21 Del Pilar Street was our home address back in the mid-1970s and late-1980s. Several days ago, I braved going back to that home with my sister, an aunt and a cousin not for sentimental reason, but for curiosity. One early evening, I was passing by in a cab through that street when I saw a well-lighted terrace and what appeared to be a café. When we reached the corner, I looked back and asked myself if it was our former home. I was not sure but the thought scared me. What will happen to my memories of that home?
It took weeks again before I would pass by that area to finally confirm what had turned into fear: It was now a place where people walked into what used to be a living room and order fried rice and pork chop.
I am being unfair, I told myself. The property is not ours. Somebody owns it already. If the house could talk, it would look at me with tears in its eyes—or windows—to blame me, or us, for abandoning it.
The new owner was not around when we made the visit. There were only the manager and the waitresses. Two tables were occupied by five customers when we introduced ourselves. “We used to live here, I told the lady at the counter. The customers who overheard what I said looked up. However, timid you try to be when you go to a place to claim that you lived there before, you would always appear invasive. Besides, no one visits a former home to tell its present occupants you were there before them. But then again, this is the first time that I saw our former residence transformed into a public place.
“21 Del Pilar Street” belongs to a barangay called “Dayangdang.” By its name, the place has not been seen yet by any city administrators as worthy to be replaced by names of revolutionaries or deceased politicians.
Dayangdang has a piquant sound to it. No one is certain from where the word is derived. What I do recall is that it is one of the last two areas in the city that was serviced by calesas. It was a place where everyone knew each other. You could give your bag to the “cochero” and he would deliver it to your home. The cochero also called each other by nicknames, the origin and meaning of which were either hysterical, ridiculous or obscene.
The calesas are gone. The small houses are not there anymore. What we call townhouses dotted the street. A few meters from our home, the street turned into row of bars.
Our old home has changed. The dining room is now covered by a wall. But the staircase is still the same, except that it could be seen now from the street.
I asked permission to go up. I wanted to see my old room. It was there waiting to be a function room. I stood by its door and my sister took a photo. I walked out into the terrace now enlarged. A mountain dog named “Shogun” was kept up there. He walked proudly and barked at the birds that flocked on the coconut trees.
Up to this day, my sister has not posted my picture by the door of the room I occupied more than 40 years ago. She found me scary in that shot.
I have become the ghost of 21 Del Pillar Street.
Image credits: Jimbo Albano