Dear Cris Evert,
You waited for the sun to set so you can finally say that the school year ended.
You imagined this day, July 10, to close with you on a stage surrounded by parents and children alike clapping and cheering as multi-colored asterisks of fireworks burst on the night sky.
“You did it! You did it!” screamed the faceless crowd in your fantasy, sounding like Dora the Explorer alongside her best buddy, Boots.
The buffet table is filled with your favorites: the slow-cooked humba with its fats jiggling like jello; thousands of lumpia rolled and fried to perfection; the one-dish meal bam-i with slivers of meat and chicken liver; and the charcoal-roasted lechon, its skin crispy and golden brown ready for a horde of visitors to rip its luscious body apart.
Endless taps on the shoulders, handshakes, nods, and smiles came your way as you tried your best to look and sound humble.
“Tonight, we welcome the woman who served as parent-teacher to her three children, finished a diploma during a pandemic, and wrote songs and stories for various community-led initiatives. The indefatigable, multi-hyphenated creative, the ultimate survivor… Cris Evert Lato Ruffolo!” was the introduction you expected the emcee to announce as you were summoned on stage.
Pandemonium broke loose as a roar of applause filled the venue. The crowd chanted your name; you struggled to keep a steady, too-cool-to-care-but-your-efforts-are-extremely-appreciated look. The cheers refused to die down even when you were about to deliver one of your life’s hallmark speeches. So… you did what you usually do: you raised your hand to calm the crowd down.
As you raised your right hand, you caught sight of… the silver cooking pot on the top shelf of your kitchen cabinet.
There it is!
Just what you needed to cook pork menudo for dinner.
The fantasy is over: the fireworks disappeared, the emcee nowhere to be found, the crowd melted into the backdrop that is your house’s white walls. All that’s left is silence and the occasional distance giggles from the neighborhood kids.
It’s 4:21 p.m.
Dinner needs to be served at 6 p.m.
You snapped out of your fantasy and let yourself be enveloped by the smell and presence of reality.
The kitchen floor is filled with dark-gray spots of mud, a pile of dishes remains unattended in the sink, and the stove is a slimy, slippery ecosystem. From where you were standing, you saw a stack of paper that was about to crumble; remnants of the eight-month ordeal that you endured when you took on the challenge of enrolling your children in the public school system and serving as their primary home teacher/tutor with Cebuano as the main language printed on 90% of the modules (except for the English module which is, obviously, in the English language).
Staying home and working from home for more than a year knocked you dead most of the time. It was not the year you expected. In the middle of the lockdown, your trusted house helper left because she wanted to be with her family during this crisis. Your mother, a breast cancer warrior, contracted Covid-19 and was slapped with issues by insensitive neighbors. You waged wars with local leaders and became a staunch advocate for people to stay home. But even that was met with opposition and harsh words.
You were exhausted on all fronts which made the year 2020 a blur.
Weren’t you supposed to leave the Philippines and settle in a foreign country again with your family? Weren’t you supposed to pack your bags, fly to a first-world nation, and stay in your comfortable bubble in a country that has a better pandemic response? Weren’t you supposed to just enjoy a cup of lemon-ginger tea as you indulge in the universe woven by the literary works that you oh-so-wanted to finish?
But the world had other plans, you said. It took a wrong turn and left many people jobless, hopeless, and even, careless. You said “goodbye” to a full-time job as a journalist to start another career but you had to pivot and focus on staying at home and serve as your children’s teacher while accepting work projects that can both nourish your wallet and your soul.
The most challenging job though was to stay home and teach your children using the self-learning home tasks, also known as modules, that were provided by the Department of Education.
Who knew that teaching your children pandiwa (verb) can trigger painful high school memories when you were bullied? Nobody told you that teaching your seven-year-old twin children, who are in Grade 2, can be such an exhausting grind. Did you ever realize that your five-year-old cutie pie can single-handedly turn an otherwise beautiful plot into a horror story?
While you were living this chapter of your life, you also struggled with the fact that you are a driven, independent, career woman with a heart full of pride. You badly wanted to work full-time to show yourself that you can manage a home while excelling in a professional endeavor. But you had to be realistic, battle your inner demons, and admit that you, the Superwoman that is you, cannot do it all — and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. There is power in admitting that, at times, accepting defeat is better than faking a win.
You never let yourself be defined by your depression, the silent monster that was diagnosed in 2013. The mental health expert said you have persistent depressive disorder. It’s an ongoing battle that you were never afraid to fight in public. You openly talked about it and made yourself available to people who wanted to talk and discuss their issues.
But this pandemic was extra hard on you. You have to take care of your children but you also have to take care of yourself. The nights were long filled with tears and prayers. In moments when you felt you were not enough, Jeff, your wonderful husband, showered you with hugs and words of wisdom and encouragement. He never failed to remind you how awesome you are; that despite your negative outbursts and tantrums, you will always be the one person that he wants to be stuck at home with.
Your neighborhood, no matter how imperfect the people are with their own share of chismosas (rumor-mongers) and pakialameras (nosy people), provided the convenience you needed to survive the pandemic. They sold fruits, rice, vegetables, desserts, meat, lechon, and almost everything you need to keep your home running like a well-oiled machine. Your main priority was to keep everyone, especially the children, happy because childhood is such a limited phase in a human’s life.
And so you pushed along.
You took stock of the things and people whom you are grateful for. You decided to pursue that lifelong dream that you put on hold: to become a licensed professional teacher. You enrolled in professional education units and spent your weekends learning about curriculum development, principles and methods in teaching, measurements and evaluations, guidance counseling, and foundations of education. While you were battling depression and the difficulty in juggling household responsibilities and professional work as a creative, you excelled in school and love every minute that you spent writing lesson plans and analyzing exams. You utilized these skills to be a better teacher to your children and a more improved storyteller to the people who listen and read your stories online.
Cris Evert, you often say that you do not have the stamina of your namesake, the tennis legend, Chris Evert. She and her 18 Grand Slam singles championships and three doubles titles are proof that she is a force to reckon with. But do remember: you are not a tennis player. You are a mother who, for eight years now, has successfully juggled all titles that the human brain can think of. You have managed to stay on top of your game without a tennis racket and you have done so quite beautifully.
You engaged in virtual storytelling sessions for Basadours, the nine-year-old non-government organization that you co-founded, to ensure that children still had access to value-laden stories even when they are staying in the comforts of their homes. You co-wrote a song and served as a scriptwriter for an advocacy song against labor trafficking.
You penned the words for a spoken word piece so that your fellow artists and creatives will remember to never give up during these trying times. You mentored young ladies in your neighborhood to love writing.
You joined writing workshops and came up with stories that proudly represented your pride of place. You helped your children start their own businesses. They continue to flourish because you graciously invested your time with them. You carried out a campaign that donated essential materials for two public schools closest to your home. You served as your subdivision’s frontliner. You shared your story on television to inspire mothers like yourself to be “mindful parents” so they can be truly present for their children.
Your children are citizens of the world. Filipino and Italian by blood; Filipino and American by citizenship. They were raised in China where they lived comfortable lives. Seeing how the Filipinos suffered because of this virus made them ask a lot of questions. It was easy to speak ill of your country and agree with the popular opinion that the Philippines is a hopeless nation.
But you didn’t.
You continued to be nationalistic and patriotic. You shared stories of the brave heroes of the country; those who have left and those who are still here. Your stories were told in the dishes you cooked, in the clothes you wore, and in the places in Cebu where you traveled with them. You traveled around Cebu and exposed your children to their Filipino heritage. Instead of exploring foreign countries, which would have been possible pre-pandemic, you brought them to the towns and cities in northern and southern Cebu such as Moalboal, Asturias, Argao, and your current home base, Liloan. You showed them how beautiful Cebu is. It took a pandemic for you to emphasize that to your children.
A month from now, you will have to start another school year with Nicholas, Antoinette, and Jeffrey. There will be more dishes to wash, endless garbage to dispose of, a mountain of clothes to fold, and several toilet bowls to clean. More issues will irk you; more people will get into your nerves; Philippine politics will give you migraines.
You will feel exhausted over and over again.
But Cris Evert, you got this.
In times when you feel that you are not enough, go back to this letter so you will be reminded that you will always be enough.
You are more than just a survivor.
You are a warrior like your ancestor, Lapulapu, brave and ready to fight any invaders that come your way. Covid-19 is an invader that attempts to conquer your home. In 2020, you fought hard to make your home safe from any unwelcomed visitors. This battle persists to this day and you continue to be at the forefront of this fight to protect your family.
The good news is that you are not alone. Remind yourself that. Reach out to others and take solace in the fact that this battle is not yours to fight on your own. Bask in the eternal sunshine of gratitude and soak in the love of the people who matter most. Clap back at the chismosas sometimes but learn to ignore them most of the time. Drink more water and smile often. Fill your plate with colors; you can never go wrong with fruits and vegetables.
You are thriving in this pandemic and you will live long to tell your story.
You won’t need fireworks and applause to get your message across.
Positive as always,
Cris Evert
***
This story is an entry to ComCo Southeast Asia’s “Write to Ignite Blogging Project Season 2: Dear Survivor.” The initiative continues to respond to the need of our times, as every story comes a long way during this period of crisis. The initiative aims to pull and collate powerful stories from the Philippine blogging communities to inspire the nation to rise and move forward amidst the difficult situation. The “Write to Ignite Blogging Project” Season 2 is made possible by ComCo Southeast Asia, with Eastern Communications and Jobstreet as co-presenters, with AirAsia and Xiaomi as major sponsors, and with Teleperformance as sponsor.
