My kind of unselfish people.
I remember a real presence of community during my early childhood, while growing up in Ponciano Street. For one, our old house (which used to be in front of what is now PLDT) was typical of any residence in the day; fully-loaded with the complete pinoy family unit. This meant parents, their children, grandparents and aunts living in under one roof. The neighborhood, you could say, with province-mates, close friends and even distant relatives, was the virtual extension of the ancestral home, where everybody knew everybody. As though to prove this, back then, we little kids could buy goods at the local sari-sari store, using only poker chips. At the end of the day, the Japanese (or Chinese) store owners would come to the house and have it converted to cash at the mahjong game going on. Though I spent early childhood with my siblings, I grew up in the care of my forever-single aunt, and slept in her bed separate from the rest of my brothers and sister. Even till this day, I often dream of this period in my childhood as it were only yesterday.
When we moved during our high school years, that sense of community we used to know, even as it seemed to expand so fast with each year, appeared to also spread thinly; with deaths in the community, in our family (my grandma and aunt) and the slow relocation of other families in the neighborhood. The childhood dreamlike existence of that day slowly faded as we moved our separate ways and gained new experiences and friendships. Even when we were able to return to the old haunts many years later and tried to recapture the old memories of those years, it was saddening because, not only were the old folks gone, so were the houses, which were slowly torn down to make way for more modern office buildings.
Odd as it may seem, ever so often, I would still dream of the old street, complete with the cast of colorful characters of our childhood. Even if I realize that most of the people I’m talking to in my dreams are already dead, that’s just a minor hiccup as reliving the past , though in dream state, is still like coming home again. How I wish it were always like this.
I am reminded of what my late father told me, years before he passed. He was at a function one day with old folks and it was then he realized, all the friends we was expecting had already gone ahead and the rest appeared to be strangers. As something of a weird consolation, I’m hoping, he’s in some reunion right now, with guys in the old hood and not worrying about being left alone anymore. Somehow, everything’s wrapped up in one Chinese proverb I recently read:
All of life is but a dream
All of death is a going home
