A good man in the storm
Quillted (quill•ted) by Ma. Anna Mikaela S. Gana
Being brought up in an all-lady household, I was taught to be a good man in the storm—quite literally. My childhood home was a tiny place, with a tiny room, with a tiny hole in the roof that leaks when the storm is rather bad. The electricity isn’t too good either. And so, to be a good man in the storm would require me to do a roster that includes, but is not limited to: getting the basin the second I hear drizzles, have enough precision to know where exactly to put the basin so it perfectly catches the dripping water, check if all electronics have been charged before the power goes out, have night vision for when the power goes out, pull the refrigerator plug, know how to light a candle using both a matchstick and a lighter, refrain from burning myself, refrain from burning the tiny house down, close the windows when it gets too windy, pray ten Hail Marys, and ten more, and then more until the heavens calm down, empty the basin once it’s full, check the breaker, plug in the refrigerator not earlier than five minutes after the electricity comes back, check all corners of the house for more leaks, open the windows, blow out the candles, pray another ten Hail Marys in thanksgiving of the storm that had passed. Each on the list, except the Hail Marys, is arguably a man’s job—or at least I was told. Can you imagine pretty little me with falsely manicured nails and braided pigtails doing all these things at the tender age of six? I couldn’t, either. To be fair, some of them, I did, and most, my mother. All while making sure I have enough storybooks to distract me from the storm I was terribly afraid of—I was told that there was a bad storm the night my Papa passed away, that is why. My mom was alone in that, too. Like me, she was afraid of storms; but she carried him to heaven and through that night, all while making sure there wasn’t any noise to wake me up. She was a good man in the storm.
As with most things, I found the phrase change its meaning over time. A few years passed and I was no longer living in a tiny place, sleeping in a tiny room, with a tiny hole in the roof that leaks when the storm is rather bad. I am not afraid of any storm anymore, too. But as I sat peacefully in my newfound sanctuary, I realized I had forgotten how to spot a good man in a storm. This was until I witnessed my mostly-absent, nonchalant uncle drop everything to tend to my aunt after she fell sick. You have to understand that for a good while, I thought he was a robot, a machine programmed to cater to its own interests alone—that he married my aunt for the sake of it, and that he did not love her. Never did, never will, or so I thought. He does not bend down to anyone but he did for my aunt—surprisingly so. He held her, watched over her, and stayed long after she was well. He worked, and worked, and worked, so that he can show her all the nicest places before cancer does. That’s one for the mostly-absent, nonchalant uncle. He was a chainsmoker, a drunkard, but a good man in the storm. Perhaps not literally this time.
That was definitely not the last of it. Come college, I had begun to face different storms altogether. Some literal—during which I had to ride Ikot Jeepneys in the rain because class suspensions rarely exist when you’re in college—and most, not. If you’re lucky enough, a friend will come to your rescue, either through a car your parents couldn’t afford or an umbrella you lost for the nth time. To this day, everywhere I look, I see good men. Or at least, I see the good in them.
And so, what does it take for one to be a good man in the storm? At least for me, it does take a lot to be one, but not much to see one. If you only look hard enough, you will find that you are surrounded with good men. A good man in the storm is a friend who, despite having storms of their own, faces yours with you. A good man in the storm is a stranger who tells you your skirt is folded upwards and a few men have been staring. A good man in the storm is a father who lowers his voice because he has daughters, and teaches his sons to do the same. A good man in the storm is a mother who gives her children all she was deprived of. A good man in the storm is a professor who shows up. A good man in the storm is a journalist who is at the beck and call of the nation, dropping everything upon a single call. A good man in the storm is an overseas worker who leaves a newborn, comes back long after she starts talking, bears the pain of not being known by her, all so that her bright future may be within her reach. A good man in the storm is a soldier who fights, bleeds, and continues to fight despite. A good man in the storm is one who has lost their leg but walks with pride knowing that these lost limbs could have been a little boy’s, were it not for them.
A good man in the storm is my smoking, beer-drinking uncle who painfully cuts back on all vices so that he may send my sick aunt to the best doctors in town. A good man in the storm is my mother who single-handedly raised me to be one.
A good man could be a father, mother, sister, brother, other half, childhood best friend, soulmate, maid of honor, college acquaintance, distant relative, friend-of-a-friend, or even a stranger who happens to offer you warmth in the middle of a devastating storm, share a roof with you even if it means exposing half their body to lightning, thunder, heavy rain, cold wind, flying cars, and all things destructive.
On this day, we commemorate not only the fall of Bataan, but also the bravery of all who had fought until their last breath in refusal of a surrender. It may have ended in the manner that it did, but they remain in us while we live and live in us so long as we fight.
As we bow in reverence of those who have fallen, we raise our chins in honor of those who continue to be good men in the strongest of storms. In the little things, we see their bravery survived by that of others’. #
