More than one!

By Jing Villamil

 

AND so it came to pass, that we tackle a subject we would rather not. In-laws!

Its first known use as a term was way back in 1894. What term did they use then before that year? Originally, it meant “anyone of a relationship not natural”. Unnatural? As in out of this real world? No, silly.

A relationship not by blood. A person or persons who become a relative because you married into their family. The parents, the siblings of your spouse, maybe to include his/her entire family! Not natural talaga, because they are not of your blood. But nevertheless, your family from thereon, after you lawfully (hopefully not awfully!) wedded a son or daughter from their family before a priest, minister, judge, or similarly authorized official.

To answer two unasked questions: what if the couple is not wedded but has a living-in arrangement only – is the other’s family one’s in-laws? Categorically, loosely, yes. Are in-laws considered one’s extended family? Yes! Snug among the pretties, the dearies and the drearies!

But this column did not really set out to enlighten the unenlightened, just to tell stories . . .

Nanay was widowed before her twenties. Her husband was one of the young activists who disappeared into the mountain ranges of the province during Martial Law. She never saw his body; she was just told he was among those rebels gunned down in one surprise encounter.

She raised their only daughter, Selya, by multi-tasking as yaya and labandera at daytime, Nacida weaver at night. And catching up with her education on weekends. She and her late husband were college sophomores when they met, married and were rudely interrupted.

As she got older, her intelligence and wit earned the admiration and loyalty of her kabarangayan. She was elected their many-termed kapitana without her really trying.

She sent Selya to college to become a teacher. Then a handsome private of the Philippine army caught her eye and her heart. Their marriage was civil, secret at the most. Nanay found herself yaya again but to two lovely apos. They would be seen doing her council duties round the barangay, a baby hitched on her hip, the panganay trailing behind, a hand holding tight to her skirt or pants.

The five lived simply and happily, contentedly so. Until one night, a group of masked men surrounded the house and demanded the soldier to come out. Nanay and her daughter gathered the children in their arms. The soldier got out his gun, hugged his wife and babies, looked deep into his mother-in-law’s eyes, and turned to open the door.

Nanay, rushed past him, unhooked his soldier’s cap hanging by the door and put it on. She opened the door and locked it behind. And stepped from the shadows into the unknown men’s line of fire. She was down and crawling on the ground before they realized she was not the one they came for. Shouts of “It’s the Kapitana!” And the men scrambled away fast and were gone. As she knew they would; she was much revered.

Selya was a brave girl, then an exceptionally strong woman. Nanay raised her well. Each night, though, she would talk quietly to Nanay through the glass of her coffin, and her tears would fall and flow and never stop. Later, her tears would green the grass on Nanay’s grave. She would ask the earth the trees the sky: “Why, Nanay? I need you more; I need you still!”

This story has more stories hidden between its lines.

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