Yellow Fever

When Cory Aquino took the oath of office as President of the Philippines at Club Filipino, I was a high school freshman left at home alone, sprawled on my mother's bed, listening to the proceedings on radio. I had not been allowed to come with my mother, brother and sister to help man the human barricades on Edsa because they thought I was too young to be involved in a revolution. It must have been the afternoon before the vultures of Malacanang were flown out of the country that I was allowed to sit for half an hour with a phalanx of wet handkerchief-wielding citizens camped somewhere in the Crame area, and then when the news came that we were finally disinfected of the Marcoses, we piled into the car and joined the ecstatic impromptu parade on the city streets.

I could not come in person to pay my respects to the woman who exemplified every quality that has fallen by the wayside in these ambitious, materialistic times - honesty, simplicity, integrity, humility, faith. But I said a prayer and I flew a yellow ribbon from the antenna of my car to mark myself as belonging to her side. I watched on TV as thousands lined up to view her remains, and as they jammed the streets to participate in her funeral. Only presidents who have sincerely served their country get to have a send-off like this. As for the munchkin in the Palace, when it's her turn to kick the bucket, the most she can hope for in the way of a funeral cortege is as many people as are willing to be paid to pretend they're sad to see her go.