For 24 years, the whole time I was in the Philippines prior to leaving for the United States, I knew that my father owned a gun. I can’t tell you what kind it is, or what it looks like, because I never actually saw it. I only heard it. Because, every New Year’s Eve, my father would take out his gun from wherever it was hidden and, at the stroke of midnight, he would slip out into the backyard and fire celebratory shots into the night sky, the noise competing with all the exploding firecrackers in our Manila neighborhood.
My father died in early December of 1969, a year after I left for America. I don’t know what happened to his gun, but some years later I heard from my siblings that, late one night, when my mother heard someone walking stealthily on the roof of our old house in Sta. Mesa, she apparently found my father’s gun and did what he did, slipping out into the backyard and firing warning shots into the night sky, frightening not just whomever was up there on the roof, but also all future intruders. Those gunshots were to let everyone in the neighborhood know that my mother had a gun in the house, and that she was not afraid to use it.
On the highway, whenever someone passes me on the right, or when someone cuts into my lane without signaling.
On airplanes, whenever there are mothers who do nothing to stifle the penetrating screams of their crying infants.
In posh hotels, whenever affluent one-percenters give me the finger because I’m wearing my Bernie Sanders t-shirt.
At home, while watching the news on television, and it’s (almost always) about Benghazi or Hillary’s e-mails or, worse, the latest pearls of wisdom from Donald Trump, Ben Carson, Ted Cruz, Carly Fiorina, Mike Huckabee, ad nauseam.
In the classroom, whenever an overly enthusiastic student will not shut up and give those who are more timid a chance to speak. When I started to feel this way, about five years ago, I decided it was time to retire.
I may be a son of a gun, but thank God I don’t have a gun. Now, if I had a hammer, guess what I would do with it?
Never mind that host Steve Harvey mistakenly referred to people from the Philippines as Philippians. The recent brouhaha over the crowning of the wrong Miss Universe is a good time to reflect on other memorable beauty pageants for Filipinos. Pia Alonzo Wurtzbach is not the first Miss Philippines to go on and win the coveted Miss Universe title. She is, in fact, the third, the other two being Gloria Diaz (1969) and Margarita Moran (1973).
While we’re at it, there’s an equally impressive line-up of winning misses from the Philippines who have also been crowned at other beauty pageants. To date, we’ve had one Miss World (Megan Young in 2013); and no less than five Miss Internationals (Gemma Cruz in 1974, Aurora Pijuan in 1970, Mimilanie Marquez in 1979, Precious Lara Quigaman in 2005, Bea Rose Santiago in 2013).
That’s nine beauty queens…and counting! Each one had more than 15 minutes of fame in the Philippines. They’ve inspired generations of capable young Filipinas not to be humble nurses and teachers, nor anonymous servants and nannies, but to aspire to fill out those swimsuits and evening gowns, and to weep copious tears of joy when it all pays off.
That’s how you get over colonialism. That’s progress. St. Paul couldn’t have said it better in his Epistle to the Philippians.