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Blog of a Balikbayan, Part 5
July 1, 2005
Promdi. In my politically-correct New World Dictionary of Stereotypes, the word is up there with the Hicks from Nebraska, the Rednecks from Texas, and the Beverly Hillbillies. "Promdi" is simply short for "prom di probins" or "from the province", in plain English. It's a term reserved for an individual still finding his or her way in the big city, shocked by a new culture and trying to adapt to a new life but couldn't. An individual whose dialect is different and the accent is funny. An individual who almost always becomes a punchline in most jokes.
Most of us have been promdis at some point in our lives. Whether you felt like one, or you were made to feel like one. I am a promdi and forever will be one. Somehow, I think it's because of both reasons I stated. As an Antiqueño, I always felt, acted, and looked upon as a promdi whenever I go to the big city, like Iloilo. The cycle doesn't stop there. If you're from Iloilo or Dagupan or Basilan, you may be a promdi in Manila. If you're from Manila, you may be a promdi in a foreign country or place, like say, a big city in America.
A bit condescending? Sure. But you have to admit most of the "promdi" situations are meant to be funny. You may be offended at one point but you just have to live with it. It is in everyone's culture, intended to make you laugh at your own or somebody else's expense. It is plain and simple stereotyping and that's what stereotypes are for. A fodder for comedians' acts everywhere.
Of course, Filipino "promdi" jokes are best delivered by Filipinos. I think one U.S.-based Filipino comedian surnamed Navarette makes a living out of it. Which is totally fine. Just don't give the materials to a comedian of another race, like say, Jerry Seinfeld, unless you're asking for his early demise. If I remember right, the very first winner of the NBC series "Last Comic Standing" was a Vietnamese-born comic whose jokes were laced with Vietnamese stereotypes. Jeff Foxworthy makes millions with his "You might be a redneck..." routine, stereotyping Texans and people from the U.S. south. Black comedians Chris Rock and Dave Chapelle appeal to audiences of all races with racy comedy routines but try telling those jokes yourself. You'll have "racist" written all over you.
For this column's purposes, let's restrict ourselves to stereotyping promdis. Sometimes, it comes to a point where the joke is not funny anymore. Take for example, this family from Lambunao, Iloilo who supposedly took a trip to Manila on one of those big ships. You know the rest of the story. If the story is true then bless their hearts. But if it's not then it has done quite a damage. Every time you mention the town of Lambunao anywhere, a joke is forthcoming about washing your face in toilet bowl water. I heard it most recently at a Filipino party a month ago. It's unfair and totally cruel, but other people get a kick out of it.
A different dialect, and therefore a different accent is one indication of being a promdi and this may sound crazy but sometimes others may judge you by the way you speak. During my college years a friend confided to having a terrible crush on a pretty young lady. After several attempts, he finally managed to strike a conversation with her. It turned out that this pretty young thing was from Antique and spoke a very thick kinaray-a accent. My friend, who grew up in Iloilo City, unashamedly admitted he got "turned off" right then and there.
Which begs the question - is there some kind of a superiority factor whenever you speak a certain dialect? Does it take anything from you if you speak a dialect that sounds funny to people around you? Like that pretty young lady I mentioned in the previous paragraph. She's very pretty, with very nice hair, a perfect set of teeth, and perhaps a heart of gold. And you take all that out once you hear her speak? Will teachers feel less superior if they do their lectures in the dialect the students use? Will Dr. J.P. even be funny if he doesn't speak kinaray-a?
I am an Antiqueño and I can speak kinaray-a with the best of them. It's a wonder then that I even managed to have a girlfriend from Iloilo (who eventually would become my wife, who loves me whether I speak kinaray-a or flawless Ilonggo).
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Coming back to my home-province for the first time in five years reminded me not only of the immediate past but my memories of being a promdi. I am still a promdi now, and proud of it, but let's just say that way back then were my "promdi heydays". Now you know why this blog started with a big promdi discussion.
The province of Antique hasn't changed much in 5 years. A new Jollibee restaurant showed what little progress it has achieved. During my high-school years, we used to go to a restaurant called Cindy's which served burgers, spaghetti, palabok, and the like. With the entry of Jollibee, I think Cindy's, which has become an Antique institution itself, is now teetering on the brink of bancruptcy as I speak. But who knows, Antiqueños are known to be too patronizing a people of their own product. Ceres, the bus company, once challenged 76 Express (another Antique institution) for a share of the passengers that ply the Antique-Iloilo route. Ceres made sure their new and most comfortable buses were serving Antique to sway passengers away from the old, squeeze-me-in buses of 76. They failed. They folded faster than 76 although right now, only those mini-vans (Starex, L-300, etc.) ply the San Jose-Iloilo City route.
I won't say much if this so-called patronizing by Antiqueños extends to practicing doctors although I can say that it helps your practice if you are a native son, so to speak, able to speak kinaray-a, and at one point in your young life, have shared a tricycle ride with your future patients. Whether it's right or wrong, I'll leave it up to you. I can speak of specific instances but I won't.
I passed by the gates of my high-school, Antique National School or ANS for short, the largest public school in the province. The last time I saw the inside of the school was more than a decade ago when I was invited to speak on sportswriting to the school-paper staff. It was a big honor for me then, although I realize I probably got invited because I was the only one who would do it for free. I also wasn't able to attend my class reunion in December, 2004 as our travel plans were altered along the way.
During my time, the high-school had more than 4,000 students. Education is a right and not a privilege indeed. Each curriculum year had at least 1,000 students, divided into 20 to 22 sections segregated from the "brightest to the dumbest" (pardon the description). The sectioning was determined via an entrance examination for the first year and the previous year's performance for the succeeding years. There are 2 so-called "special science" sections each year. The "brightest" students are supposed to be there, with neat uniforms, shiny shoes, books in both hands and a perfect library attendance. After class, they all go straight home. In constrast, if you're in section 22, row 11, you come to school disheveled, with a notebook folded and tucked into your backpocket, and every once in a while, chase students of your kind with pipes or knives. After class, you go to a street corner and sniff glue or end up at the E.R. with a stab wound. This sectioning and classification of students may be a bit controversial. You don't give "section 22, row 11" students a chance or motivation especially if you lump them together with their kind. But that's another discussion altogether.
There was a private school across town which catered to the "elite" of Antique and which, obviously, we could not afford. San Jose Academy was managed and ran by Assumption nuns, that's why the school was more popularly known as "Madre", obviously in reference to the sisters. Because of the perceived gap in social status, we didn't mingle with them as they did not mingle with us. They went to school in cars, we rode in tricycles or walk. They had embroidered uniforms, ours were silk-screened. I met some of them in College and they're actually cool people (well, I didn't say they weren't). San Jose Academy went into dire financial straits and merged with another private school in the area, Saint Anthony's College. St. Anthony's is being managed by priests but we did not refer to the school as "Padre". They were simply referred to as SAC. One of the school's famous products happens to be Dr. Feman Autajay of Class 1992. And no, they did not mandate wearing cowboy boots.
(For those of you who did not get it, Dr. Autajay used to do rounds in cowboy boots, without the spurs. Morning endorsements stopped as the "thud" of Feman's boots passed by. You know he was coming, you better prepare the charts.)
Column continues below...
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She obviously could get to touch animals only at petting zoos in the U.S. so my daughter tries to enjoy her time playing with animals like this chick from her grandfather's farm. She's shown here with her cousin, Jao (back to camera).
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I have plenty of high-school memories, as many of you have, but some things are just easier to recall especially if you're writing a column about promdis.
Going to Iloilo at that time (early 80's) seemed like the biggest of deals. Although looking back, the only neat thing one could do is eat ice cream at Eskimo's along Aldeguer. As early as second-year high-school, my school would send me to conferences, lectures and what-not to Iloilo City. I would go alone with few instructions from my father on what "jeep" to take. It was better than Mapquest or GPS. The directions didn't really matter as long as you knew what jeep goes to or passes by where. My promdi experience would start there.
To a 14 year-old, the city is like another world, populated by people you think are superior than you are, people who speak a dialect that sounds more cool than yours. What do you expect? I was a promdi. Or, at least, I made myself feel like one. And as I have stated previously, people have uncanny ways of making you feel like one too. I remember buying a piece of bread and the lady at the counter giggling when she heard me speak. "Taga-diin ka To'?" was the usual question. I tried not to speak. I resorted to hand signals most of the time. I felt a certain nothingness. I felt inferior. I felt ashamed I was even born in Antique. Darn it, I was 14!
As the school would regularly send me to the city, I tried to learn Ilonggo to blend in. Listening to the radio was my best teacher. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, so to speak. Until one morning when my father gave me a dose of reality.
I was 14, in second-year high school, preparing for another trip to Iloilo City. It's hard to forget that day. It was a one-day seminar on journalism sponsored by the Department (or was it Ministry?) of Public Information held at a conference room inside the Department of Public Works and Highways building (near Camp Delgado?). Representatives from Iloilo schools would be there. I could not recall why my school was invited in the first place.
As it is customary for us Antiqueños going to the city, I was awakened by my father at around 4:00 a.m. as the earliest bus trip then was 5:00 a.m. The morning was a bit cold so my mother suggested that I wear a jacket. My father was Antique's basketball coach for several years (the team that represents the province in regional meets), so he had quite a collection of red and white (Antique's official sportsmeet color) jackets with A or Antique emblazoned in front and Coach at the back. My mother gave me one which I refused and my exact words were, "Maman-an gin ra karon nga taga-Antique gid takun! (for the benefit of those who don't understand kinaray-a, it translates to "they would know I'm from Antique!") My mother did not utter a word but told my father later. My father asked me point-blank and the exact words were, "Wanhaw, mayha' kaw nga taga-Antique kaw?" (for the benefit... "Why, are you ashamed of being from Antique?")
I paused, realizing what I said, then eventually answered, "Indi a..." ("No, I am not"). I took the jacket and wore it. I was 14 and I was stupid. I didn't realize how stupid a remark that was. Subconsciously, maybe I wanted to blend in, maybe I wanted to avoid stereotypes, which probably never existed to start with.
I have come to love that jacket and wore it everytime my school sent me to press conferences whether it's in Barotac Nuevo or Lemery, Batangas. It's made out of "ponte-de-roma", as every basketball uniform was at that time, with the letter "A" neatly sewn in front. It looked like an old Washington Bullets uniform.
Speaking of that conference (I told you it's hard to forget that day), I met a would-be classmate in medical school there, Joji Gensaya. It's quite easy to remember Joji. I also remember three obnoxious, loud-mouth students from Sta. Maria Catholic School. One even bragged he's from Florida with matching American twang he referred to as his Floridian accent. Well, I was in Florida last week and the closest Floridian I met with the same accent was Goofy at DisneyWorld. How ironic that my best buddy in College would come from Sta. Maria. Obviously, he wasn't one of the three obnoxious loud-mouths. My buddy cannot even finish a sentence. Well, except when he is talking basketball, then he can talk for 72 straight hours.
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Starting College at WVSU, I, or my kind, could not run away from stereotypes. My first day in Chemistry class, the teacher (whose last name starts with a Z, not Zebra, although she looked like one if you imagine her with the stripes) opened her lecture with a remark on how students from barangay high schools and public schools from the provinces (that's it, promdis) get a false sense of security since they performed well in their schools and expect to do the same in the city. In a very much condescending fashion, she remarked "you'll get a dose of reality when you are up against students from the city." She was being frank and brutally honest and maybe she was right.
While she was saying this, a classmate who graduated from CPU high school, kept kicking my chair and repeatedly saying "Ikaw na', ikaw na'" ("She's talking about you."). Oh well, a promdi doesn't get any breaks.
Of course, these are isolated cases and the rest of the WVSU populace have been nice. The situation just comes to mind from time to time. As I have said on top of this column, most of us have been promdis at one time in our lives. But the trip back home sure reminded me of a lot of things.
And please tell Dr. J.P. not to learn Ilonggo. Can you even imagine J.P. doing his jokes in flawless Ilonggo? It won't be funny anymore.
More of the blog next time.
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Views expressed on this column and any other by-lined articles on this site are the authors' own and do not necessarily reflect the views of the organization or its members.
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