Ladies First

Thanks to Rosie Osmeña Valencia who invited me, I went to the very interesting launching of the book on Philippine First Ladies produced by Jose Rodriguez and his own "First Lady", the talented painter Lulu Coching.

Rosie said to me, "Of course, I invited you–of all my friends, you were very close to my mother"–and I was. Doña Titay was so close to my mother and father that whenever I remember the days when I was growing up, Doña Titay’s image is always a part of the mental picture.

In the portrait placed on exhibit, she is beautiful, serene and dignified–but different from the Doña Titay I knew. The Doña Titay I knew was a lively, laughing, fast-talking, vivacious lady, always ready with a quip or a naughty joke. I see her at a swimming party in our old house in San Juan, laughing uproariously because she had just pushed my father into the swimming pool when he was all dressed up. There he was floundering in the water, glasses and all, still clutching the morning newspaper he was reading with one hand and trying to swim with the other! While Doña Titay was laughing and laughing.

I see her as our "Ninang" when I just got married, visiting our room in the Vice President’s cottage in Baguio where she had invited us to spend our honeymoon. I see her bursting into hilarious laughter when she noticed that the two single beds had been pushed together and the mosquito nets were pinned up in the middle with hair pins to form an open "cave" which made instant passage possible! I see her at a party given by my parents, sitting on the floor of our old porch when everybody else was seated more decorously in chairs to pose for a picture–I hear her bubbling voice telling stories with the words drowning in laughter, flowing so fast that Don Sergio would remonstrate, "Pero, mujer, nadie te puede entender!" She was always so full of life and laughter, loved to eat, loved to dance, generous and open handed to a fault, nice and never ever at a loss for words, always the life of every party. That was the Doña Titay, my "Ninang" whom I knew and loved.

Thinking about the Philippine First Ladies, when I got home from the launching of their portraits at the Shangri-La, I realized I knew practically all of them and had seen them in all their different moods. I realized too that the only criticism–if criticism it is–I can make of all those lovely portraits on the wall of the Rizal Ballroom is that they are somewhat alike, all equally beautiful, serious and dignified as all First Ladies should be; but somehow so different from the First Ladies that I once knew–alive and vibrant, each a unique personality, and so different from each other.

I knew all but three of them personally. Of course, I did not know the first Mrs. Emilio Aguinaldo who died at 20 in 1898. I am not THAT old! And during the Japanese occupation as a young wife, I was too worried about my husband fighting the Japanese in the mountains to realize that there was still a Philippine First Lady in Malacañang, Mrs. Laurel. And I only saw Loi Ejercito from afar when she was First Lady because I was quite remote from her circle of friends. But I knew all the nine other First Ladies before, during and after Malacañang.

I do not have too many "off the record" recollections of Doña Aurora Quezon and never saw her when she was not as serious and dignified and beautiful as in her portrait. The only time I had a long conversation with her was when I was 19 years old and a cub reporter and I interviewed her in her home in New Manila. I no longer remember what I wrote about her then but I came away with a portrait of a lovely gracious woman which Doña Aurora always was– very like as she appears in her portrait.

The Doña Trining Roxas I knew was the First Lady of the original "Kitchen Cabinet" who had to pay the price for their closeness to the First Lady with seemingly endless nights in the Palace music room listening to readings of Spanish poesia that Doña Trining loved. Sometimes Doña Trining would recite Spanish love poems with soulful intensity. Dona Trining was an insomniac and the most notable quality of the members of her "Kitchen Cabinet" was the ability to look interested when they were dying for sleep!

The Vicky Quirino I knew as a First Lady is also different from the Vicky Quirino Delgado I see every Thursday night, sitting so patiently on the sidelines watching Paco Delgado getting his weekly exercise, going through the paces of cha-cha, mambo, rhumba, tango on the dance floor. Vicky as First Lady was the lovely, lively beloved teenage daughter of President Quirino, going through her official duties when need be, but in off hours enjoying herself with her fun gang like a typical teenager, with her father looking on smiling fondly saying, "There goes my daughter with her ‘kitchenette’ cabinet."

The only time I saw Vicky serious then was the night we sat together in the darkened salon of Malacañang when the news of Magsaysay’s defection to the Nacionalista Party had just been announced. "You are the only friends we have in the army now," she said sadly to my husband and me. "All the rest have gone over to RM. And to think my father trusted him so much."

But RM and Luz Magsaysay were also part of my fondest recollections. I see Luz pretty and demure and simple as she has always been, going around inspecting the gardens of Malacañang dressed in a plain cotton house dress and slippers, or watching movies, or sitting by the poolside while we watched our children frolicking in the water. "Why don’t you swim," she would ask her son Jun who was already a teenager and would refuse to join the children! (The Senator Magsaysay who greeted me at the book launch was certainly somewhat different from that teenage "Jun" I used to see with his mother in their private rooms in the Palace.)

One of my most vivid memories of Luz as First Lady was one night when I joined an asalto organized for her birthday by Dindo Gonzalez. When the group arrived at the Palace presidential quarters, complete with orchestra and food and other "happy birthday" paraphernalia, we were met at the door by a worried looking First Lady. "Hindi na matutuloy," she said–she always liked to speak in the dialect. "Dumating si Monching." It seems RM had unexpectedly returned from a provincial inspection trip and knowing his aversion for parties, Luz, dutiful wife that she always was, immediately cancelled her birthday party.

I remember a sadder time in Malacañang when the news of the airplane crash in Cebu had just come in. I happened to be in Malacañang with Pacita Madrigal Gonzalez, then a senator. We were admitted into the First Lady’s private quarters and there we found a heart-rending scene–Chiming Hernandez, then wife of the Secretary of Education who was with RM on this ill-fated flight from Cebu, had thrown herself on Luz Magsaysay’s bed and was sobbing uncontrollably. But the First Lady herself was seated quietly, her beautiful eyes closed, in her hands a rosary with which she was saying silent prayers, grief stricken, but quiet and simply dignified as she always is to this very day.

Inday Garcia was another First Lady who remained herself–simple, unaffected–in or out of Malacañang. When I used to join her other friends in socials, elaborate and ceremonious or small and private, she was always a serene presence. I never heard her give a command; always she spoke softly with the affectionate singsong of her Visayan accent. I remember the total lack of protocol that characterized the outings with the First Lady in the Garcia regime. On the presidential yacht–the famous or infamous Lapu-Lapu– we would find ourselves seated at the same table with senators’ wives and Cabinet ladies, side by side with Inday Garcia’s massage girl and bakla hairdresser, all treated in the same gracious way by the First Lady. "Have you had enough to eat?" she would ask with equal solicitude for every one regardless of rank or station.

Eva Macapagal was always her true self in public or in private–direct, frank and down to earth. The hypocrisies and artificialities that went with political prominence, she adjusted to with great reluctance. Once she advised my husband, "Keep on smiling–I learned to do that when my husband entered politics." Many were intimidated by her strong personality and her direct frankness–but that is what I liked the most about her as a person. You always knew how you stood with Eva Macapagal and when she was a friend she was a friend indeed.

But my most cherished memory of Eva Macapagal was when years after she was out of Malacañang, I received a call from her inviting me to join her and Pat Osias for lunch at the Intercon. I knew it was not a political move because by then her daughter Gloria had already won the Vice Presidency by a record-breaking landslide.

Because we had not had personal contact for a long long time, I wondered why she was inviting me. It was a long enjoyable reunion of three friends and we exchanged all kinds of reminiscences and bits of gossip about old times and old acquaintances. Eva was her old lively self and seemed to enjoy the get together as much as Pat Osias and I did. "We should do this more often," we told her. And she smiled. When we were saying goodbye, she embraced me with unusual warmth and said, "Jeanie, you and I have always liked each other," and I answered, "Yes, Eva, I have always liked you." Pat Osias and I never really knew why she thought of inviting us. A few weeks after our get together, Eva Macapagal died.

At her funeral, a tearful Pat Osias said to me, "She must have known she was dying even when we had that lunch–being a doctor, she must have known–she must have invited us because she knew and wanted to see her friends for the last time."

Eva Macapagal, God bless her, was that kind of a person.

After her was Imelda Marcos– the most talked about of the First Ladies. So much has been said about her. Her beauty, her Imeldific lifestyle. But the super glamorous Imelda is not what I want to remember. What I always like to remember was a lovely, childlike girl who approached her position as congress lady like an incredulous Cinderella at the ball.

We were practically neighbors in old San Juan and we saw each other often, having our hair done at the same beauty parlor. Often I would find myself seated beside her. Her beautiful long black hair would be flowing down almost to the floor and while the hairdresser was combing it into a complicated chignon, Imelda would tell little stories about her life as a congress lady. Her beautiful face completely devoid of make-up would be glowing and her now famous limpid eyes would be sparkling with delight. Often when my driver was late in coming, she would offer to take me home. Once in a while she would call, her lilting voice recounting some daily adventure. Once she called me in great excitement, "You won’t believe what I found in Divisoria! A beautiful stretch material. I had it made into capri pants –everybody thought it was imported!" Yes, that was the young, childlike, completely unaffected, lovely Imelda I used to know when we both were young and everything was new and exciting. I still like to remember her that way even now.

Ming Ramos was the last of the First Ladies I knew–always simple, quiet, lady-like. Even as First Lady of the Army or First Lady of the country and even now, she is always herself.

Regardless of anything anybody might say, about them, one thing is undisputable. Before anything else, our First Ladies were always ladies first.