STREET DANCE IN TONDO

By Philip M. Lustre Jr.

I was a curious, wide-eyed 11-year old Grade 5 pupil when I first saw a street dance party. The social club of young and not so young people in our place, dubbed as “Lord and Ladies Club,” sponsored a dance party, or “pasayaw” as we called it during those days, on Camba Street Extension, which runs parallel to the fabled Asuncion Street Extension in Tondo, where my family lived for years.

The social dance was held in a basketball court in the middle of the street. There were few motor vehicles during those days in 1965, prompting people to convert a portion into a basketball court. Club marshals put ropes on the court’s perimeter to prevent gatecrashers from entering the dance area. They also put palm leaves to provide art and privacy to the party goers.

Club members and their guests had to shell out a peso for each ticket to gain entry to the dance party. It was a tidy sum during those days for young people, but they had the money to buy tickets. They were seated on rattan chairs rented by the Club. Every guest was entitled to spaghetti served on paper plates and a glass of pineapple juice during break time.

I took interest in that street dance affair. I was not invited; I did not have a ticket, which was expensive for a grade schooler like me. But I still went there because I had a terrible crush on Elvie, a 14-year old neighbor, who also lived in Camba Ext. I wanted to see her. I must confess I liked her because she was beautiful, tall, and bosomy (big boobs) for her age. She had an imposing presence. She was stunner when she wore that miniskirt, which emphasized her shapely legs.

I must confess I lusted on her. She was the object of my fantasies. Even at that early age, I was already thinking of kissing her passionately. At that the back of my mind, I was thinking “paglaki ko liligawan kita (when I’ve grown up, I’m going to court you).” But it was something that did not happen when I took fancy on another neighbor. But that is another story.

Party marshals did not prevent onlookers like me to ogle at the party goers. I stood on an elevated platform outside the dance area and went to survey the dance floor to look for the apple of my eyes. From my vantage point, I saw Elvie entering the dance floor and taking a seat with other female party goers. I could not explain my youthful joy when I saw my crush.

Young people during those days appeared different from how they appeared nowadays. Young men did not wear maong or denim pants unlike today, but they had straight cut pants either sewed by some private tailoring shops or bought from downtown Manila, or either Avenida Rizal or Quezon Boulevard near the famous Quiapo Church. We did not have Levis, Lee, or anything close to them, but we had the local brand – Macomber. Men wore mostly Banlon t-shirts. Brands like Montagut or Crispa came a little later.

Young men sported different hair styles. For the more conventional, they had the Elvis Presley’s, known as the "pompadour." I could see the sticky pomade applied on their thick hairs. But since the Beatles also broke the music scene, a number forsook pomade use and adopted the mop-like look popularized by the British band. We called it the “bunot, takip-tenga (coconut husked, ears-covered)” look. Most guys wore the ubiquitous Ang Tibay, or Alex leather shoes bought from Avenida Rizal.

Women did not wear pants during those days; they wore the typical "bestida" or the miniskirt, which was vogue during those days. The likes of mu-mu or tent dress with matching fishnet stockings came a little later. But they already had thick red lipstick. But they were of inferior quality. Careless ladies suffered the consequence of being stigmatized, when their lipstick got stuck on their teeth.

The beehive look, or simply “tiss,” was already vogue during those days. Hence, young ladies sported hairs that went up a few inches because they were “tissed.” Others had the simple “pusod” style, using hair clips bought from the nearest neighbors stores, one of which was “tindahan ni Macha,” owned by a Chinese migrant, in Tondo.

The street party started with a notice from the Club president that all Club members and guests would have to follow strictly the dress code. Using a sound system (we did not have megaphones during those days), he said that nobody stood to gain entry if he failed to pair a decent pair of shoes and acceptable clothes. It was something they followed to the letter. Then, the party started with the Electromaniacs's Lover’s Guitar.

I saw guys picking up their dance partners and going to the dance floor. During those days, the dance craze was either mashed potato, popularized by Chubby Checker, or the Jala-Jala jerk, popularized by Eddie Mesa, the local version of Elvis Presley. Until now, I keep on wondering where they got the name, although I had come to know much later that one of the towns of the province of Rizal is the sleepy Jala-Jala.

The dance of those days was different. No, we did not have the “masque pop” dance, which is characterized by so much body twerking leading us to surmise that its dancers are either have epileptic fits or electrocution. There was much finesse in dancing the crazes of those years. A dancer has to learn distinct fundamental steps before he could do justice to those dance crazes.

I saw Elvie dancing with other guys. I felt jealous but I was too young to assert myself. I did not even have a sense of manhood during those days. But when the time to dance the sweet, she refused to go quite near her partner. The distance between her and her partner was enough for a carabao to pass. In brief, she treated them at arm’s length.

The music of those years was quite sweet to the ears. From my vantage point, I saw the disc jockey playing the 45 rpm vinyl records of some known musical artists like Cliff Richard (Constantly), Matt Monroe (Walk Away), Del Shannon (Run, Run Away), Ray Orbison (Pretty Woman), Ray Patterson (Wonder of You), and of course, the Beatles (too many to mention the hit songs).

I saw young men jockeying for position to enable them to dance the ladies of their choices. We called it “bakuran” during those days. They exchanged leers; they exchanged hard words. Towards the end of the party, I saw them having fistfights. Later, I saw rattan chairs flying in the air.

Club leaders hardly contained the ensuing violence, prompting them to end the dance party abruptly. It was something that never happened again in our place in Tondo. I went home savoring the memory of that dance party and my comely neighbor named Elvie.   

THE ACTIVISM OF MONICA FERIA

By Philip M. Lustre Jr.

THE late journalist Monica Feria and I are friends; we get along well. Incidentally, I prefer to use the present tense because, despite her sudden demise, I sincerely feel she has not left us.

Because we did not have the chance to work together in a single news outfit, or because we did not stay in a single beat for a long time, Monica and I are not particularly that close. But we are kindred spirits. That's what matters, as far as I am concerned.

I know where Monica stands from an intellectual standpoint. Because we were born on the same year (1954) and only separated by a few months, Monica and I belong to the same generation, which the Marcos dictatorship had sought to destroy just to cling to political power.

In brief, Monica and I share the same worldview. I know her politics; she knows mine. We do not have to meet often to prove where we stand politically; we’re always comfortable with each other’s politics.

Monica Feria, a woman of integrity and intellectual prowess, has always been politically honest. I could not recall she has shown any intellectual dishonesty and pretension. What she shows is exactly what you get. Monica has always been Monica.

I first saw Monica during the turbulent days of 1971, when every student worth his salt took to the streets to protest the emerging dictatorship. The intellectual ferment of that period enabled us to walk side by side in pursuit of the same political objectives, beliefs, and advocacy.

It was easy to spot Monica from the throngs of humanity, who joined the emerging “parliament of the streets” of those days. A mestiza beauty with a near perfect shaped body honed by years of gymnastics made her a standout from the rest of prostesters, most of whom had sun-burned skin, a legacy of the frequent street demonstrations and rallies against the Marcos rule. She did not know me during those days, but I knew her.

She did not belong to the delegations of perfumed “collegialas” from exclusive schools or the sweeaty "makamasa" groups from the lesser schools; she came from where else but the University of the Philippines, then a hotbed of student dissidence during the Marcos years.

In 1977, or the year I started my journalism career, I met Monica in a news coverage, introduced myself, and sat on the same table to hear the news makers. I told Monica that I knew her during our student activism days because I always saw her during those street protest demonstrations. 

I told her I knew his father Rodrigo, an English literature teacher, who was among those maverick teachers, who were dismissed by the University of the East (I was a student there and my friend Roger Mangahas was included in the group) upon declaration of martial law in 1972.   

Monica did not talk. I understood perfectly well. She was working in the crony newspaper, the Daily Express; I was with a business newspaper. It was the height of the Marcos dictatorship and anyone who showed some anti-Marcos tendencies faced any of the two possibilities: imprisonment or summary execution. But she gave me a sweet smile, as if to say it was perfectly fine and confirm we were to be friends henceforth.

Piqued by the repressive environment in the crony paper, Monica joined the Agence France Press and worked in its Manila bureau along with Teddy Benigno, its bureau chief, and Mario Baluyot, an equally  intrepid journalist, who was Ralph Baylosis’s seatmate at UP. By that time, I joined the Manila bureau of Jiji Press, the Japanese news agency.

It was during the early 1980s that I came to know Monica a little better. We frequently covered the same events, circulated in basically the same circles of friends and colleagues (until now, we do), and, oftentimes, compared notes on many topics. By this time, I had come to confirm and reconfirm that Monica had not changed her politics. I am sure that Monica has understood too that neither did I change my politics.

In brief, we were realistic to understand that we have to take our activism not to the mountains to pursue what was described the “unfinished revolution,” but to the journalistic profession, where we aptly belong. There were times we discussed our politics and we agreed on many issues and points.

We both adhere to politics of change. We like to see our country to take off economically and get rid of the mass poverty that keeps on gripping the country until now. We believe that we have to use our pen to change the world and the country to become a little better.

I swear before the graveyards of my beloved grandmother, who raised me, and my mother to say that Monica did not in any way support or cavort with the Marcos dictatorship, which personified everything that was evil in the country. We have shared the same disdain for the misery and mass poverty that the dictatorship had given us to this day.

I have understood later that Monica had settled after those turbulent years to a life of domesticity to raise a family. But she has rejoined a few years ago to work as desk editor in the Philippine Daily Inquirer. She could have chosen to retire. But I know it’s the activist in her that had pushed her to work again.

Just to prove her activism and, of course, sense of fairness and objectivity as a journalist, Monica called up to get my side on the controversy triggered by my Facebook post that the sick old man from the South had throat cancer. 

I did not bother to know where she got my cell phone number, which came mostly likely from one of my editor-friends there, but the point was Monica, as desk editor, wanted to present a balanced news account of the controversy. That was sometime in September, 2015.

I gave my side by text message, of course, but Monica left the word for me to save her cell phone numbers so that I could reach her if any necessity comes. She even admonished for the lost contact we had for years. “Nandiyan ka lang pala (you’re only there),” she told me with an air of sisterly affection.

My statement, in its entirety (no word was changed or erased), came out of the Philippine Daily Inquirer report the following day. In fact, it was the only paper that carried my side. Yes, it was handiwork of Monica, the activist I have known for more than four decades. 

Her activism will always be remembered.  Rest in peace, Monica.