I Remember July 1990

Iris Palma in Ang Pinoy Stories

Jan 24, 2020 • 3 min Read

July 1990. I was at the Vargas Hall at the University of the Philippines (UP) to listen to folk rock duo Inang Laya. Their mini-concert was free and I have heard of Inang Laya, so I wanted to know why they were famous in UP.

The members were vocalist Becky Demetillo-Abraham and guitarist Karina Constantino-David. Karina, I learned later in life, has an impressive pedigree: she was historian Renato Constantino’s daughter, columnist and University of the Philippines Professor Emeritus Randy David’s wife, GMA journalist Kara David’s mom, and National Artist for Literature Virgilio Almario’s balae as his daughter (herself a personality in the publishing industry via Adarna Publishing House) is married to Karina’s son, a geologist and UP professor. Karina also served as chairperson of the Civil Service Commission.

Whoa! These connections truly made this memory unforgettable.

Anyway, back to the story. I was seated at the second row, deeply mesmerized by their voices, the melody, and their presence. Halfway through their song, I thought someone was kicking my chair. I let it be for a few seconds. As I was about to turn toward the mischievous guest, I saw everyone looking at everyone else. Earthquake! Everyone bolted toward the entrance.

The Vargas Hall has glass walls and I bet most of us were thinking of the shards hitting us when they do fall from the sides. So off I ran outside. I see the wide doors, the afternoon sun’s rays peaked from the trees, the academic oval, and I thought SAFETY!

I whizzed through the steps, dashed across the road, and hugged an old tree. I caught my breath and sighed a relief.

Then I saw HER.

Barbara Gonzalez. Or Tweetums Gonzalez, a socialite, a columnist, and mother of Panjee Gonzalez (herself a television celebrity and the lady who danced in Martin Nievera’s explosive song Be My Lady).

Barbara floated from her seat, her face unwrinkled, no panic at all, one foot in front of the other, her hips swayed as she took the few heavenly steps toward a column in the hall’s entrance, and hugged it slowly, the left arm, then the right arm, her palm splayed out, her fingers so splendid, and she leaned her beautiful head on the whiteness of the concrete.

And time stood still.

How could she sashay her way out of the venue like an apparition?

How long was it when I ran out of Vargas Hall?

The difference was immaterial. I felt and looked so wretched in the face of Barbara’s dance. She was ethereal. I was trash. She was beautiful. I was trash. She did not panic. I was panic personified. She was 46 years old. I was 20 years old.

Now 50 years old, I try to be like Barbara in some ways—with little success somehow. But I am also the wretched trash. I could never fully be Barbara. Three decades have passed and I still can’t get over Barbara. She is my first memory (after Inang Laya) of a decade that shook the Philippines. When I hear quakes, I remember Barbara.

Featured Photo Source: Rappler