The Umbrella Privacy

Dearest Lala and Abbie,

Today, as me and A-oh drove through streets lined with pushcarts smoke lifting from grilled chicken sheltered under huge umbrellas, I think of your great-grandmother, Lola Perla. In the Philippines, when I was young, umbrellas were not a small convenience. They were a necessity. We used them for rain, of course, and to shield ourselves from the punishing heat of the sun but they also served another purpose, one spoken of quietly and with complete practicality.

Back then, comfort rooms were not always available. When the need came especially for women our umbrellas became a kind of a moving wall, a portable room of dignity. Usually a bushy patch by the roadside and a large umbrella held just right was enough.

So whenever I see umbrellas now, I remember Lola Perla and one particular journey to Acmonan, a small barrio resting at the foot of the majestic Mount Matutum. Every summer, Lolo would send for me to spend the summer with him and Lola or sometimes with my uncles, aunties and cousins. The trip took one bus, a jeepney, and a tricycle  ride from the district where your papu was assigned as a church pastor. I would wait for summer so eagerly, dreaming of guava trees heavy with fruits and the sweet smell wafting from a pot of guava jam Lola used to make.

That summer, I rode the bus sitting on a sack of corn to save fare, my feet dangling, while Grandma dozed beside me, her head nodding with the rhythm of the road. The aisle was crowded with sacks of rice and boxes of fruit, everything stacked and wedged as if the bus itself were holding its breath. Then the bus stopped at a roadside karenderia, so passengers could eat and prepare for the rest of the long journey.

Suddenly grandma nudged me awake. “Take the umbrella,” she said softly.

I understood at once.

We maneuvered our way down the aisle, stepping over cargo and squeezing past knees, climbed off and went to the side of the bus. I held the umbrella in place, my duty clear and serious. But before we had fully settled, the bus suddenly lurched forward and pulled away.

There stood grandma, abruptly exposed, holding nothing but the umbrella. In one swift, instinctive motion, she lifted it to cover her face, as if modesty itself could be preserved by hiding her expression. I stood frozen, half horrified, half amused, watching the bus moved down the road.

Even now, years later, the memory makes me smile. It reminds me that dignity is not always graceful, that survival often comes with laughter close behind. Grandma and I survived the the rest of the long journey home. That memory, even now, tugs at a small string in my heart one tied to laughter and fondness. It is the kind of laughter that arrives late, after embarrassment has softened into a story. When I think of your great grandma, lola Perla lifting that umbrella to hide her face, I feel again the warmth of that moment and I know that some memories stay not because they were grand, but because they were shared with the people we love.