Red, Blue, Yellow.

I walk across the empty street littered with the banderitas streaked red, blue, and yellow. Some tables are deserted, empty bottles of beer left on top, and some others carry half-empty bowls of pulutan - nuts and whatnot. It is an early five o'clock in the evening, yet everyone had gone back in their own houses, turning on their televisions and switching the channels to ABS or GMA or whatever to catch up with their afternoon dramas that would air right before the news would begin. 

Of course, this scene would always happen. People bustling out with grins on their faces as they danced around with banderitas hanging around. Men would be drinking and lazing, talking about the good old times and the women would be monitoring their children who would be playing ice, ice water or langit lupa. Teenagers would be walking around and would talk about their day-to-day life, complaining that school would resume in a week, and the elderly would watch them from the second floor of the house, complaining about the heat.

Once midnight would strike, all of that would be over. Gone. 

Time would play once more, and people would go back to their regular lives. Complaining about the traffic on EDSA, blabbing on their phones and scheduling dates or nights out. Doing the laundry in the smoldering heat and wishing the rainy days would come once more. Staying in their rooms and fanning themselves exhaustively, and eventually falling asleep as their usual siesta kicked in. All of the previous day's events, forgotten and not to be remembered until three hundred and sixty-four days later, where the decorations would be taken out and the people would strum their guitars and sing. 

They've been saying that children do not know the background of their country as much compared to their knowledge about who's been wearing what and who's staring on that new Hollywood flick just released. Rolling their eyes as they eyed the history books with disdain in their eyes, saying that too many details have been left out and that explanation on the Martial Law was too little, too unspecified. 

But really, is that the reason why? Are textbooks lacking facts the reason why the people of today not know the tale of our country's past? Are social media and society to blame? Or is it because of the factors that surrounded them while they grew up - the lack of storytelling and explanations, the lack of answers to such a simple question that was hushed just because the one being asked was too busy with a program on the television?

People focus on so many things. Afternoon shows spurting out nonsense while scantily-clad young women would go around, shaking their bodies in what would seem 'sexy' and 'attractive', commercials tempting you to buy lotion that would turn your skin from tanned to fair. There's the news, focusing on Mr. So-And-So knocking up Ms. Whoever-It-Is and people debating whether Mrs. What's-Her-Name should return to showbiz and quit politics. That's us - focused on the unimportant things.

But what about the issues between our nation and the other nations? What about the climb and fall of our economy? What about the possible cheating done during the recent elections? What about lessening the number of corrupt people seated in the high seats and decreasing the rate of poverty, percent by percent? Where's the focus on that?

But most of all, where's the focus on the people who fought and shed their blood for us, the people who yelled their promises for our nation and the people who battled to the last breath for our freedom?

All of them, shoved inside banderitas and pulutan waiting to be taken out on the twelfth of June.

All of them, stored in teeny textbooks that still lack the facts we need to hear.

The red of their blood, wasted.

The blue of their spirit, crumbled.

The yellow of their integrity, blown away.

And the white of their sincere intentions, turned black.

All of those colors blended and put on our flag, disregarded.

A stick attached to a flaglet crunches under my foot, and I stop and bend down to pick it up.

It appears worn and crumpled, my footstep etched upon it and stained with the brown soil that remained on the soles of my rubber slippers.

With the sun starting to set, I press my lips against the smooth paper of the flaglet and whisper a promise to the spirits to the heroes above, who fought to let me have the freedom I have now.

And I walk away, ready to prove myself a hero just as they were.

~*Happy Independence Day to the Philippines!*~