IT’S NOT so difficult to imagine that more than 40 years ago, many Filipinos were enamored with Imelda Marcos. This was during the first campaign for the presidency of Ferdinand Marcos, and Pinoys, still reeling from the Camelot presidency of Jack and Jackie Kennedy cruelly cut short by an assassin, thought they found a local counterpart in Ferdie and Meldy. Meldy especially mined her celebrity power: tall and fair, winsome of face, winning crowds over with her singing.
I remember the thrill that ran through our neighborhood in Alaminos, Pangasinan (elections coincided with summer vacations) when news spread that the Marcoses might be making a pit stop in our town. The adults lined the main street, while we kids looked out of the huge windows of my lola’s house overlooking the plaza. All through the sweltering afternoon, we peered out into the blazing hot sunshine, craning our necks for any sign of a motorcade. Finally, a long trail of cars whizzed by, raising dust and a sigh of expectation from the crowd. But the cars did not stop; they were behind schedule and were expected in the next town. Our one chance of catching a glimpse of Meldy evaporated with the heat that floated from the ground.
Nevertheless, my parents not only voted but actively campaigned for Marcos. They were die-hard Nacionalistas, and even if Marcos was a mere turncoat who had left the Liberals when it was clear that Diosdado Macapagal would not give way and seek re-election, they were driven not just by party loyalty but a sincere belief in the man, no, the couple.
When my sister and I found activism in the early 1970s, dinners at home, when we were home, would be tense affairs punctuated by debates over the Marcoses and the problems of the nation. You can guess which side our parents took, but when Marcos declared martial law even they had to admit that the President and his increasingly powerful First Lady had crossed a line.
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It was Cory Aquino who finally weaned Filipinos from their fascination for the Imeldific. While Cory’s husband Ninoy pursued his political ambitions, she chose to keep a low profile, keeping close to home and looking after the family.
She was thus a largely unknown entity when she came home in August 1983 after her husband’s assassination. She was as far from the Imeldific model as a Filipina could be: quiet and plain, basically unadorned, so soft-spoken her young daughter Kris did much of the talking for her.
It seemed quite a long shot that this retiring, unassuming woman would pick up the mantle of the opposition dropped by Ninoy. I remember raising an eyebrow at a story in Veritas, the “alternative” paper I was writing for, about a Makati rally in which Cory for the first time emerged as an opposition figure. Cries of “Cory!” “Cory!” filled the air, the story went, and I rolled my eyes at the editor’s conceit of seeing a mandate for Cory where none existed.
But I was wrong, it turns out (so sue me). When the other (male) opposition leaders couldn’t reach a consensus, it seemed only Cory had both the credibility and charisma to unite the warring factions, and so she emerged the unlikely, unexpected candidate in the snap election called by Marcos.
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Many times during that campaign, we would despair of ever turning Cory Aquino into the flamboyant fire-brand that Filipino voters seemed to hanker for. Young reporters would enter the newsroom imitating Cory’s monotone, especially when she would trot out the portion of her speech that would begin “Nung nabubuhay pa si Ninoy… [When Ninoy was still alive].”
Imelda was older, but kept a firm grip on her image, telling the media that Filipinos loved her because she stood for “the true, the good and the beautiful.” Her husband, meanwhile, denigrated his opponent’s sex, coming out with ads in which a woman intoned that she was “only” a woman and belonged in the bedroom (imagine that!).
But it seems that either the Filipino electorate had matured, or had grown sick of the high-wattage glamour of an Imelda. Crowds chanted Cory’s name, and snapped up cute “Cory” dolls with the distinctive curly top and wire frame glasses.
On a personal note, she even outdid Imelda, dropping by Alaminos and paying a visit to my lola’s house (the local opposition had convinced my aunt to host Cory), partaking of lunch of her favorite rellenong alimango.
Many times during her administration, Cory was compared unfavorably to the Imeldific, scored for her alleged lack of refinement, her seeming disdain for the things Imelda treasured, including the status of patroness of the arts.
But still, Cory kept her grip on the people’s hearts. An indication was that, while Imelda would always be referred to as “Madame,” Cory became everybody’s aunt, “Tita Cory” even to those not even remotely related to her.
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In the news recently were twin stories on Imelda and Cory. The former President had taken a turn for the worse, but her family assured that she had begun to eat though her condition remained “delicate.” It also happened to be Imelda’s birthday, and a still sharp-looking Meldy paused long enough from her “party” with the urban poor to say she was praying for Cory.
It’s enough to give you pause, to reflect on the vagaries of fate and destiny, image and character, and the still-unresolved dispute of what makes for better iconic status: terno or callado.
In public life, one can go for dazzling the masses, blinding them with glamour, bling and boyfriends. Or one can take the opposite route, underwhelming with simplicity, yet winning with sincerity and courage.
Madame Imelda can still walk into a room and silence it by her mere presence. But Tita Cory can move a nation.
