Accents
'Supermarket' moms
Because a mother's job never ends, this is one more piece in praise of mothers to whom the world internationally pays tribute every second Sunday of May by designating it as Mother's Day. Be she at arm's reach in the family circle or far, far away in some other country torn from sons and daughters. Be it in action with every bit of her vim and vigor or in solemn prayer for Divine grace, guidance, and intervention.
Somewhere in the heart of the city are formidable mothers who toil each day for family. One such particular spot I found is Iloilo City 's supermarket where I go for the freshest vegetables, fruits, and fish. "Supermarket" moms I call them. In their hurried and harried existence, they struggle to make a life, battle the odds, go with the flow--all winners in overcoming thus far the stereotyped trials and tribulations of motherhood.
The proverbial honorary medals I pin on Fe Turbo, Ma. Luz Huyo, Ma. Paz Eclarinal, Helen Calao, and Felina Sutaridona -- herein enumerated by age, from oldest to youngest. Fe, 64, has fifteen grandchildren, has been selling tomatoes and other veggies at the supermarket for some 35 years now, and is resigned to what seems a never-ending daily routine. A widow, she was able to send all her children to high school. Not one has experienced tertiary education. "Wala ako kwarta pang-college (I have no money for college)," Fe sighed. Our conversation went on while I was selecting green, ripe tomatoes from her display. I brought with me used plastic shopping bags -- I always carry with me some whenever I go marketing -- and spared using a new one from her stock so much so that she added two more tomatoes to my purchase. Fe understood the virtue of recycling.
One particular morning, I came upon Fe's daughter Lilybeth helping her sell. I asked what time they were up, and the reply was hard to believe: 1:00 a.m. And the time they fold up for bed: 10:00 p.m. "Tatlo ka oras lang ang tulog," Lilybeth said. (Only three hours of sleep.) They do take naps after lunch, however, up to two or three hours when the supermarket is emptied of the bustling crowd. Lilybeth herself is a mother of three children and helps her husband, a farmer, make both ends meet by being a supermarket vendor together with her mother
Ma. Luz Huyo from Cabatuan has lived more than half of her 60-odd years in the city's supermarket. From selling farm products, she shifted into a "sari-sari" store of trinkets, school supplies, underwear, and a variety of toys. Marilou to friends, she considers herself a success by supermarket moms' standards. All four of her children are college graduates, thanks to the buy-and-sell she has been engaged in through the years. Calling her mother as the real breadwinner of the family, her daughter Daisy helps in the job that saw them through college. Marilou's husband farms in their town, but what he makes is just enough for survival. Daisy majored in banking and finance, aspired for a bank job to no avail, blaming her joblessness to the scarcity of jobs and the swelling ranks of the unemployed in keen competition with each other.
Former Kagawad Ma. Paz Eclarinal of the city's Brgy. Palapala 1 was weighing the mangoes I had picked from her stall when two women approached her with their sad story concerning a relative who couldn't leave the hospital for lack of payment. In her best take-charge stance, Ma. Paz easily solved the problem, telling them to come up with the necessary papers for her to sign as guarantor. No problem. She said she is running for Barangay Captain in the next election, further saying that winning is not a problem; nonetheless, she added "with prayers" in the characteristic Filipino way of dismissing a predicament.
I asked about the "carburo" added to mangoes to hasten ripening. Nothing of the sort, she said, and guaranteed the quality of the mangoes she's selling in that same tone of voice she guaranteed earlier the patient's checking out of the hospital even with unpaid bills.
Helen Calao was in her hometown in San Miguel tending to her three-year old, the youngest in a brood of five. Holding the fort in her stead is daughter Leonalen, the eldest, who will be in third year high when school opens. She wants to pursue HRM (Hotel and Restaurant Management). Her father is "only a farmer." She is adept with the scales and arithmetic, dispatching with ease vinegar, salt, papaya, and a host of other goods a housewife needs.
Felina Sutaridona of Sta. Barbara has five kids, all boys, ranging from the eldest in the second year high school to the three-year old in the nursery. I am her loyal customer, her "lakatan (banana variety) suki." Like the rest of the mothers, she envisions long years in the buy-and-sell commerce at Iloilo City's supermarket.
That morning when I was ready with pen and paper, I missed Eva Calapardo from whom I bought ampalaya (bitter gourd) about a month ago. Like the rest of the supermarket moms unnamed here, Eva is just as deserving of the "honorary medal" as the five I've mentioned.
They are real people with real names. No aliases used instead. Mainstream folks that politicians like to hug (sincerely we hope), ordinary people going about their daily chores, struggling to make a life as I've said earlier. Simple folks with goals realizable through hard work, or goals already realized -- attained with the grace of God, as Ma. Luz Huyo likes to say. And you get to wonder if the impossible dream and the unreachable stars ever featured in their lives -- the kind that hover in the many who sit on the swivel chairs in aircon rooms removed from the din, smells, and hustle-bustle of a supermarket.
(Comments to lagoc@hargray.com)