Beloved Mangatarem

By Al S. Mendoza

 

PROGRESS doesn’t come easily.

They say you need to work hard to attain progress.  And progress spells success.

Easier said than done.

How come our farmers, who toil the fields almost from sunrise to sundown, remain poor?

Isn’t it an irony that the people who plant, nurture and care for the food we eat remain poor in all their waking hours?

Have you ever seen a rich farmer?

There is a rich farmer.  He owns hectares upon hectares of land.  You can count rich farmers with your fingers.

Not the poor farmer.

There are millions of them scattered nationwide.

They till lands they don’t own.

They till lands owned by the rich farmer.

In a sense, they are the ones that feed us.

Without their sweat, we are nothing.

Now, to the workers.

How come that like the farmers, the workers are likewise poor?

They, who build our houses, the condos of the rich, the palaces of kings, remain poor all their life?

They build the most beautiful dwellings in the world but, hey, they could barely have, own, a roof over their heads.

Like the farmers, they eat only the barest essentials.

If there would be meat on their tables, it’d either be through a wedding feast in the barrio and the whole barangay is invited, or through the kindness of strangers.

For the poor folk in the country, progress is the hardest to achieve.

Almost, it is utopia.

The father who is a farmer will bear a son who will become a farmer, too.

It’s written in the stars.  Farmers forever.

The father who is a carpenter will bear a son who will become a carpenter, too.

It’s written in the stars.  Carpenters forever.

Woe to them for the chain will remain unbroken through the ages.

Now we go to towns; their alchemy, if not their destiny.

For years, my beloved town of Mangatarem is just that.

Rustic.

Bustle-free.

Mostly quiet.

Never mind that FPJ Da King (his kin anyways) owns the prime lot in the plaza.  Vacant.  No house.  No structure.  No nothing.

And then someone of Japanese descent built a flying school by the foot of a mountain.

A small college by the river followed.

And then came a three-star resort quaintly named Dan-Dan.

Then internet cafes started to sprout.

A Shell station to rival Nato Ferrer’s Centrum.

Suddenly, our dear old Manleluag has ceased being the town’s lone place of significance.

Benjie Lim’s Magic rose beside St. Raymund de Penafort church (I was an acolyte there).

In a little while I was told, Mayor Belen’s CSI will begin construction—right across Magic.

What is this, enemies forever?

Whatever, the gods are finally smiling at my beloved hometown.

And look at this:  Mercury Drug will soon open its doors.

Oops, how about this?  Jollibee is coming to town—due to sit right at FPJ territory.

My folks are thrilled.

The townsfolk are tickled pink, led by Fiscal Bonifacio M. Sison and balikbayan Ceferino D. Tengasantos from Honolulu.

Who said Mayor Ted Cruz isn’t in Cloud 9 these days?

I say, here’s to Pareng Ted, the uncrowned best mayor of Pangasinan.

If I am being biased, I plead guilty, your honor.

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