Lei off!
If ever a Filipino custom needed to be thrown into the dustbin, I would recommend the wearing of leis and garlands.
Yes, I realize garlands are pretty necklaces of flowers woven onto a string. But they’re an itchy expense. Yet as I read on about the lei, I realized their importance in other countries and how detached I had become from the lei and its valuable meaning.
In Hawaii, Vanda orchids, velvetly frangipani blossom, carnations and jasmine are strung onto long necklaces of up to 18 inches and around the neck as customary gifts of both welcome and farewell. They are bestowed with a kiss as a sign of hospitality. The traveler customarily tosses the farewell lei onto the harbor waters as his or her ship leaves. The lei is meant to drift back to the shore indicating that he or she will someday return to the islands.
After an event I throw my lei onto the back seat of the car or put it around a saint statue’s neck at home. If it’s made of shells, it usually releases a loud crackling sound of displeasure at being cast off. It’s amazing how the lei is revered in Hawaii; Hawaiians even celebrate Lei Day on May 1 to symbolize their friendliness. For the rest of the world, May 1 means “red alert” day, with labor groups letting off steam.
Our Philippine leis are allocated nationwide for many occasions and guests, both men and women. They can either be expensive or cheap, depending on the time when you buy them. I’ve been the recipient of calachuchi and ilang-ilang leaves that seem to be 12 inches — too short. Placed over the head, they instantly destroy a hairdo, converting it into a hair don’t. Sometimes my nose gets stuck on the shorter ones. I’ve gone through those awkward seconds during a welcome ceremony, trying to pull a lei over my head and — oops — there go my stray strands of hair. I then become worried about my unruly hair for two hours during the duration of the program. Was the one second worth it?
Many times I’ve seen ants parading into my line of vision from the flowers of a hanging lei. I give them a strong squeeze, but sure enough, more ants come along; I flip them away as femininely as possible, realizing my hosts are watching; I can’t embarrass them. Other times my guests are the objects of affection for bugs hidden in leis. Those cute little buggers crawl all over them, mindlessly. If it’s a girl I say, “Excuse me, you have an ant crawling down your breast.” If it’s a man I say, “Watch it!” But I can’t kill the lady bug on his collar, so I say, “Your collar, General… there… there, it’s just jumped away!”
I began with a total ban on leis and garlands. As I read on about how precious they are, I discovered that the custom of wearing leis predates the 19th century. Nor is it restricted to any particular culture. Should I retract my naysaying to the lei?
Perfumed garlands have been used for many purposes. Ancient Egyptians placed them on mummies. During the Ptolemaic era (305-308 B.C.) the Greeks used them to decorate their homes, civic places and temples; an ancient book was discovered, explaining the appropriate plans, proper time, position and the preferred style of wearing and displaying garlands.
For festive occasions the ancient Romans wore garlands of strung rose petals. On European festival days such as Corpus Christi, cattle are bedecked with neck garlands. On Indian holy days, the Hindus take garlands to the temple to be blessed before wearing them. They also hang garlands on the statues of their deities.
Perhaps if I had known more about leis, just 10 minutes sooner, say, before writing this column, I’d appreciate them more. You see, they are governed by protocol. A lei is usually presented with a kiss — a custom that began during World War II. Traditionalists, however, offer a lei by bowing slightly and raising it above the heart, allowing the recipient to take it. Raising the hands above another’s head, or touching the face or head, is considered disrespectful in some cultures. In my case, I have to bend downward because there are more petite woman than tall ones. Already, we’ve disastrously broken protocol.
By tradition, only open leis are given to a pregnant or nursing women.
If, due to allergies or other reasons, a person cannot wear a lei which has just been presented (for instance to a musician who might tangle the lei in his guitar strap), the lei is displayed in a place of honor, such as on the musician’s music stand or microphone stand. For the allergy-afflicted, I suggest a tablet of Claritin; it’s the ideal cure.
Did you know that leis should never be thrown away casually or tossed into the trash? Traditionally, they should be returned to the place where they were gathered. If that’s not possible, they should be returned to the earth by hanging them from a tree, burying or burning them. A lei represents love and to throw one away represents throwing away the love of the giver. Isn’t that nice to know? Yes, but if I’m the only one who knows lei protocol, what’s the use of observing such delicacy over garlands I don’t like anyway?
Corsages are my next most-hated accessory. A wedding invite may specify a yellow motif, but I can’t have a yellow dress made. The next wedding invite will request their ninang to wear a maroon terno or a blue one. Not all of us would still have funds to buy wedding gifts if we kept on ordering new wedding clothes. So I stick to beige. Then, arriving at the venue, someone pins on my chest a corsage of red, gray or pink. It’s okay, every ninang looks like me… but when I have a pearl necklace or tambourine and a corsage is added to my left side it just clashes with my accessories and my clothes and my panuelo gets crumpled. The safety pin tears my piña baro and the nearer the corsage is to my chin, the more the leaves tickle my neck.
Corsages: how sweet-smelling they are when made of nosegay flowers. Eventually carrying them became a hassle with two hands, so corsages came to be pinned somewhere on the body. And they’ve been worn that way since the 18th century. The corsage of the 20th century was traditionally given by an admirer to a lady. It’s usually an orchid, gardenia, or a small bunch of wild flowers to be worn on the waist, shoulder, wrist or attached to a handbag. I like to give corsages to young girls attending high school events — homecomings, proms, church services on Christmas and Easter and especially for the mothers of the bride and groom at their children’s wedding.
Electric fans and paypays can be hazardous objects as well. Try going to a provincial dinner. Electric fans are precisely placed where the guest of honor is seated, which usually happens to be right in front of my dry eyes. Electric fans make my hair fly in countless directions while I reach for my eye drops. The more the hair flies the happier the old women are because they’re accomplishing their task of stopping my perspiration.
Now a paypay is another disastrous item. Attendants used them to cool off Cleopatra and their fans were made of nipa and palm leaves. Thus the queen was luxuriously fanned. But the old women fanning me usually giggle and laugh loudly, in spite of my carrying on a conversation. They chitchat, unmindful of the thunderous noise they’re generating. It’s typhooning, too, with the electric fan. I say, again raising my voice, “Tama na please, okay na,” But they don’t listen or stop!
The most precious paypay I have ever seen and experienced was in a Laguna home built during the early 19th century. In the center of a very long dining table, descending from the ceiling to a meter above the table, were two giant swathes of fabric, three meters wide, very stiff, to be used for swinging back and forth alternately by two maids who pull on long cords from both ends of the table. How romantic and practical. By the way, the fabric used then was called madrinague, made of abaca.
Speaking of the province, I really wonder why all first dances during fiestas are waltzes? I don’t like to dance the waltz. It’s so dated, so old — so ancient.
All told, I’ve decided to limit my “don’t like” list to just four items. In other words, most of our other customs remain lovable and tolerable.
