Raga stories

I am his number one fan. My late grandfather Nonoy (d. 2008) was a great storyteller. Literally, our neighbors and I would gather in front of him, almost by the road, just on the side of the entrance of Jarry’s Carinderia, to experience the magic of some healers and theurgist, the harrowing ordeal during WWII, his life journey as a very poor laborer, baker, and, eventually, cook in his own carinderia. A local faith healer from a cut-off barrio inexplicably cured a man by breaking a supposed hex of ants strangely coming right out of the man’s skin. As young boys, he and his friends were pursued by Japanese soldiers, but they outwitted them by diving into a dense, thorny bush, forcing the soldiers to give up the chase. He worked as a kargador, and as a baker, which really impressed me a lot. My grandfather worked in a local bakery as a baker. I really think it’s so cool. 

Storytelling starts after dinner time. A couple of neighbors in monoblock chairs, one sitting next to my grandfather on a wonky wooden bench, others constantly shifting weight from one leg to another while quietly standing, and me squatting like a tiny button thumb sucking, as usual.

Some nights, we just ask him to re-tell the same story he has told many times before, like me demanding Ang Pagong at ang Matsing (The Turtle and the Monkey) story for the hundredth time. That’s exclusively for me, though. That’s my favorite story of his. Well, not his his, because that’s a famous Philippine fable popularized by our National Hero, Dr. Jose Rizal. It always, always was a thrill every single time, the way he would pause, then continue with surprising vocal adlibs and expressions that enliven the story. And if he missed some details, I’d make him go back to include all the articles and colors he mentioned on some other nights, like I know the story better than him. My grandfather would patiently repeat as I insisted.

If you know me, you think you see that familiar persona in me. I’m not the slightest bit of a storyteller like him, but I do tend to narrate life events in a detailed and lengthy way.

So let the stories begin. Though, I don’t know where to begin. Right now, I just know that I’d tell you about my childhood as a poor ragamuffin street kid who, contradictorily, studied in a good private school in a then sleepy city of Butuan down south of the country. The juxtaposition is a bit striking when I look back reflecting why I am who I know I am. I am a product of the streets, I always say. That is where I got my survival wits. My childhood playground was the community around my grandparents’ carinderia, that’s right across an old seaport. There, I watched neighborhood kids haul sacks of rice, flour, and cement to earn some cash for food. I was exposed to all sorts of local gambling. Remember Jai Alai, and the local small-time lottery Last-2 and Last-3? I was a substitute usher as a kid whenever my uncle was away to watch cock fights. I saw friends go hungry until the afternoon, surviving on a single meal a day. Seeing the relentless daily struggle forced me to grow up fast, I guess gifted me with self-awareness long before my time. And then I went to a private school. In this school, kids were trained to be good Catholics. We were taught not to step on the grass, to walk slowly and properly instead of running, to sit up straight with hands on the lap during classes, to fall in line, to not chew gum, to keep our candy wrappers inside our pocket or in our bag. We had a weekly speech laboratory class to get our enunciations and pronunciations right. Our school day opens with a “sharing period,” where we describe the weather, perform a group singing, and check on our classmates’ personal hygiene, whether their nails are neatly clipped, ears are cleaned, and hair is washed and groomed. We had to change the flowers in the flower vase on the altar every day. And then I go home to a community of ragas, in a family who allowed me take on responsibilities like an adult.

So yeah, as my grandfather did, I’d like to share stories, from my weirdly contrasting world. I’ll tell you about Nonoy, Auring, Tutay, Julie, Fidela, Loling, and Atong. Because they are my favorite people in the world. Bonus, I might tell you about my office crush (my therapist said it’s okay). And maybe one day, I might tell you about him (not the office crush) (if he allows it) who keeps my world sane, even while I persist in being insane.