Mommy Dionisia, did you know?

Dear Mrs. Dionisia Pacquiao (aka Mommy D.),

First of all, let me congratulate you once again for the victory of your son Manny.  I must also tell you, however, that while Manny was news, you outdid him when you became news yourself.

Ma’am, you know, the caricature, the internet memes and the hysterical commentaries about you can easily become someone’s entertainment.  But you deserve a place in our history as one unique character.  You delivered to us an icon, a pop-hero in your son, the “pambansang kamao” Manny Pacquiao the PACMAN.  Millions readily thank Manny for bringing honor to a country in dire need of a savior, when in fact the honor should also rest on you, his mother, who raised him and his siblings practically all by yourself.

There are just too many stories of single mothers raising their children to become the successful persons they can be.  Their stories collectively challenge the myth that a perfect marriage and complete parents are the prerequisites for a rewarding and functional life.  The challenges that single parents face may in fact make them harness their creative potentials to produce children that know how to face an unkind world.

Mrs. Dionisia Pacquiao, you are one hell of a story of survival, and how a heart of steel and a humorous predisposition can wing it through the hardships in life.  

Many sing praises to your son Manny, the boxer.  Every time he fights, the whole nation, or at least a big majority, joins him.  People rejoice with every blow he inflicts on, even as they feel the pain of every blow he receives from, his enemies in the ring. 

But I have to be honest with you.  I personally do not like boxing as a sports, as I sincerely believe that it is a remnant of the Roman spectacle where gladiators deliver to a maddened crowd thirsting for blood a form of entertainment that I can only consider as inhuman.  The arena in Las Vegas where boxing bouts are held becomes to me a modern day equivalent of the Roman Colosseum.  I just could not take satisfaction from watching boxers getting bloodied, with their bodies getting maimed, and their brains getting damaged, as we turn them into objects to be betted on in the process.

I also could not take comfort on the fleeting nature of how we honor boxers as icons, where in their times of glory we almost edify them as national treasures, as we do now with your son Manny.  But when they stop delivering to us the victories, when they grow old, and when the bodies which became the templates upon which our collective pride was etched have reached their expiration dates, and only much-mangled physical entities now traumatized by paralysis, internal organ injuries and brain damage, remain, we collectively move on to another icon who we will offer next to the boxing arena.

But I must admit that your son offers one unique spot in this otherwise discomforting world of boxing.  In a sporting event where violence is the norm, and where an attacking fist can land a knock-out punch, he personifies a gentle hand.  Many people have already said that he could have easily knocked out many of his opponents, but instead he chooses to win by points. He plays by the rules of technique, rather than through the might equated with seeing his hand raised to claim the crown of victory even as a bloodied body of the vanquished slumps on the side. He would rather embrace the boxer he fought with and defeated at the moment of his victory, rather than watch him being brought out from the boxing ring on a stretcher.  I suspect you have a lot to do with this kind of gentleness and compassion in him.

Many fault Manny for venturing into other careers, such as acting and singing.  Many heaped on him insults, and demeaned his right as a citizen of this Republic to enter politics.  And many of these even came from his fans.  They just want Manny to concentrate on boxing where he is their idol, and stop venturing into other domains where he is seen to be unfit and where he is allegedly making a fool of himself.  But what these people fail to understand is that perhaps Manny is just simply diversifying his career options, particularly made imperative when one takes into consideration the gloomy post-boxing scenario where his fame can be easily forgotten by those who idolize him now, as what happened to those boxers who came before him.

His fans would want him to be boxed in the boxing world, without assuring him that when he no longer delivers the victories that he will still have a career in their hearts. It is easy to sing praises to his greatness now that he brings home the crown.  But whether such will remain the moment his body gives up is uncertain.  And the hounding which Kim Henares inflicts on him on his tax obligations, even when prudence and human touch dictate some bureaucratic restraint if only to allow your son some moment to savor his victory, is not that all reassuring.  Kim Henares is a clear reminder to Manny that there are only two certain things in life, even to a boxing champion—death and taxes.

Few appreciate the fact that the career of Manny Pacquiao as a boxer is coterminous with an able body, upon which the incessant beatings it gets can easily take their toll.  But his talent for singing and acting will remain, and so is the opportunity provided by the world of politics.  To confine him to boxing, where his tenure can take him to unimaginable heights and bring him fame and fortune but can nevertheless be short-lived, could severely limit his future.  He is fighting not only battles in the boxing ring.  Manny Pacquiao, despite his fame, is like anyone of us mortals.  He has to also fight the battles in life, and there he has to count on his versatility as a person if he has to survive not only Kim Henares but all the odds that will come his way.

And it is in this context that I bring you into the equation.  Not being privy into how you raised Manny and his siblings, I can only surmise that it is how you did it that you were able to reproduce in him the kindness, gentleness, religiosity, versatility and practical wit, not to mention the natural talent to perform on stage.  What we see in Manny is how you had made him.

You have a natural sense of humor that can easily be caricaturized and turned into a meme.  Your recent performance in the ringside during the Pacquiao-Bradley fight, where, true to form of a protective mother, you came fully armed with a rosary, a scapular, a prayer book and some mantras which you recited for the whole world to see, was easily turned into an object of spectacle in cyberspace.  The insensitive ring-side commentator even practically called you a witch by labeling your own way of expressing your maternal support to your son as a form of voodoo.

You are derided by your critics for your ostentatious display of new-found wealth, with others even maligning your social-climbing antics.  You become fodder to slapstick humor when you appear on TV or on stage, parading your heavily-made up face, carrying your expensive designer bags, with your dance instructor in tow.  Many were amused, while others were simply horrified, when you celebrated your birthday wearing a tiara, and practically turned the event into a geriatric equivalent of a coming out concert, with you dancing and singing on stage.

But what could NOT be said about you is that you financed all of these from stolen money from public coffers.  On the contrary, your fame and fortune are all sourced from the blood and sweat of your son offering his body to be bludgeoned and maimed.  And you have every right to do so for it is that same body that you carried for nine months in your womb, delivered and nurtured for years. It is in those nights and days of mothering that you learned how to face the challenges of raising a large brood all by yourself when your husband left you, and it is in this suffering that Manny may have learned a lesson or two on how to fight not only in the boxing ring but in the ring of life.

And what made your pain and suffering bearable is your natural talent to amuse not only yourself but people around you.  This, to my mind, is what provided Manny many gifts—the gift of humor, of self-deprecation, of compassion, humility and gentleness and of performance to feed the suffering body and mind a kind of determination that makes one stand up after a fall, and provide it an outlet to let go and simply enjoy life despite the odds.  

You may appear to some as one crazy woman, but your craziness is so endearing that you come in as a nice breath of fresh air to a sports that has been dominated by violence, and to a society that has been afflicted by judgmental hypocrisy.  

It is but fitting that I now dedicate a song to you as a mother. It is inspired by a Christmas song about Mary, the mother of Jesus, who I know you venerate dearly. Some people may see an irreverent parody in what I offer to you, more so that it is a humorous adaptation of a song that celebrates the Virgin Mother and the infant Jesus. 

But I would like to sincerely offer this song to embody how you lived your life, as a mother who went through the pains of raising a son, having to endure watching him being beaten up and getting bloodied just to provide a country in dire need of heroes some form of hope. 

This may not be comparable to how the Virgin Mother suffered watching how Jesus Christ carried the cross and was crucified.  

But it still nevertheless embodies the suffering of a mother, even as its being a parody reflects the nature of your being one hell of a woman who simply knows how to enjoy life, and doesn’t care about what other people will say. 

Dionisia Pacquiao, Ma’am, your sense of humor provides resistive hope, and the laughter you elicit enables a symbolic abduction of the zest in life when it is imprisoned by oppressive conventions and the boring normal, a ray of sunshine when gloom takes its toll and threatens the ability of a people to dream.  You provide catharsis to a stressed nation, a letting go when everyone wants to hang on to a nightmare.  

Pardon the irreverence, but the parodies, internet memes and caricatures that you engender are so you.  I am sure you will not be offended, and in fact I am certain that you will laugh in your signature Dionisia Pacquiao way if I tell you that the laughter you evoke is very much like a gas that needs to be passed for all of us to feel relieved.

The song I offer is a summation of how you, like your son who brought hope to our country through his fists, have also brought us hope but through your humor.

Here is my offering to you, Ma’am Dionisia Pacquiao—mother, dancer, natural comedian. 

You may want to sing along with it here.   It is going to be a lot more fun and more meaningful than that of Miley Cyrus’ “Wrecking Ball” which you sang on Vice Ganda’s show.

DIONISIA, DID YOU KNOW?

(To the tune of “Mary, did you know,” with apologies to Mark Lowry and Buddy Greene, its composers and lyricists) 

Dionisia, did you know that your baby boy would one day be a boxer
Dionisia, did you know that your baby boy would sing like you with laughter
Did you know that your baby boy has come to make you rich 
And this child that you delivered will one day bring you fame 

Dionisia, did you know that your baby boy will soon fight Kim Henares
Dionisia, did you know that your baby boy will stop the crimes with his hand
Did you know that your baby boy has walked where Chavit trod
And when you kiss your little baby, you’ll kiss a face with blood 
Oh Dionisia, did you know
Hmmm. Dionisia, did you know
Ooo Ooo

His fans will cheer
The streets will clear 
The thieves will take a break
Our country’s pride
The pols will ride
On the fame of your son

Dionisia, did you know that your baby boy is curse to Floyd Mayweather 
Dionisia, did you know that your baby boy would one day run for Congress
Did you know that your baby boy is Jinkee’s perfect man 
And this sleeping child you're holding is the great PACMAN.

Sincerely,

Your fan


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