Many people are familiar with the tale of Sleeping Beauty: A princess and her kingdom are cursed to eternal slumber by the princess’s slighted godmother. Enchanted vines surround the castle, preventing entry and any possibility for the spell to be broken, until fate allows it to be lifted, predictably in this story by a valiant prince.

But what if you met a real-life Sleeping Beauty and wanted her to remain asleep forever? And what if waking up led not to a happy ending but to the entire kingdom’s demise? Would it still be a story as famous as it is now?

My part all started in a town called Bacolor, in the Pampanga province of the Philippines.

My grandma, who was born there, told me it was formerly called “The Athens of the Philippines” because it was once the capital of the country and the center of everything. Bacolor was also famous for its cultural treasures: perfectly preserved ancient mansions that revealed the country’s 300-year past with Spanish colonizers. But that was just one of many reasons why Bacolor was the center of everything for me too. It was also because of my grandma, grandpa, three aunts, an uncle, nine dogs, five cats, a black pig, and chickens too many to remember.

Mom and Dad could not afford to buy their own home or rent one. My parents, in addition to supporting me and my sisters, were also supporting Mom’s family. As a compromise, we lived in Grandma’s house. Money was tight but life with Lola (Filipino for grandma) was good. My sisters and I were loved like we were really part of their family. I would have been content if not for one thing: school.

I was nine years old when I first got bullied at the only Catholic private school in Bacolor. It started when one of my aunts became the school registrar; this work being lighter and easier than that of teaching, many of my teachers also applied for the position. They were displeased when a newcomer got the job and my sisters and I were punished for being related to her. The knowledge that even adults could be mean was painful. A shift in a teacher’s voice, a slight turn of the head, would make me inwardly feel ashamed of myself. Children being children, my classmates followed suit.

This was something I wasn’t used to. I had enemies, but they were kids like me. They kept picking the forbidden red gumamelas of Lola’s garden (the flowers, when pounded, made soap bubbles last longer). But nothing like this. I’d delay getting up for school because of my overwhelming dread of being bullied. I didn’t know how to deal with it except to study harder. Sadly, this tactic didn’t win over my teachers or win me any medals.

My sister Louie, older and wiser than I, fought back. After school I’d find her outnumbered, fighting with boys and girls larger than her. Yet, she’d win every time. During our walks home we’d talk about how our teachers sided with our classmates, even though we knew it wasn’t our fault. I felt powerless. Grade school felt like forever. But fate was to change all that.

One lazy afternoon, I was dozing on a hammock when the sound of stones being thrown on the roof woke me. Because I had many childhood enemies, I shouted at the top of my lungs, challenging them to come out and fight (I was braver at home than at school). But the stones kept raining down and wouldn’t stop. I ran out of energy and quit shouting when no one would come out.

Just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. Grandma came to me and asked me why I was screaming when there was no one around. Then everything went completely dark. It was early in the afternoon, yet all was enveloped in total blackness. The electricity was out and my three aunts rushed for the oil lamps and candles.

We all sat in the living room, not knowing what was happening. This time, everyone heard the stones falling from the sky. Not small harmless rocks, but giant stones falling from the sky. When they hit the earth, they sounded like bombs exploding. And along with the stones came strong tremors. I thought I was just dizzy from all the shouting I had done, but when Grandma and my aunts started praying the rosary, I knew it wasn’t only me who was afraid.

My parents were working in another city. They weren’t home when the series of earthquakes began. I was terrified that they were pinned underneath boulders. My lola told my sisters and I to go to sleep when the rain of stones and the earthquake stopped. We laid down the banig, or sleeping mat, and tried to sleep. I dimly heard my aunts reciting the Hail Mary. I was half awake, waiting for the sound of my parents’ familiar footfalls to come.

Dad woke us up the next day and assured us that he and Mom were safe. They had taken shelter in a friend’s house when the rain of stones began. They headed for home when it stopped. We were already asleep when they arrived. Dad told us it was all caused by a volcano called Mount Pinatubo that had woken up after hundreds of years of sleep. He took us outside to show us the woolly gray ‘blanket’ that covered the whole town: it was ash from Mt. Pinatubo. It was the closest thing to a winter wonderland I would ever see, and I did not know then that it would also be the thing that would make us leave Bacolor.

The adults in our family knew that what had happened the day before was only the beginning. What they did not predict however, was that the lahar (lava mixed with mud) would bury the whole town, destroying all the houses, the ancient mansions, the school I went to, and everything that was Bacolor. I still wanted to live there, but my parents decided to leave. The dust that came from the lahar triggered asthma attacks in my sisters and I every day. The government provided resettlement housing for the victims of the eruption, but it was located far away from San Fernando, where Mom and Dad were doing business. They could afford to buy a house of their own now, since the pearls they sold had earned them a lot of money. That’s how our first house in San Fernando came to be.

I made friends at my new school and so did my sisters. We didn’t get bullied by teachers any longer, yet I wasn’t happy. Lola wasn’t there cooking food when I came home from school. My grandpa, three aunts, an uncle, nine dogs, five cats, a black pig, and chickens too many to remember weren’t there to fill the silent loneliness of the house. Even now that I’m old, the silence still overwhelms me when I think of them. Somehow, I feel a part of me was buried in the lahar, among the ruins of my hometown. I feel that it lies there still. Waiting to be found.

Further Reading
1.  Wikipedia article on Mount Pinatubo