“If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere.”
That line from Frank Sinatra’s song was my personal anthem while I was growing up in Manila’s version of the Bronx: Tondo. Anybody who’s lived there would know how difficult it is to convince cab drivers that they’ll get out of Tondo alive.
But despite the stereotype, there are living in Tondo has its plus factors.
Though my siblings and I were not the type of kids who ran around the neighborhood to play, Tondo’s diverse and active environment helped us grow into streetsmart adults. We learned how to ignore the usual “Hi, Miss” remarks by street bums, to keep our minds in Zen mode whenever we hear gunshots or women crying at 2am, and to wake up to our neighbor’s drunken rendition of “Ocean Deep” by Cliff Richard at 8am-ish.
Thanks to a narrow street called Gerona, our family had fun living as a pack of “aswangs”.
Sometime in the early 2000s, my family moved in to a post-war Spanish-style house on 630 Gerona St, after living in a modern apartment in Velasquez, also in Tondo. The property was practically empty for years as it housed only one elderly woman. So when our quiet and reserved family settled in, a group of our new neighbors’ children felt it was just right to brand us as aswangs, vampires in Filipino folklore.
Hearing whispers like “aswang yan!” or being asked directly, “aswang ka ba, ate?” during my daily walks to and from the Pritil market where jeepneys going to Tayuman usually convene was a regular thing. I never confirmed nor denied. Honestly, I took advantage of this scary image to prevent the same kids from climbing our fences and rusty green gate when their ping pong balls and volleyballs accidentally enter our “lair”. When we were relatively new to the place, these children would directly climb up our property like it was an extension of their playground area–with no reserve whatsoever.
I figured I had to live up to their expectations.
Since then, the children learned to knock. There were times when they didn’t even bother to ask back for their toys retrieved because my deadpan face was effectively scary even in broad daylight when aswangs are not in duty. And our dogs weren’t friendly to them either.
The homes surrounding ours were full of life. There was so much life that on some nights, our car could not enter because the entire street was closed for someone’s birthday party.
Every New Year’s Eve, my parents would would send us to our aunt’s house on Juan Luna Street in Tondo. The next morning, our beds would be filled with debris, usually pieces of wood from our bedroom walls.
The author at home in Tondo.
The house was a standout. It was sold to my parents by an elderly lawyer. It was a 1900s beauty that’s lost in the millennium. The 120-square meter bahay na bato (stone house) had every inch of Spanish colonial architecture embedded in its decaying wood and faded bricks. The gate was wide enough to allow the entrance of a horse and carriage. The lot surrounding the house boasted a variety of plants. The first level was made with stone, while a staircase leading to the second floor was losing its grip and foundation to termites.
Upstairs was a different scene. There were two rooms on the second floor. The bigger room served as the bedroom my sister and I shared with our female helper. Flashback to decades before we moved in, it could have been the previous owners’ ballroom area. It housed antique furniture and figures of saints. Meticulously carved wooden panels lied beneath the sliding windows made of rosy capiz shells. Now that I reminisce, the thought of having important and maybe even historical names stepped onto that room gives me the chills. How many magnificent parties it must have hosted in its heydays! But come 2003, our bunk beds became the room’s “centerpiece”, along with my books, worn-out toys, late-night tears, daydreams and actual dreams.
Since the other room was occupied by my older brother, my mother’s resourcefulness jumped in and paved the way for a makeshift bedroom to be built in the first floor. With the help of carpenters and plywood, my parents finally had their own room below the staircase.
Despite the look and build, it was our haven for almost a decade. It was where I had unforgettable birthdays; where my sister and her friends spent nights finishing their bachelors thesis; where we kept five dogs and loved them all, plus around 20 lovebirds and an iguana; where my brother introduced a girlfriend for the first time; and where the whole family shared our last moments with our father.
Today, the lot is owned by a different family and no traces of that house could be seen. It’s now a four-story concrete building painted yellow and red. The new house is now a perfect fit in a place that’s surrounded by buildings and commercial centers. Gone are the pink capiz shells I loved to stare at; pets and plants are nowhere to be found. I could only wish that the family it now shelters realize what a magnificent house it once was. In my heart, that that area in Gerona Street will always be the same.
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