Something to celebrate.

Great Wall of China. With Dad, as the photographer.

Only a few people knew how difficult your life had been. Being born in a family of good standing, the idea of one day waking up devoid of anything was, at the very least, disconcerting.

It started with your father’s love for gambling, which caused a sudden and tremendous financial downpour. As a result, the succeeding years were moments of consequential decisions. You took every opportunity to go to a wealthy friend’s house in order to eat decent meals. You begged your grandfather to send you to school. You climbed trees to gather fruits, and subsequently sell them at school. But you faced life, not with contempt or resentment, but with a zealous disposition that one day things would be different.

It was not as easy as you thought it would be. At the young age of 17, you had to go to Manila in a futile attempt of a better life. But things remained the same, and at times, worse. Having been forced into a totally unfamiliar jungle, you had to accept peculiar jobs that demanded labor for a very meager compensation. It was more than the usual eight hour task, with a wage that was barely enough for food. But you took everything lightheartedly, believing that your effort would not be put into waste.

Your jobs ranged from a peanut factory worker to a saleslady in the then NEPA Q-MART. Renting a small room at 10th Avenue, the everyday jeepney ride exposed you to female students wearing white uniforms eagerly walking towards the venerable University of Sto. Tomas. It was your dream to one day wear the same white uniform, and not minding tomorrow’s meal or rent, but just concentrating on your studies. It was wishful thinking, but it was a good starting point.

A door opened when you went back to Bicol. There was an urgent need for an in-house staff in a local convent in the island of Mindoro. Thinking that Mindoro was Mindanao, a place too remote and too far from everybody else’s, you took the chance. Realizing that the island was still part of Luzon, the initial enthusiasm waned. But the chance to study proved to be too good to be true.

It was in the convent that you realized how fortunate you were. The jobs were the usual household chores—cleaning, cooking, going to the market, sewing. In between long hours, you were allowed to go to a local college run by priests. Despite the household chores, you still managed to join a dance group and a theatre guild. Your grades were even better than most students who had the luxury of time.

Five years had passed, and you received your diploma. It was bittersweet. You had to leave the convent and the people you called your family to realize your full potentials. You applied for a position as a school librarian. Armed with wit and talent, you got the job immediately. It was, as you thought, the start of better days.

Better days, however, seemed elusive. The school closed and you were one of the unfortunate employees who was not absorbed by another private school. But in every door that closes, another window opens. There was an opening at the government owned AQUAPHIL. After taking the exam, you were asked to report the next day.

During these trying times, you got married. Despite the seemingly high income of your spouse, you had accepted the condition that he, the eldest male, still has to send all of his siblings to school. This was the responsibility your husband took to himself on the death of his father. Being the wonderful wife that you were, you agreed. It was not easy, but you shared in your husband’s dream to see a brighter future for his siblings.

But the marriage you held sacrosanct was sidelined by an order of priority. Realizing that the money has now been divided between the original and the new family, there ensued a silent altercation between your husband’s relatives. It was a terrible battle to begin with. You were alone, staying in another person’s home, fighting for yourself and what you believe was right. You started questioning yourself about choice, love, priority. You realized that in this kind of battle, sacrifices should be made.

You left the island of Mindoro and went back to your home province in Bicol. It was an abrupt decision. You were already pregnant, but it did not deter you to finally settle the conflict based on your understanding of things. But love, as they passionately say, can move mountains. Your husband had to go all the way to Bicol; plead before an audience that life without you is not life at all. You found it reckless, but sweet. You decided to give love another chance.

The years that followed were finally gracious. You were offered a scholarship at the University of the Philippines in Diliman for a master’s degree in Library Science. You graduated with top honors, delivering the graduation speech on behalf of the class. Your desire for higher learning proved to be too consuming. You took up another master’s degree in Business Administration at the University of Sto. Tomas. Again your performance proved to be exceptional. Then there’s the inevitable doctorate degree.

Life has been different since then. There are no more trees to climb. No more gloomy nights thinking of what the future holds. Happy birthday, Ma! You are love.