Fancy lampposts are being built along 'Francia. One of the oldest hotels in the city has its front door being fitted with a new glass cover. A new hotel, in fact, has risen right in front of the bus terminal; it is all gaudy yellow and orange, the bluster enough to outshine the sun in the month of September.
All over the city, I can smell the rush and the anticipation. If I were an insect, I could sense the excitement like the unseen presence of water that will turn into a flood. Ordinary beings will not feel it. But Bikolanos are no ordinary humans when September comes.
For the schoolchildren, this year must be a great change: the military parade participated in by Catholic and Christian and non-Catholic and non-Christian will not be as pompous as before. In a decision made months before, the association of Catholic schools released their decision not to participate anymore in such a parade.
We will not see thus young men and women - the same youths who would profess their stand against any militarization - parading in outlandish costumes that are more Halloween than heroic. Perhaps, going, going, gone too the majorettes who each year participate in a contest that pleases the dressmakers, the choreographers with bad taste, and the dirty old men up on the stage judging this bizarre event. But more bizarre really than anything else are the Catholic schools - the priests and the sisters/nuns - who allowed this kitsch all in the name of fame and trophy for so many long years.
For our generation though, the absence or presence of military parades does not matter really. We have long melted such events and threw the dirty alloy in the dustbin or memories. For long ago, we have stood against anything that commanded out of the hollow façade of authority. We are no better than any of the students from that generation but we belonged to that group that protested against a Religion teacher who was more a tyrant and a teacher. Our principal held a dialogue with us, third year students, all of 14 or 15, and agreed to place in our classroom the Religion teacher of our choice. In our second year, too, a school official protested against our wearing of T-shirts, the white one with no collar. He did not stop there with the ban; he elevated the issue of fashion (bad fashion be it so) to the level of morality. The school held a meeting of parents and teachers and students and all voted that on certain days, we should be allowed to wear T-shirts. And that we should not worry about our morality then.
In fairness to this figure of authority, he respected the will of the parents and the students. As a footnote, when this principal died, I worried that since he was not well-loved when he was in the school, no one would visit him during the wake. I went there at night and beheld a place full of people from this city, the same people who were anxious no one would pay his or her last respects to this not-so well-loved person.
From my old high school, I have a proud memory of military parade. The September of 1971 was a year of anti-militarism and anti cleric-fascism. There were real activists in our class, those who were brave beyond their 16 and 17 years who joined teach-ins. The years, however, made all of us activists.
We wore our hair long then, and wore the long hair to the parade.
From afar, the people in the reviewing stand could us, our hair long waving and curling beneath the military caps. The judges and the officials stood shocked. I believe some showed their disgust and anger but we could not see them because we were just concentrating on the commands. We made sure the lines were straight, our stomach tucked in. Even when the announcer described us as long-haired rebels, the words from the blaring sound system was lost in our pride in our young heart that threatened to blow us into the next universe. We just made sure our long hair would not cover our young handsome faces.
You know when fiesta is near because the stones that mark the side of the streets turn white and the trunks of old trees start to assume colors of various persuasions.
Years ago, we colored the days before the fiesta with our voices at 4 and 5 in the early morning as we rehearse our fancy drills. We were aware that we were being made to act like soldiers but we did not care. Years ago, we marched in September, long-haired young men subverting the very authority that the military parade was supposed to stand for.