LUZVIMINDA.
The moment I saw her name on the headline, I frantically grabbed the newspaper in the stall, with high hopes that she was the woman I have been looking for almost half a century. She was my closest friend who witnessed how my life was at sixes and sevens during World War II until Martial Law; yet afterwards, we lost touch.
Nearly four decades after our last encounter, I still remember how we shared the same sentiments—all the atrocities in forcing us to succumb to the foreigners when they decided to invade the haciendas we inherited. We even mocked the Western and Chinese suitors who tried to woo Luzviminda before they ceased their efforts.
“Madam, 20 pesos,” the lady at the counter signaled me twice before I realized the long queue behind me in the convenience store.
“Oh perdona! Here… here…” I said apologetically, giving the orange 20 peso bill right away before a senior citizen next in line could call me out.
Thereafter, I began to read the article written about my friend. In dismay, I wanted to defend her from the critics who attacked her in the News and Columns sections, yet there was nothing else I could do since her disappearance during Martial Law in the 80s. Who am I to storm the news bureau to contend their claims against my friend? I was merely a lower middle-level income citizen, struggling to pay a monthly 8,000-peso rent.
I came into the office on the dot, and hurriedly went to the biometrics time clock. My colleague saw me in the newspaper but before she argued, I quipped, “Amiga, do you believe everything that this critic has written about this woman? They aren’t true, right?”
“Amiga, wake up… Nothing has changed. There is nothing else you can do.”
I no longer argued with her and instead went straight to my cubicle. I could not fathom how the article brutally attacked Luzviminda to the core, and almost everyone agreed with it. My friend was seen as a rare gem during our youthful days. Wearing her signature traje de mestiza with abaniko, her personality exuded refinery and elegance. Men from all over the world even queued for harana. Those were the years when Luzviminda belonged to high society.
Then in the 1980s, the blow of the wind shifted in an instant. Luzviminda became addicted to luxury, and she eventually borrowed money from her friends to satisfy her excess wants. Despite the drastic change, I never lost heart. Luzviminda was the only one who could unite the diverse mindsets of the community. Her eloquence of being multilingual, most especially in the English, Filipino, and Spanish languages and regional dialects, has proven that she is on par with the rest of the West when she delivered her speeches. But after being introduced to the material world, she became an addict, therefore losing her status in the alta sociedad. The next thing I knew, she left our apartment without even saying goodbye.
I searched for her for days, weeks, months, and years. When she left, the community was in disarray—there was no more innocence, but only force and struggle. I began to juggle two jobs following my retrenchment, being one of those responsible for paying Luzviminda’s debts. Despite this meager position, however, I never harbored hatred towards her.
After Luzviminda had gone missing, our situation was never the same. We now live in fear, with cowardice overshadowing the strength that Luzviminda taught us. We lived in tolerance of corruption–the sole reason that my high society life crashed into the Third World.
If only Luzviminda could come back to fight for us again.
Oh, Luzviminda! When will the wind shift its course to the direction where I can see you again? Half a century has passed but I never stopped searching for you. When you left, the boisterous birds were silenced! The archipelago, binding its unproportional domains, made it so difficult for me to find you.
But, my dear friend, I am hopeful that your legacy is still here; so here I am to deliver an ode: help me awaken the Filipino dignity that was blindfolded by the enemy.
