WHEN I WAS a kid, about 7 or 8 years old, I had a ninong (godfather) who was a simple mechanic; he worked in a vulcanising and auto shop. Ninong Bert didn’t earn much, so naturally, he couldn’t give me expensive gifts for Christmas or birthdays. But I knew he always loved me, and he would give what he could, not only during the special occasions, but whenever we met. He would give me hopia, pan de coco, tira-tira, or ChocNut (my favourite), all inexpensive and available at a cheap sari-sari store. 

I had no complaints. None, until one day, when I had a chat with my kalaro (playmate).

Carlos, my playmate, said his ninong was the Vice Mayor of our town. At Christmas, he would receive beautiful, expensive gifts and money from his ninong. As a kid, I was a bit envious. One Christmas, I passed by the Vice Mayor’s gate and saw many children queuing at the house. The line was long, but I noticed that every kid who came out of the gate was smiling, some with their parents, some alone. One of those who emerged was Carlos. He immediately became cocky. 

“Roni, tingnan mo ito. Mamahaling toy car, tsaka may 100 pesos pa ako. Bigay ito lahat ng ninong kong Vice Mayor.” (Roni, look. I have an expensive toy car, and I also have P100. My godfather, the Vice Mayor, gave these all to me) At that time, P100 was huge. “Ikaw, ano bigay sa iyo ng ninong mo?” (You, what did your ninong give you?) he asked.

Earlier that day, my Ninong Bert gave me an old, cheap baseball cap for Christmas. I knew it was affordable and low-quality because it had a small tear in the corner, and its colour was fading. I was wearing it at that moment, but I didn’t tell Carlos. I was ashamed, even embarrassed, that I had a chintzy present compared to his.

It’s from [Ninong Bert] that I learned that the value of our relationship with anyone (friends or family) is not measured in the material things we give, but in the effort we put into providing our time, and in how we recognise the importance of each other’s existence, and roles we play in each other’s lives

– Ron

In an instant, I resented my ninong. I felt that I was the unluckiest kid in the world who had a poor, cheap, and dirty mechanic as a ninong. I started to avoid seeing him, and whenever he brought some cheapish goodies, I just put them away. I changed how I treated him, but he didn’t change; he continued to visit me from time to time, checking on me and showing his love. But I often ignored him. I wished I had a rich and famous ninong, not him.

I also began spending more time with Carlos, playing with his expensive gifts and listening to him talk about how generous his Vice Mayor ninong was. One day in August, we were on the street in front of the gate of the Vice Mayor’s house. 

While we were busy playing, we didn’t notice a car coming out. We were blocking its path; it honked loudly to get our attention, but we were slow to move (we were enjoying our kid game). Just then, the passenger door opened, and an angry-looking man stepped out. It was the Vice Mayor.

Carlos immediately greeted him. “Ninong! Ninong!”  But the man had other things in mind. “Hoy, bata, huwag kayong haharang-harang sa daan. Nagmamadali ako. Hala, layo kayo. Alis diyan!” (Hey kid, don’t block the way. I’m in a hurry. Move. Get lost!)

Not only did the Vice Mayor not hear Carlos’ greeting, but the ninong he was so proud of and had so much admiration for did not even recognise him. In that instant, I realised that because this furious man was a known politician, he probably had so many inaanaks (godchildren) that he couldn’t even remember them all. Carlos had no personal relationship with him. He was just a number to him. 

Carlos was stunned. And so was I. 

Immediately, I ran away from the scene. Tears were welling up in the corner of my eye. I was thinking of my Ninong Bert. He cared for me. He would recognise me anywhere, anytime. He knew how I smell, how I look, what toothpaste I use. He understood my dream, he even knew my favourite ulam – ginisang monggo. He would visit me and give small things out of love. He had always loved me. I had a powerful personal relationship with him. 

Gusto kong umiyak (I wanted to cry). 

Running, sweating, and almost out of breath, my eyes misty because of controlled tears, I found myself going to the auto shop where my ninong worked. Inside it was hot and slick, with many jeepney hoods popped open.

“Ninong Bert! Ninong Bert!” I yelled. The workers were surprised to see a kid suddenly appearing from nowhere, and so was my ninong, who stood up from under a vehicle with greasy hands and an oily shirt. “Roni, ano ginagawa mo dito?” (Roni, what are you doing here?)

I marched toward him and hugged him tightly, oblivious that I would be greasy and oily myself afterwards. “Ninong, Ninong, ako pala ang pinaka-masuwerteng bata sa mundo, kasi… kasi… Ninong kita!” (I am really the luckiest kid in the world, because… because… you’re my ninong!). Then I cried. No, not just cried, I was sobbing; tears, sweat, grease, and oil, mixed in a bucket of emotions.  

“Merry Christmas, Roni,” my ninong said. I was still hugging him; my face was on his lubricated shirt. “Merry Christmas too, Ninong,” I said, moving away to look up to him. “Pero, August pa lang Ninong, matagal pa Pasko!” (It’s August, Ninong. Christmas is still a long way!) I wiped my tears on his shirt, leaving grease and oil on my face and making me look like a camouflaged warrior.

“Oo nga, pero pag kasama mo ako, araw-araw Pasko,” he replied.

“Araw araw Pasko, paano pag gabi?”  I asked.

“Holy week naman yon. Tahimik sa gabi eh.”

“Ang corny mo, Ninong.”

Ninong Bert passed away when I was already in college. I would never forget him. It’s from him that I learned that the value of our relationship with anyone (friends or family) is not measured in the material things we give, but in the effort we put into providing our time, and in how we recognise the importance of each other’s existence, and roles we play in each other’s lives.

And this is not only during Christmas, but in our everyday journey, and every night, and even in Holy Week (to quote my ninong).

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all.