Men should never be allowed to plan a birthday party for a woman. Never! It’s just not in our genes. There’s just something about flower-scented candles, hand lotions, and a medley of fruit salads that doesn’t quite hit the right chord with us guys. But for some inexplicable reason, women absolutely love it and we’ll never really know why.
For us guys, it’s simple. Barbeque, beer, and a big screen television equal the picture-perfect gathering. Forget the females. There’s nothing like paying 50 bucks to watch two sweaty men beating the living crap out of each other. That’s just the way it is, but women insist on complicating things more than it can possibly get. Buy this. Buy that. Move this table here. Put those chairs there.
On a Saturday in March 2008, my mommy turned 54 years old. Bless her heart. My mom’s a very simple lady: a registered nurse for over 25 years and immigrant from the Philippines. She simply wanted a small dinner to invite family and close friends - nothing spectacular or over the top. It wasn’t her fault that her birthday so conveniently fell on the same exact day every single Filipino, man, woman, and child, would be glued to the tube to watch the highly anticipated rematch between my hero, Manny Pacquiao, and Juan Manuel Marquez…but it did.
There is no Filipino household that does not know the legend that is Manny Pacquiao – or so I thought. He is the pride of the Philippines, and there is no other celebrity or political figure that matches his presence. He is truly a god among men, the quintessential king of the boxing ring, the greatest Filipino who ever dawned a pair of 10-ounce gloves.
For my father and me, my mom’s birthday was the greatest excuse to invite everybody we knew to our household and to turn what was supposed to be a close, intimate gathering into a bona fide spectacle for dozens of people my mom barely knew.
Luckily for us, she wasn’t too upset when she discovered our shenanigans, and after a little bit of begging and pleading, she gave in despite her displeasure. However, there was one guest she had a little problem with: Manny Pacquiao. It turned out she had no idea who he was.
In 1938, the peak of America’s Great Depression, Joe Louis united a disheveled United States through boxing. His historic bout with Max Schmeling, the fighting hero of Nazi Germany, broke down social barriers and brought all Americans together. Rich or poor, white or black, the whole nation rallied behind the warrior, Louis. Although the name ‘Manny Pacquiao’ may not resonate with your average sports fan, for Filipinos alike, he is our Joe Louis.
The Philippines, albeit a tropical paradise to the naked eye, is an impoverished nation whose people struggle to feed their families like most third-world countries. While economically developed in very few areas, the country as a whole remains a rural and destitute land that lacks the opportunities the U.S. offers. So when someone makes it to the big time, you’d better believe that it’s a huge deal. The Philippines is plagued by mediocre singers, American Idol runner-ups, crooked politicians, and flaming transvestites. In my tiny Filipino world, Manny, simply, is all I have.
To hear my mother ask, “Who is Manny Pacquiao?” was like hearing nails on a chalkboard. I couldn’t help but cringe at the very notion of her not knowing what this man means not only to boxing fanatics like my father and me, but also to the people of where she came from. Why was it that she was completely and utterly ignorant to the world around her? How can it be that with all the technology and innovations in communication we have that she not know who Manny is? It was absolutely absurd.
As I watched Michael Buffer conduct the pre-fight festivities, more and more people poured into the living room to find a seat. My uncles stood up waiting in anticipation for the bell to ring while my mother and her nursing friends chatted about the latest gossip while sipping on diet sodas and ice water. The room was definitively divided into two: the men who were there to watch Manny fight and the women who were actually there for my mom. As to where my affiliation was at, all I have to say is that hey, I’m a boxing fan. Sue me if my motives for this party weren’t a hundred percent for her, but at that particular moment I was solely there for the fight and nothing else.
But before I was about to declare my undying love for Manny and everything about Filipino culture, my mother gave me a significant dose of reality check.
“And now singing the national anthem of the Philippines,” Buffer announced, “Ciara Soto.”
There it was. Reality check number one: I had absolutely no clue what the Philippines’ national anthem means at all. Without a minute’s hesitation, a chorus of several slightly tipsy, petite, Filipino women, my mother included, broke out in song: “Bayang magiliw, Perlas ng Silanganan, Alab ng puso sa dibdib mo’y buhay.”
Okay, so I didn't know the national anthem. Big deal. The fact of the matter was that Manny Pacquiao was there to fight, and not to listen to a song. When the bell rings, I was bound to cheer my hardest.
But then it came again. Reality check number two: women are louder than men – much louder. Boxing is simple to understand and easy to watch. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to break down the so-called “sweet science.”
“Patay! Patay! Patay!” my mom screamed to my surprise. The first round of the fight was inaudible to the point where I couldn’t even here myself think. Hearing her yell, “Kill him!” in Tagalog reminded me that I wasn’t the only Filipino in the room, let alone the world. A few moments before, she had no clue who he was, and now she became his biggest and most obnoxious fan. How? The woman who taught me never to get into fights was now cheering a guy whom she learned existed about 2 hours ago. Perhaps she felt the spirit of her heritage sweep through her veins. Perhaps it was being around her fellow countrymen and women. Perhaps it was because her inherent Filipino spirit never died in the first place. I just don’t know.
After 12 thrilling rounds of excitement, which I vaguely remember today, Manny took a split-decision over Marquez. Although it was a great fight, I still cannot get the picture of my mother out of my head. Screaming, kicking, throwing her fists in the air like a madwoman. Why?
Come to think about it, it really wasn’t about boxing, nor was it about sports. There is something about one’s home country, place of birth, one’s origin that brings out the inner fan in all of us. My mom wasn’t a fan of boxing by a long shot, but it was certain that she was a fan of her country, her roots, her Philippines.
I finally figured out the meaning behind the lyrics to the Filipino national anthem. “Beloved country, Pearl of the Orient, the Heart’s fervor, in your bosom is ever alive. Chosen land, you are the cradle of the brave, to the conquerors, you will never surrender.”
My mom never surrendered her heritage once she moved to the U.S., and she continues to remind me everyday in the tiniest ways to remember who I am and where I came from. That’s sports. That’s life. That’s my mom.
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