Eulogy for Bambi Harper
This heartfelt eulogy was delivered by Bambi Harper’s beloved granddaughter at her funeral. Harper, a remarkable individual known for her contributions as a cultural writer, historian, heritage conservationist, and former Inquirer columnist, passed away on August 4 at the age of 82. Born as Anna Maria Lammoglia on January 10, 1941, she held prestigious roles such as president of the Heritage Conservation Society of the Philippines, commissioner of Unesco, and administrator of the Intramuros Administration. Additionally, she was a talented novelist.
In life, we often reveal different aspects of ourselves to those we connect with. However, whether those facets truly reflect who we are is solely up to us as individuals. We can only catch a glimpse of the immeasurable depths within their souls, like ripples on a vast lake. Many of you knew her as a writer, historian, model, sister, friend, and mother. From the speeches delivered this weekend, I have been given a further glimpse into her complexity. Today, as a final tribute, I will share with you the humblest side of her, the one I believe to be her truest essence.
Abu. I don’t know the Anna Maria or Bambi that you all speak of. By the time I came into this world, much of her story had already unfolded. She was essentially a female Gandalf, residing peacefully in her cluttered yet whimsical Park Lane apartment. I suppose that would make Senny, her trusted caretaker, her Tom Bombadil. However, instead of a lengthy conversation that lasted for years, leading up to her departure for the Undying Lands, it was more like a playful back-and-forth banter. Senny, being deaf, and Abu, always muttering, would engage in lighthearted quarrels.
If I were to describe Abu, I would compare her to a cat. Although she wasn’t particularly fond of cats, her behavior often mirrored feline traits. She possessed a dry wit that served as her metaphorical fangs, had gray and white hair reminiscent of a Ragdoll cat, and her eyes could pierce you with a stare of grouchy disapproval, much like the judgmental glares of the pets she preferred not to have. According to her, in her own words, their passing would only bring more heartbreak to life. And, well, she was right. Abu’s departure has undoubtedly added more heartbreak to our lives. However, just like any beloved cat, no matter how grumpy or aloof, she also brought immense joy.
For as long as I can recall, Sundays were reserved for spending time with Abu. She always affectionately called me “sweetie” or “ging,” even though I wasn’t particularly sweet or girly – far from it. I was a headstrong, tomboyish, hyperactive child who preferred Jollibee over paella. Over time, my tastes became more refined, but I still remember her indulging my request without offense or judgment. She would gently squeeze my chubby baby arm and say that she understood, smiling kindly. Sometimes, we all crave the simpler things in life. Maybe that was her way of using sarcasm. However, I choose to see it through a different lens.
The Abu I know was not grandiose in any sense. She was an ordinary person, just like anyone else. She would ramble on about the television shows she watched, discuss politics with my dad, worry about the love lives of her children who chose to stay single (hello, Uncle John), and engage in conversations with me about my budding interest in writing. She was the one who encouraged me. She enrolled me in summer writing workshops at prestigious colleges, called my parents to inquire about my progress, and asked for copies of my work. I often felt shy and unsure of myself, akin to a penny thrown into a fountain among many others, hoping for a stroke of luck and recognition. But Abu never treated me that way. She devoured my writing as if Walt Whitman himself had risen from the dead and published a new poem. She was a bit eccentric, quirky even, but in the most delightful way. She found joy in the writing process, cherished the art of it, and motivated me further by sharing her own work and seeking my opinions and suggestions for improvement. That, to me, is what she meant by the “finer things in life.” It wasn’t about achieving perfection like a meticulously planned paella dinner. The “finer things” could be found in a meal from Jollibee, her infectious laughter when I dipped my fries into the gravy (which, if you haven’t tried, I highly recommend doing immediately), the smile that lit up her face when I smiled, and how she dove into the chicken, her favorite part. Perhaps the “finer things” encompassed the happiness we shared, regardless of the simplicity of our activity, the unspoken understanding that connected us, and the profound authenticity we found in each other’s company amidst a sea of orchestrated social gatherings. Just two peculiar souls bonding over peculiar things. And in its peculiarity, it was remarkably beautiful.
I’m going to miss her. We will all miss her dearly. However, she is now in a better place. The Undying Lands with the Elves, alongside her loved ones. I hope she tells Grandpa about me. It would have been fascinating to see if he, too, possessed a hint of her delightful madness. Goodbye, Abu. Until we meet again. I apologize for not getting the chance to read you any of my stories while you were in the hospital. We were all preoccupied with ensuring your well-being. But I hope this eulogy serves as a tribute to you, wherever you may be listening.
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