THE DAY WE NOTICE

By Herman M. Lagon

February 11, for me, has a strange way of arriving in Panay like a double bell: one tolling for a man we lost in public, and another ringing for a mother who, by sheer stubborn love, kept us from being lost in private. On paper, it is Evelio Javier Day—a special non-working holiday many of us treat as a pause between errands. At home, it is also my Mama Diana’s 82nd birthday. For us, the day feels like a quiet audit, asking what I have truly valued and what I keep postponing. I admit, I have postponed too many things: “Later, Ma,” “Next time,” “Busy pa.” Work always has an excuse, and the inbox never rests. But life does not wait. Psychologists call it hedonic adaptation—the habit of getting used to blessings until love, freedom, and even our mothers become background noise. We notice only when something breaks the rhythm.

My mother, a retired professor, never needed a microphone to lead. Her voice alone could steady a room. She is frank, strong, and unshaken by hardship. When my father died in 1990, we were still young. She raised four children with quiet strength—teaching, cooking, cleaning, and encouraging us along the way. She never dramatized struggle. She just lived through it. The miracle was not just survival, but that we grew up without bitterness. Her lessons were integrity, grit, and dignity—even in lean times. Yet many of us only praise mothers when they are already tired, sick, or gone. We make statues when the hands that fed us can no longer cook. We write tributes when the person can no longer read them. Mama is alive, strong-willed, breathing, and still scolding me for leaving the gate unlocked. That should not be a small thing.

Yet here is the embarrassing honesty: I still miss her fried rice. Not because it is not good, but because my mornings are a relay race between a compressed workweek reporting time and the road to Barotac Nuevo that has taught me the spiritual discipline of beating traffic. I see the plate, I smell the garlic, I see the pinamalhan—my favorite—waiting like a patient friend, and I still choose speed over presence. I remind myself that this is responsible adulthood. I call it “hustle;” my daughter calls it “grind.” Sometimes I even dress it up as service. It is usually habit. We overlook what feels permanent. Studies show that paying attention to small daily kindness can make us happier and closer to others (Emmons & McCullough, 2003).

My mother never asks for grand thanks. Her love comes in simple forms—sumptuous puchero, folded shirts, an umbrella, and gentle reminders. And yes, the “small” requests that I sometimes treat as distractions: “’Man, paki-connect naman ang phone ko sa Wi-Fi,” “Pwede mo mabutang sa ASAP Live ang (Smart) TV?” I used to treat those as irritating tech errands, especially when I was busy. This, despite the constant reminder of how to do it herself. Lately, I hear them as invitations. That is her language of closeness now, a practical excuse to keep me in the same sala for a few minutes, long enough for her to ask if I ate, if I slept, if I looked worn out. Sometimes she shares benign neighborhood gossip—who moved, who got sick, who died, what happened lately, who needed help—and I catch myself half-listening, as if it is mere background chatter. Then it hits me: she is not selling me gossip. She is offering me home. She is reminding me that grounding is not a motivational poster; it is a mother talking about ordinary people in an ordinary street, anchoring me back to what is real.

That is where Evelio Javier Day becomes personal, too. As a staunch critique against the dictatorship, he was assassinated on February 11, 1986, in a time when courage had real risks and dissent could cost a life—an act that added fuel to the growing fire that would soon erupt into the EDSA People Power Revolution. In many schools across Antique and Panay, his life is still taught as a case study in local leadership and political courage, a reminder that democracy is not built only in capitals but also in provinces. We honor his bravery, yet freedom is always easier to praise than to protect. Republic Act 7601 made this a special holiday in Panay, but a day off can become empty if we forget why it exists. We rest, post a quote, then move on. Rest is fine—forgetting is not. Like freedom, we also take good people for granted, including our mothers, until they are gone.

I do not want to romanticize grief, nor do I want to weaponize history as a guilt trip. My mother would roll her eyes at that. She is too practical for melodrama. But the juxtaposition is hard to ignore: one February 11 took a man away and helped wake a nation; another February 11 keeps a woman with me long enough to keep waking me up—sometimes literally—so I do not waste the life in front of me. When people say, “You do not know what you have until it is gone,” they often say it as a slogan. Behavioral science frames it more soberly: familiarity dulls emotional response, and attention drifts to what feels urgent, not what is truly important (Frederick & Loewenstein, 1999). This is why a parent’s presence can become “normal,” while a deadline feels like an emergency. It is why we can argue online about freedom while ignoring the person who made our lives possible in the first place. It is why we remember martyrs once a year and forget the living every morning.

In the teacher’s world, we see this pattern everywhere. Students often ignore the value of time until grades are final. Schools often ignore mental wellness until a crisis forces action. Communities often ignore the slow damage of corruption until floods arrive, classrooms collapse, or medicine runs out. That is not a Filipino defect; it is a human defect. But our culture has its flavor of it: our endless “mamaya na,” our habit of turning affection into teasing, and our belief that love can be assumed because it has always been there. And I am not above this. I have been the son who replies “karon lang” in a tone that suggests I am doing something more important, when in reality I am just scrolling, replying to a chat, or crafting yet another post. I have been the son who eats out for convenience and then misses the taste of home. I have also been the son who only feels a mother’s worth when I see her asleep in the evening, hands folded in quiet rest. The older she becomes, the more that moment feels like time whispering.

So this Evelio Javier Day, when Panay takes a break, I want to take one too. There will be no speeches or drama, just a quiet return. I want to stay a little bit with my 82-year-old mom, Ma’am Diana, and let her stories take their time. Just the ordinary joys: a midnight Goldilocks birthday cake, some tsismis time, a grocery run where she judges my picks like Hell’s Kitchen, a fun shopping spree, and a movie at Robinsons Place Jaro. It is funny how love rarely looks grand in real time; it often hides inside errands that later feel sacred. Life is not kept in spreadsheets. It lives in small moments—shared snacks, easy laughter, and a mother inching closer to catch the dialogue as you inch closer, realizing those moments are not forever.

This February 11 does not ask for a lecture, just a gentle truth: we treat essentials as if they are endless. Freedom feels safe until it is shaken. A mother feels eternal until her pace slows. Heroes like Evelio Javier seem distant until we realize their risks bought our comfort. Love feels like electricity—always there—until the lights go out.

So today, on his day and my mother’s birthday, I choose the small courage of presence. I don’t want to be the son who finds the right words too late.

***

Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.