Lola Herstory
When I think herstories of Filipinas, I often think of women who are geographically and genetically removed from me. They are idealized folks who have life figured out and seamlessly faced adversity. Whenever I think about my Lola, I center myself in her life: she babysat me, she cooked for me, and I punished her by imposing English-speaking conversations on her during my middle school years. As a historian and feminist in my adult life, I sat with my mother to learn and honor my Lola’s herstory.
My Lola finished school at the 6th grade level. She skipped a grade but her schooling was also disrupted in the 4th grade due to the Japanese occupation of the Philippines during World War II. Her parents and 7 siblings traveled by cutting through sugar plantations while Japanese soldiers monitored roads. It was safest this way and they hopped from farm to farm for refuge. One horror story that she willingly repeats, how soldiers threw babies in the air to stab them. I don’t know what other horrors she faced, but they had a constant need to flee. After the war was over, they returned to their original house in Luyos Tanauan Batangas and her father would refurbish the used cannons from the war into profitable pots and pans. He continued to reshape that material to even be water tanks. This brought middle-class wealth to their family. They were also involved in growing and selling cacao. They were the only ones who possessed a rice mill in this province that catered to 5 barrios.
Most of the women in her family and neighboring families got married at 14. Her opportunity for a college education shattered when the oldest brother got married after college. He was supposed to aid his 9 siblings when he completed his college degree. She fled at 18 to be with my Lolo, who was a charismatic playboy that fell in love with her at school. Her father wouldn’t speak to her for a decade. She lived at my Lolo’s father’s (my great-grandfather Felix) during their cohabitation. All this practice was taboo and shameful for a Catholic country. Great Lolo Felix would ostracize my Lola while my Lolo was away looking for work. She eventually gave birth to Uncle Gilbert and it was difficult being a new mom in an unwelcoming environment. My Lolo’s Brother (Eugenio) would aid her the best he could, and little did we know that they both created safe spaces for each other, an unmarried mom and a young, budding queer boy. They were nurturing forces for Gilbert. She pleaded with my Lolo for a safe place and their first house was a hut made out of coconut trees and bamboo materials.
Eventually they had a second small house/bahay where my Lola would have my mom (Virgie), raise a garden, and tend to livestock including a cow, chickens, and pigs. My Lolo was building a career with the barangay as the police captain. That promotion moved him to Laguna when my mom was 12. My Lola worked in a factory that produced paper fibers for currency till she was 52 while still caring for chickens and pigs and being a mom. Gilbert primarily cared for the livestock with her, and my mother spent most of her life studying and excelling in school.
When she was 52 her whole life changed. My Lolo was murdered on the job and his killer remains a mystery. He was on his way home and he was shot 32 times. My Lola was angry (I’ve never seen her angry, so color me surprised) and couldn’t stop crying for a year, so my mom invited her to live with us in Guam. My parents were nurses and raised us on this little island only 3 hours away from the Philippines. She spent 9 years with us before moving back to Laguna. While she carried a smile on her face and loved us terribly stubborn kids, her stress about his murder lingered. She had a heart attack at the end of those 9 years. She lived past that tough time with the care of my parents.
This barely scratches the surface of what my Lola endured. I only know this much because of what she is willing to disclose. I share this story because we all keep secrets, build narratives, and hope for a brighter and better future for those that come after us. Barriers still place a great deal of misunderstanding before me: language barrier, generational bias, and my American privilege. In sharing this story, I hope we bridge the gap we have between elder folks and the new generation because of the way we both carry pain and manifest joy.
Cheers to herstories we are all STILL writing, investigating, and finding.
