! My grandson is graduating and here I sit wrapped in memories of him as a newborn baby.
His is the Kaluchuchi class. That’s what they call themselves. Onstage is a kalachuchi tree with white tubes taped to it. I can’t figure out what it’s doing there. People arrive in random dots of irregular sizes – small groups, big groups. The chairs fill up but it’s late. Everything starts late in the Philippines.
Finally, the processional. The graduates walk down the aisle while the orchestra plays. Sancho’s little brother, Andres, is part of the orchestra. He plays the violin wonderfully. Andres is the family musician. He loves musical instruments and plays them well. So now the graduates march down the aisle dressed in white. The boys look awkward and uncomfortable. The girls look gorgeous and grown up. I remember I had my best female figure at 14. It stayed until I turned 16 then it went progressively downhill.
The teacher stood at the bottom of the stage handing the graduates bouquets of white kalachuchi. They went upstage and put them in the tubes taped to the kalachuchi tree. Now the kalachuchi tree looked better. Now I understood why there were all those tapes.
The ceremonies began. The teacher went onstage to give gifts to her pupils. To one of the girls she gave the gift of serenity – not Serenitea, she pointed out. To Sancho she gave the gift of sensitivity, warning him against his sarcasm. Is Sancho sarcastic? I asked myself. I felt a silent pride. One must be intelligent to become sarcastic.
Beside me sit a couple with endless little children. One of the little boys keeps inserting himself in my space. He irritates me. I look for his parents. His father is staring at the stage. I cannot identify his mother. Nobody seems to look after the manners of this little boy. I wonder how I will deal with this.
Next time he stands in front of my chair I bend and say, “Kakainin kita” (I will eat you). Then I laugh. My daughter says I must have sounded like the wicked witch. He scurries away to his father’s lap and stays there. Every once in a while I catch him staring at me with big horrified but curious eyes. I simply look at him and he buries his face on his father’s shoulder. I think I taught him to respect other people’s space.
The reception is held at a place I will call a country club in the middle of nowhere. That’s what it felt like to me because I had never been there before and there was nothing but darkness around. But it was a lovely place with dining tables set up. We settled into a table, my daughter, her boyfriend, her father and me. All the little boys in our patchwork family dashed off to another table where they sat together. They are all good friends. Sancho’s father and his girlfriend sat at another table. What do you expect from a patchwork family? Patchwork seating arrangements as well. But in the end, my family is growing up and I am growing old. I did not think it would be this much fun.
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