Paredes Funeral Homes (My first “home”) November 1, 2006

Growing up in a funeral parlor
By Arlene Paredes

Published on Page C4 of the November 1, 2006 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer

I GREW up in a house attached to a funeral parlor. My elementary classmates knew me as Arlene-Paredes-Funeral-Homes. (Now that I’m writing it, I can actually laugh about it. But back then, it surely wasn’t funny!)

What most people in our little town know is that I was the child who grew up in a sari-sari store standing next to a funeral parlor. What they didn’t know, and perhaps what’s difficult to believe, is that it was fun for me (only because I was curious and playful) and the experience had so much to do with the way I look at death today.

Because when I was growing up, every day was All Souls’ Day, and I wanted to drive a funeral car. The staff of HBO’s “Six Feet Under” must’ve talked to people who had the same childhood as mine. A garage of funeral cars used to be my playground.

Once, when one funeral car was unlocked and there was no one around, I hopped in and pretended I was driving it. Of course the car didn’t move; but I do remember having fun.

It’s both creepy and amusing now that I didn’t even bother then about the fact that the car actually carried coffins and human corpses almost every day. No, I wasn’t exactly being brave. I was just being a playful kid. After all, I was only six or seven at that. But if anyone would dare me to do the same thing now, I would definitely think twice. To be honest, I’d probably chicken out.

Must-have item

My familiarity with the coffins I saw daily must’ve bred a certain level of comfort in me, such that one coffin became a must-have item. Yes, there was a time when I actually chose a cute little coffin for myself. What happened after I announced a coffin preference was a form of education for me. I learned what not to do so as not to get into trouble.

The lesson started one morning, when my mother had just arrived from the market. I welcomed her with a gleeful announcement: There was a very cute small coffin on display, and I could fit in there!

My mother was just coming in through the display room. I pointed to the cute coffin, but was not prepared for her response. She slapped my tiny arm!

I shouldn’t make fun of fitting inside something like that, my mother yelled. I just invited Death to our door, she said. Naturally, I didn’t understand her reaction. But I was bound to see her point.

Not long after that day, I got very sick. It was the first time that I saw fear in my mother’s usually fierce eyes. She said I suffered from convulsions, which I don’t remember now. But from then on, my mother would always remind me of that stupid thing I did that almost cost me my life.

How can you take away superstition from death and dying? I guess you can’t. Because when it comes to preserving your life, you’re not supposed to take any chances.

There were early mornings when I woke up to the sound of people sobbing—families wanting to get a funeral service for their loved one. There were late nights, too, when I heard gentle knocking on our door, with voices of women weeping in the background. They too, needed funeral services. A funeral parlor is a 24/7 business. You can never tell anyone to “please come back later.”

Death happens anytime, I realized early in life. It can come in the morning, or midnight, or afternoon. Death also comes as a result of many things: murder, accident, nightmare, long illness, old age. I thought I’d heard all the stories back then.

Whenever there was a bereaved family in the funeral parlor, I’d immediately ask my father, “Ano’ng ikinamatay?” (What’s the cause of death?) Sometimes, my father would try to make light of it. Yet, even as he would say, “Eh nakalimutang huminga” (He forgot to breathe), his eyes would betray him and reveal his sympathies for the family.

Dressing up the dead

It was always clear to me that he never got used to seeing families crying for their dead. And it was much more difficult when the family was a close relative.

The film “Masahista (directed by Brillante Mendoza)” showed portions of how embalming is done and how the dead gets dressed up after the procedure. I must say, everything in “Masahista’s” funeral parlor scenes was plausible. Although the whole procedure is creepy, the embalmer is not a sinister or weird guy. He’s just a regular person doing something scary. (No one would allow me to watch the embalming before, but I was curious and I had my ways.)

The funeral parlor’s garage was a form of shortcut to my sister’s house, so I passed through that garage frequently, and alone. I was convinced I was brave. But I soon realized I was wrong, because I just couldn’t be found alone with a stranger’s corpse!
One afternoon, when I was going home from my sister’s house, I was greeted by a sight I didn’t know how to handle. There was one unidentified corpse lying on the garage, with no one around. The people from the funeral parlor were in the middle of some discussion outside, so I had to half-run my way to our house. I made a mental note to pray that I wouldn’t be caught dead with a corpse in one room again.

I must note, too, that the first camera I ever handled was the one owned by the funeral parlor. I shot no hair-rising photos, and encountered no frightening ghosts, thank God.

I was already 16 when I left our house that stood beside a funeral parlor. Now, over 10 years later, I don’t think I can ever go through that experience again. A lot of things have already ceased to become familiar, and that means I no longer feel comfortable about standing amid coffins, let alone staring hard at them, or sitting inside funeral cars, or using a funeral parlor’s camera, or staying for over a minute in a garage for hearses.

But some things don’t change. For instance, I still look at death the way I learned to look at it in my childhood: It is that which happens to a person when it’s Time.

“Hanap-patay,” a pun on “hanapbuhay,” is often used to describe the funeral parlor business. Technically, however, no business looks for the dead; because businesses need people who are alive and can pay for them.

The funeral parlor doesn’t even have to work on the “hanap” part. Business comes to them. There’s one thing I know and can remember about the business: it is (literally) not for the fainthearted. (Inquirer link here.)

E-mail crypticmess@gmail.com

“Bunsung-bunso” June 14, 2006

The First Magician in My Eyes
By Arlene M. Paredes, 2bU! Correspondent

Published on Page C2 of the June 14, 2006 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer

IT must have been really tough for you then, Tatay. You were 69 when I came into the world, a helpless tiny infant.

Then you were in your mid-70s when I was a hyperactive, crazy-dramatic, irrationally demanding and attention-hungry toddler. But you loved me well and you took care of me as a doting lolo-tatay.

I didn’t help make it easy for you. I was a very naughty child. Once, I made you gasp for air after you had to chase me around the house to try to discipline me with your scary sinturon (leather belt). I was mischievous and rather challenging, so I ran away from you, unmindful that I was giving you a really tiresome exercise. I still got the whip, all right, and remembered never to mess up with you again.

But more than remembering the lesson learned, I wish I didn’t have to make fatherhood even harder for you than it already was. But I was your daughter and you knew what you had to do and you loved me still. I never even once got to really thank you for loving me in spite of the very difficult situation we were in.

You made the most of what we had and tried your best so I, as a child, would not feel the lack of a strong father in my very vulnerable years.

I know a lot of children who aren’t so fortunate to get even a glimpse of a father. But you always gave your best. Dressed in a barong Tagalog, you fetched me from my school on the first day of classes. People must’ve thought it was weird, but I knew you had not fetched a child from school in a very long time and must’ve forgotten that you could opt to dress down for it.

Fortunately, the more appropriate time to wear the barong Tagalog came when we accepted my first medal in school. You must’ve been the oldest father in the Recognition Day crowd, but on that day you must’ve felt proud. At least I hope you did. Because apart from that, I can’t deny that I gave you a lot of unnecessary trouble growing up.

When I was 4 or 5 years old, I gave you quite a shock when I stuck my head between the wooden bars of our sari-sari store. Naturally curious, I played and tried to see if my tiny head (no, not tiny, I was fat!) could fit between the wooden bars of our store window.

I was amused that it did, but quickly I realized I couldn’t get my head out. So I cried and wailed like a siren for our entire little town to hear! You had to run out and call your carpenter friend to cut the bars using the smallest saw. Funny, but I don’t remember how afraid I was with the saw only an inch away from my neck!

You were in a state of real panic then, but all I could think of was, “Oh, my God! I’m sure Tatay will keep my head intact!” Of course, you did. Nanay and I would later look back at that time and, though we both knew it wasn’t funny at all, we’d end up laughing hard about it.

Nanay had all these stories of how tense you were when she was pregnant. You probably were anxious that the capacity to take care of a person was already beyond you. But see, we turned out fine because you never let your age get in the way of being the best father that you could be.

Before you got very ill, we enjoyed fun rides together around the town, on your bike and your old truck. Next to your patience, love and care, my ultimate gift from you was this little bike with a sidecar that you got from a passing junk collector. With your natural craftsmanship, you made it look almost new, and I had something that most of my playmates then could only dream of: my own wheels, a real funky ride!

When you finished reassembling that bike for me, you became the first magician in my eyes, turning junk into precious treasure. Later, I would realize that you were indeed a magician because you could see things differently. What others saw as trash, you transformed into a magical wonder of a toy. And when I was difficult to love, you looked through me and found good reasons to never give up on me.

You were the first one to go the extra mile to love me a bit more each day, even when I was unwittingly making myself so unlovable. Movies like “Riding in Cars with Boys” where a daughter can talk her heart out to her father never fail to make me cry, because it’s an important experience that I wish I had been able to share with you (including more fun truck rides around the town).

See, even before I could understand a bit about myself to start talking of my angst, you had become too sick to talk to me about even the mundane things. It was just part of my being human to always wish for more. But in hindsight, you gave me everything you could while you still could, and that’s more than enough for me.

I was 17 when you died. I prayed for God to let you live until you’re “90-plus” because I thought by then you would have walked me down to the altar and met your grandchild from me. But God said, no, you had to go. God, of course, is always right. There’s a time for everything and you made our time together all worthwhile.

There is no way for me to thank you enough. But I’m writing this for my sake–so I’ll remember that my father loved me, and that love should be enough to carry me through whatever difficulties I’d meet.

I’m sure you and Nanay are watching over me now, and will always do. So here’s to love and to a great father. Happy Father’s Day, ‘Tay! (Inquirer link here.)