Turning thirty

Every year, on January 9, thousands of devotees flock to Quiapo Church for the Feast of the Black Nazarene. The Black Nazarene, a dark, life-size statue of Jesus Christ carrying the cross, was carved by an Aztec and brought to the Philippines by a priest in 1606. Legend has it that the statue, its blackness as unfathomable and sorrowful as faith itself, is miraculous. It survived the fires that ravaged Quiapo Church, World War II, and earthquakes that shook Luzon in 1645 and 1863. During the feast, the statue is put on a carriage and, pulled by its guardians, paraded in the streets surrounding the church.

Holding the rope that pulls the carriage gives you luck, perhaps earning you a chance to win the lotto. Touching the statue itself means you’re saved.

Every year, on January 9, thousands of devotees flock to Quiapo Church in a febrile gathering, a collective dervish that could crush a devotee to death. The feast claims at least one life every year and wounds dozens. Faith and death. Desperation and death.

***

My birthday falls on the Feast of the Black Nazarene. I was born while thousands were pushing their way to touch the Black Nazarene. Thirty years ago, with a little push, my mother gave birth to me – in life’s lottery, my parents got me.

***

On my fifteenth birthday, I made a promise. Knowing and feeling different from my peers (who turned out to be not so different in the end), I told myself that I don’t mind dying at the age of thirty. Thirty seemed to be a good die-able age, at least that was my impression then. I thought that at thirty, one should have accomplished what one hopes to achieve. I didn’t mean suicide, but I thought if Death would arrive that early, I would not mind dying at all.

In hindsight, pegging one’s death at thirty is absurdly fatalistic (especially doing so at the age of 15). It became, though, an adrenalin of sort, no different from the force that drives devotees to get near the Black Nazarene to touch it. Thirty was a self-imposed deadline, and you take it, you rush forward even though you don’t see what’s ahead of you. Don’t look back, or else the crowd might swallow you.

***

What is so dreadful about becoming thirty that made me want to die at that age? Why not 40? Or 50?

Someone once told me that being thirty marks the plateau in our lives. A black hole of blandness. It is a procession of routines, the status quo compared to the seditious 20s, the successful 40s or triumphant 60s. One “settles down” once he reaches the age of 30. The belly starts sagging, and the partying slows down (tragically, it never reached momentum in my case). Bills begin arriving like clockwork, and one learns and becomes an expert in fixing leaking faucets or dismantling and replacing broken doorknobs.

But one does not become thirty overnight. If being thirty means boredom, then we turn thirty the moment we allowed cynicism to seep into our lives.

I don’t know what made being thirty scary for me: was I afraid that things would drastically change, scared of the new responsibilities? Or was I more afraid that things would be inescapably the same?

It turned out that becoming thirty is similar to having your ear pierced – the pain is in the waiting.

***

In 1998, church officials started using a replica of the Black Nazarene for the parade because the original one is already damaged. It didn’t and still doesn’t matter to the devotees. As if in trance, they surged forward, with undiminished passion and determination, to touch the statue. Never mind if a proxy statue might mean proxy blessings. They just reach for it, cynics be damned.

I’m not deeply religious or spiritual. But now that I’m turning thirty, I thought it wouldn’t be so bad to learn something from these devotees. I thought I will just keep on walking.

Tags: Black Nazarene, Quiapo Day