CRYING FOR CORY

I was never a fan and I never expected to cry, but I did. As Kris Aquino thanked each of her sisters for the parts they have played, as she told Noynoy that he is now her son Joshua’s security blanket, as she expressed her gratitude to the Filipino people for supporting their mother and for sharing their grief, I watched, transfixed, through eyes blurred by tears. And as I did, I began to wonder why I was crying for the woman in yellow.

I was a young girl growing up in Ilocos when Ninoy Aquino was killed and his widow was thrust into public consciousness. As a clueless kid surrounded by people who venerated Marcos, I heard the name Cory mentioned with both consternation and contempt. In Marcos country, she was the enemy who did not really matter – a mere housewife of a dead ex-senator unworthy to stand against a man who postured like a god.

It was in March 1986 when I first saw Cory. It was the graduation of the Philippine Military Academy Sinagtala Class and she was attending as the president of the Republic of the Philippines and commander-in-chief of the Armed Forces. I was a wide-eyed kid attending as a relative of one of the graduating cadets. It was a time of great celebration and boundless optimism, but as I watched the revelry from the stands of Fort Del Pilar, I failed to truly grasp the event’s significance.

Midway through Cory’s presidency, I entered the university and began what turned out to be a defining phase in my life. I read Marx, listened to Buklod songs and got to know Liberation Theology. The girl who did not quite understand had assumed a political identity and its color was a vivid red.

With my activist friends, I protested against tuition fee deregulation and excessive debt servicing. I mocked the Comprehensive Agrarian Reform Program as just another charade of a hacienda-owning president. And when Cory decided to support the presidential bid of a former general who served Marcos while Ninoy was held political prisoner, I shook my head and wondered how she could have finally lost her wits.

My political hue turned from crimson to pale red when I left the idealistic confines of the university and began my struggle to survive the rat race. Cory had left Malacañang but not the limelight. She was still a political figure who wielded great influence, and in January 2001, her yellow and my red met and mixed at the EDSA Shrine to decry the excesses of a macho president. It was the second and last time for me to see her, and when the womanizer who wore a silly armband had been castrated, her yellow and my red went on separate paths once again.

Now, a few hours after Cory was finally laid to rest beside her beloved Ninoy, I am writing what I hope could pass as a tribute, and as I do so, I begin to understand why I have been shedding tears for the woman whose political shade did not mix well with mine.

In life, what draw people together are what they share in common. I was never drawn to Cory while she lived, but after watching the outpouring of grief for the simple housewife who toppled a dictatorship, I realize that even if our political beliefs are polar opposites, we all share an innate appreciation for and understanding of what is noble and good. What really binds us together is not our social or political affiliation but our humanity.

I cried for Cory not because she was a former president and an icon of democracy, but because she was a wife who stood by her husband through thick and thin, a mother who loved her children unconditionally, a woman who fought her battles with dignity, and a person of faith who wholeheartedly trusted her God even when she had reasons to doubt. Cory was, to paraphrase Conrado de Quiros’ French, one damn good human being - that’s certainly worth crying for.