Tradition...Tradition!

Easter weekend was a very pleasant visit to my past. I love the rituals and traditions of the Catholic Church. To me, my faith is a light that beckons whenever I am morally lost, usually due to my own stubbornness and oftentimes misguided free will. I do not claim to be the most failthful and perfect Catholic, but I do try.

For an inexplicable reason, I woke up at three a.m. on Easter Sunday. I wasn't sure why I couldn't will myself back to sleep, so I played a computer game on the family PC.

Then I heard it.

The Church bells began to peal, and heard firecrackers being lit, reminding townfolk of the annual Salubong, a procession that symbolically re-unites Jesus and his mother Mary after his resurrection. I decided to get dressed and join the longer procession coming from my part of town, where the statue of the Virgin Mary was waiting. I remember my maternal grandmother would wake me up to join the procession with her every year when she still lived in Manila, and I felt that I should continue with the ritual without her.

I arrived at the barrio chapel, where there were over a hundred people milling around, ready with their candles. I didn't bring a candle, so I bought one from a vendor. A drumroll from the procession's marching band signaled the start of a mile-long walk to the parish church. Upon reaching the town plaza, the statue of the risen Christ had arrived from the church in the next barrio, and sparklers and all sorts of fireworks were lit to celebrate the official start of Easter. Schoolgirls in fluffy white dresses were ushered in to dance the 'bati,' a traditional Filipino Easter dance. Local officials personally hand-pick the girls who would join the troupe, though now usually families who are willing to pay officials to allow their little girls the honor of dancing the Pagbati are the ones chosen. I remember my sister joined the troupe when she was eight, chosen for her natural grace. As I watched the girls, I felt that my niece should continue with the tradition.

Easter mass was celebrated in the town plaza, and I met up with my childhood buddies, the now-aging altar boys who were there to assist the procession. People clapped as a girl dressed as an angel lifted the black veil over Mary's statue. I had been chosen as the angel for two Easters in a row when I was 13 and 14. I wondered why the girl just lifted the veil. How unfair. Under my watch I was made to memorize an entire monologue in Tagalog! And all she had to do was lift the freaking veil. Oh well, she was on a pedestal overlooking the crowd. I remember having to deal with acrophobia then act as if I was used to hovering above people, so I guess I can forgive the perceived slight.

I returned home at around 6 a.m. and slept soundly for three hours when I was roused by my mother, who said I should start dressing up because the family has to go to the Santarin family reunion in Cavite.

Santarin is my paternal grandmother's family, and apparently our esteemed lineage includes Sen. Richard Gordon. I dread going to family reunions. Being an unmarried woman in her 20s supposedly gives people the license to ask why I am not on the family way, unlike my dutiful younger sister, whose fertile ovaries and wide 'child-bearing' hips spit out two children into the world before reaching the age of 25.

The party was to be held at the Santarin family compund, where over 200 people, all bearing the same chinky eyes and square jaws milled about in color-coordinated tables and outfits. Shoot, our branch was supposed to wear green, and I was in white. Nobody told me. No wonder my mother and sister were dressed in green.

And as family reunions go, everybody feasted on the mounds of beef, pork and chicken dishes, all swimming in grease. And as tradition dictates, I was asked for the 4th year running when was I going to bring a boyfriend to the reunion. I have learned to cooly reply that nobody has caught my eye yet. Damn my brother for bringing his girlfriend along.

As usual, talk revolved around family scandals; who was getting married, who was pregnant, who was in the hospital, who was sick, who was on drugs, and who was in rehab. I sought refuge from the heat and the talk with my baby nephew, who had to stay in the family car where there was air-conditioning. I didn't mind baby-sitting him. Apparently my father also had enough of the chatter as well, and joined us. He was probably avoiding his older brother, who had just gotten out of rehab. They haven't spoken to each other in three years, for reasons I have forgotten.

Mercifully, my mother decided that she had had enough a little before three p.m., and said that it was time for us to head home.

In the embrace of tradition and family dysfunction, I felt an odd comfort. Maybe it was the familiarity of it all.