No TV Policy

Dearest Lala and Abbie,

Your fondness for reading comes from a deep pool of readers, a lineage shaped by the quite discipline your great-grandfather insisted upon. In a modest, charming home shaded by the reaching branches of large guava trees, I first learned the particular joy that reading brings, the kind that settles into you and stays.

During the summers I spent with Lolo and Lola, time moved slowly, as if it, too, had decided to rest in the shade. In the afternoon past siesta time, when I am done wandering through cacao trees and hacking my way through the bushes, I remember lifting though the crisp pages of Reader’s Digest its thin pages smelling faintly of ink.

I remember there was a TV in the living room but it was never turned on except for the evening news or the occasional documentary, next to it were neatly stacked volumes of Reader’s Digest, which arrived faithfully each month in the mail their glossy covers catching the light. The television itself was always locked, as if temptation had been formally denied. But the book shelf beside it remained slightly open, inviting, almost conspiratorial, as though they were quietly urging you to reach in and take a book instead.

I was not always fond of your great-grandpa. In truth, he frightened me. His rules were many, his discipline iron-tight, and his presence filled a room long before he spoke. He was a teacher, known by his students for his strictness and for the thin bamboo stick he always carry, called Oway, always ready, always visible, like a warning made of bamboo.

He set rules that seemed suited for royalty, though we were far from it. Our dining table wasn’t long and we did not eat with silver spoons or forks. Still, the way we ate mattered greatly. The spoon and fork must never make a sound against the plate. Arms were not to stretch across the table in greedy reach. Instead, there were proper words, carefully spoken “Please pass the rice,” or whatever dish sat just beyond your place.

Close you mouth, chew your food quietly and slowly, do not talk with food in your mouth, never leave the table while the elders were still eating and if you truly had to leave, you asked permission, excusing yourself with such politeness it felt almost ceremonial.

At the time, I resented these rules. They made me tense, self-conscious, afraid of making the smallest mistake. But now, when I look back, I see something else beneath the fear. He was teaching us restraint, awareness, respect not only for others, but for ourselves. What felt like control was also care and love delivered in a language he knew best: order, discipline, and quiet expectation.