Worth a Million

Published in the Youngblood section of the December 27, 2008 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.



Lately I have been playing Ebenezer Scrooge, the miserly man in “A Christmas Carol.” I let the kids sing without giving them anything. When I hear the little carolers coming, I stay inside my room, bury myself in a book, and pretend nobody’s home. After a short song or two, they would clang the gate and shout, “Namamasko po! Namamasko po!” A hush would come over them as not even a mouse seems to stir inside our house. I’d feel guilty, but the feeling would soon vanish, because as they leave, the little imps would sing, “Thank you, thank you, ang babarat ninyo [you are so stingy].”

I don’t like the kids much because they are rowdy. They sing at the rate of 120 kph. When they threaten you with “Namamasko po!” they put to shame highway robbers declaring, “Holdap ito!” [This is a holdup!]

I also suspect they are into some lucrative racket. It is the same group that keeps coming back every night, and when they know a certain house gives only P2 or P3, they divide themselves and go to the house by pairs.

They never fail to entertain me, however. For one, they are so good at inventing lyrics. I recently heard them singing, “Jimball bells, jimball jells, jimball all the way!” The words in the next lines then sounded like the names of the vegetables in “Bahay Kubo.”

Another funny thing about these carolers is that when you hand them coins, the volume of their singing would abruptly dip, as they strain their necks trying to see how many or how much they’re getting. And as soon as the collector pockets the clinking booty, they all stop singing, even if they are in the middle of a song or they have just begun it. They will then proceed to sing, “Thank you, thank you, ang babait ninyo [you’re so kind]” and run to the next house.

Despite my stinginess, however, I don’t have the heart to shoo the kids away. I know they are just having fun.

When I was younger, I also enjoyed caroling. We were then still living in a farming village in another town, and I was in Grade 6. I was with my fellow poker-faced altar boys. To the amusement of onlookers, the guitar looked bigger than our guitarist. A teacher and an Indian missionary nun had us in tow, so our mini-choir was never turned away. With respect and diffident smiles, people welcomed us to their yards.

We went around the barangay [village] for several afternoons, earning about P20 to P30 per session. Most homes gave us coins. At that time, P5 and P10 were still printed in bills. Only teachers and sari-sari store owners could afford to give such amounts.

One afternoon, our eyeballs popped when a well-to-do businessman gave us a P100 bill. The peso then still had a much bigger value. Losing P100 would make you want to cry, so giving it away seemed like a crazy idea.

Through that caroling, I was able to go to parts of our barangay I had never visited before. I got to know the residents better and also their economic condition. I knew they didn’t have much money, but I would still feel surprised and a bit sad when a family would give us no more than P2. There was even one family that gave us eggs.

I could never forget those eggs. We were halfway through the second song when the mother of the house handed them. The three eggs, wrapped in clear cellophane, were clean and gleaming, a sharp contrast to the woman’s frail, dark fingers. I guessed the eggs were plucked fresh from a chicken’s nest somewhere in their backyard.

I was the one nearest the door, and I was staring at the woman’s hands, waiting to be given coins. The teacher who accompanied us whispered, “Take it.” Only then did I reach for the eggs.
Looking back at it now, I realize the caroling wasn’t just a holiday experience. It was my first community immersion, my first bite of social reality, my first real look at poverty.

I also learned a great lesson from it, a lesson in generosity. The eggs were not of much use to us since we needed money to buy prizes for our Christmas party. But it was the best that the family had. Obviously, they didn’t have a single peso in their house, which meant they needed the eggs for their meal. And yet they gave them to us.

I am reminded of a similar story that appears in the Bible. When Jesus was in the temple, he observed rich people dropping big sums of money into the collection basket. When a widow came in, she dropped only two cents. Jesus then gathered his disciples and said, “This poor woman gave more than anyone else. The others gave because they have too much wealth, but the widow, though she’s destitute, gave everything she earned.”

For the other residents of our barangay, P5, P10 or P100 was a small amount. The eggs therefore were the most valuable gift we received. They were worth more than P100. They were worth more than a million, because for the family that offered them, they were priceless.

Somewhere along the way, though, I forgot this lesson. I actually have a lot of coins in the drawer. I won’t run out of money, even if the kids divide themselves into three groups and come every night until Epiphany.
After I ignored them twice, the kids have been skipping our house. Now, I am left hoping that they will give it another try. I am beginning to miss the unintelligible, raucous singing. Indeed, ’tis the season for merry-making. ’Tis also the season to ponder how generous we are.