The Time My Lola Told Me That the Manananggal Runs In Our Family

My grandmother may have escaped the lineage, but she passed down something far more enduring.

My first encounter with the manananggal was probably while watching the Halloween specials of Kapuso Mo, Jessica Soho. As a kid, the fearsome aswang terrified me with its bat-like wings, long tongue, and body that splits in two. It was the stuff of our childhood nightmares, flying into the night, looking for pregnant people whose unborn fetuses she can devour.

Growing up, the manananggal was just a story to me. But last year, my grandmother told me that our family carries a lineage of manananggals.

Here’s how the story goes. When my lola was just a young girl, one of her aunts died. During the wake, it was revealed to her that her late aunt was a manananggal. To carry on the line, she had to swallow a black chick from her aunt’s throat.

Terrified, my grandmother refused. She decided to face a different fate: to leave Bicol and to start a new life in Manila. A decision that, to me, was equally scary as the mythical creature.

Like many provincial people, she viewed Manila as a beacon of light, a city full of possibilities. In the city, she fell in love with my lolo, and soon they had four children, with the eldest being my mother. Her hands found work as a drapery seamstress, serving the Central Market clientele in Sta. Cruz, Manila. Curtains, draperies, and sofa covers were sewn for the likes of Mother Lily, the famed Filipino producer who operated the Podman Theater during the heyday of Recto Avenue.

Life was good. Great, even. She had a house, a family, a small business.

But then, my lola would be impacted by another death: my lolo’s.

When he died, my grandmother was left with the responsibilities of raising four children alone. Although my lola’s business had steady clientele, the business dwindled, along with the decline of Recto and Quiapo as premier entertainment and shopping district.

By the time I was born, my family was barely making ends meet. But my lola still sat in her stall, and I still remember the loud hum of the industrial sewing machine. The palengke became my playground; my afternoons were spent napping in her stall and running in the aisles of the market. Often, she asks me to help her with threading needles, removing seams, and collecting fabric scraps. Early on, I learned what it is to work hard, seeing her work day after day, just so we could have rice and galunggong (mackerel scad) on the table.

It’s the same spirit that I see in my mother. My mother, who was a teenager when she had me. Just as my lola chose Manila, my mother decided to raise my sisters and me. Both women decided to leave the lives that they’ve known, uncertain about the future yet carrying on with strength. All my life, I watched these women make hard sacrifices. When I was younger, I didn’t understand the weight of it all. Now that I’m 26, sometimes I still can’t fathom what they went through.

But I do hope, just as my mother inherited my lola’s strength, so do I. At least, I’d like to think that I do. My lola didn’t become a manananggal, but she is just as fearsome, with calloused hands armed with a sharp needle and guided by a steel will. Maybe, just maybe, this is our true lineage, after all.