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    Gold Under the Bridge: A Story of Life in the Slums
    Gold Under the Bridge: A Story of Life in the Slums
    Gold Under the Bridge: A Story of Life in the Slums
    Ebook109 pages1 hour

    Gold Under the Bridge: A Story of Life in the Slums

    By Marilyn Gutierrez

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    About this ebook

    Meredita and her family's life story represents that of the many families the author has known at Quirino Aveneu Bridge and in other places in Manila. Affected by their untiring, endless attempts to get out of poverty or deal with it to survive, the author tried to capture all these details from what Mercedita's family chose to share over the years. The interaction was based on a relationship shaped by events an NGO volunteer organized in the community, like a street library and monthly fora. 

    This book takes the position that the poorest are first and foremost human beings, essential partners in the fight against poverty more than they are problems to be solved.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAnvil Publishing, Inc.
    Release dateNov 20, 2017
    ISBN9786214200184
    Gold Under the Bridge: A Story of Life in the Slums

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      Book preview

      Gold Under the Bridge - Marilyn Gutierrez

      Prologue

      Under a bridge, I was there. I was walking underneath this concrete bridge, on this little path in between houses, beside a canal. It was dark, very hot and an acrid smell was seeping into my lungs. Above were cars and trucks running fast. I was talking with children and adults who came out of their houses to greet me, and invited them for a gathering.

      Mercedita let me in her house. It was dark inside, no electricity, only a candle burned near her stove. There were two of her young daughters, Roselina and Rosana, lying on the floor. They sat up beside their mother to give me a space to sit on.

      Did you get our drawing? asked Rosana.

      Mercedita and her three children had learnt that I was hospitalized for some days.

      Yes, I did, thanks! Joanna gave it to me.

      I remember their drawing. It had their father, their mother, and all the children including one yet to be born. On top of it was written: Home sweet home!

      There was joy on Mercedita’s face but her worries kept her smile away, worries she didn’t hide from her kids.

      I am scared for my children. Our electricity has been cut off because I could not pay. I have no job… I need someone who could look after my baby.

      But you won’t send your baby away? I reacted.

      What else can I do? I have to find work for my other kids. They need to eat. If the baby stays with me, how can I work? I thought of sending them to an orphanage for a time, but they refused.

      We don’t want to go to an orphanage. We don’t complain about our life, we just want to be together! Roselina who heard her argued.

      Rosana moved to open a casserole, delighted to see what was up for supper.

      Look! We got fried hotdogs! It’s enough! She exclaimed.

      As I walked to leave this bridge, my eyes caught sight of its people. I stood near the ladder that had brought me down under it a while ago. I was observing everyone around me, the thoughts in their faces, the life that exists here.

      There were children whooping at play, mothers washing while chatting with one another, men and women tirelessly pulling out nails from old wood they hope to sell afterwards.

      At one side of the bridge were several folding beds with adults and children sleeping. On the avenue were taxi drivers dodging trucks and cars, honking their horns constantly. There were vendors standing in the middle of the road, with their wares: wooden boxes full of cigarettes, candies, bottled water and newspapers.

      As these smiling faces greeted me, my mind flew years back. Suddenly, I was filled with memories of these people, of this place called Quirino Avenue Bridge. Many have been living here since the early seventies. A great number of families moved from their provinces to Manila, in search of better opportunities.

      Then, the road was quiet. I remembered meeting ATD Fourth World Movement for the first time, ten years ago. It was with its full-time volunteers who came from other continents that I got to know families living under a bridge, in a cemetery, along an avenue. I remembered doing what they called a street library for the first time and I was amazed at how a child could read a book with full attention amid all the noise. I remembered wanting to stay, to remain attentive to them. One mother often reminded me, Don’t let them cross the streets alone. We often get accidents here.

      Every weekend, in the afternoon, I came with plenty of books, beautiful books, with mats, with pencils and crayons for drawing and with students from other universities. We had a good time discovering wonders together. I felt the thirst of these children for something beautiful, for anything that would bring their imagination to life. And I said to myself, With them I was fighting poverty.

      This was how I met Mercedita and her family for the first time. They were living along the canal under the bridge. I remembered how scared I was every time I visited them. I was always scared to walk on such a narrow path that led to their house; I had to watch my steps so as not to fall into the canal.

      Mercedita knew many full-time volunteers. She remembered all their names. She calls us Ate or Kuya¹ even though she is several years older than we are. But it’s not about age, it’s about respect, which she gives generously to those she meets.

      __________

      ¹ Elder sister or elder brother

      Diploma

      One afternoon after a street library, tired and feeling scorched by the heat, I was sitting right at Mercedita’s doorstep, taking a break before going back to the office. I just had brought her kids, Rowena and Rosana back home from our activities.

      That day, a number of children came, even babies were there, carried by their older siblings. Three young people from this community made masks and presented a short play showing a doctor, a teacher, and a lawyer. It was an activity where children were asked what their dreams are; what they want to be when they grow up and to draw these. Rowena and Rosana were eager and proud to show their mother the drawings. Mercedita was looking happily at them, guessing their dreams. I thought she, too, must have had dreams when she was a child.

      What about you, did you have a dream when you were a child?

      She covered her face with her children’s drawings and replied giggling, Oh! I had plenty!

      But is there one that you remember?

      She saw that I was serious with my question, so she put the drawings aside and sat beside me, ready to talk, much like all the other times I passed by her house and we would spend hours telling each other.

      When I was a child, I don’t remember having much time to play with other kids. What I remember most was that I worked a lot! I didn’t have any toys then. I had a winnowing basket carried on my head, with vegetables that I had to sell around our village. At home, I would fetch water and clean the house. And when I reached 12 years old, I left for Manila.

      She had told me about it before, but she would always stop when she had to go to the details.

      Were you already living under the bridge then? I asked.

      She kept silent for a moment.

      I lived with my elder sister in Quezon City. She helped me get to high school but it was not easy. She and her husband had to work everyday and I had to look after their children. One day, I had to stop school.

      She was silent again, as if sifting through the images of her childhood. She stared at me. She seemed to wait for my other questions. Our talk was really getting serious.

      You never went back to school then?

      I tried many times. I left my sister’s place to find work and went to school at the same time.

      So you were like a ‘working student’ then?

      That’s how they call it today. But for me, at that time, I couldn’t do one without the other. I had to grab any chance for work so I could get myself to school.

      Mercedita was now talking, no longer hesitant to tell what she felt, explaining things for me to understand. She said that she worked at night in a store in one province. For her salary, she was sent

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