Yaya Nation

We live in the land of yayas. For heaven’s sake, our biggest export product and biggest commodity dollar earner are our OFW’s—baby sitters and caregivers who abandon all in the home country for the opportunity to care for foreigners and their children in faraway lands.
It is an integral part of our culture—our family set-up—these yayas, whom we employ to care for our children. Why, one might ask? Because of tradition. Because we have proven to ourselves over time that we, Filipinos are inherently nurturing. Because as a people we love children and enjoy being among them. Most of all, because of economics; labor is dirt cheap in this part of the world so, of course, we take advantage of it. Parents buy their freedom from bondage to crib-side duties by employing full-time, stay-in yayas and go on to live full lives, hands-free, if you will.
I attended my brilliant colleague’s, RJ Ledesma’s book launch recently. His book, Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me, had turned best seller overnight because of how much it rings true in the life of every Filipino Man, who at some point or other, was raised by a female caregiver other his own mother. Show me someone who wasn’t and chances are he grew up abroad.
Foreigners unacquainted with Filipino culture balk at this practice and ask unabashedly, “If you don’t want other people handling your top-of-the-line computers or your astronomically-priced exotic cars, why leave your child in the care of a yaya?” Well, because we can and because we do. So there; deal with it. We don’t leave them in day care centers with 20 or 30 other children; they remain in the comfort and safety of our own homes with yayas we trust.
But are there repercussions to this yaya syndrome? Absolutely! My brothers, up until sixth grade, had to be dressed for school at the crack of dawn by Manang Lita, our beloved yaya. They would still be snoring in their beds, oblivious to the manhandling Manang Lita did to them as she lifted each of their feet, pulled socks over them, shod them and then released them to loud thuds on the floor. They would be led zombie-like into the bathroom, coaxed to open their mouths, and assisted in brushings their teeth. Most of the time, Manang Lita had had to land a good karate chop on their backs to prevent them from lazily swallowing the gargled water swirling around their mouths. She then proceeded to take them to school along with the driver in the car, lugged their school bags all the way into their classrooms until they were firmly deposited onto their chairs. She would then go back home only to return at lunch time bearing their lunch pails with their freshly-cooked, piping-hot baon inside. My youngest brother especially needed her tireless exhortation of “Sige na, one more subo,” because of the finicky eater that he was, who constantly thought that eating was an awful waste of playtime. After this lunchtime saga, Manang Lita would slide hand-sewn, bird’s eye cloth diapers behind their backs to absorb the anticipated sweat that would trickle down as soon they started running around. She would then wait around until school finished in the early afternoon and then succumbed to their bullying of making her copy their homework off of the blackboard the moment the teachers’ backs were turned. Would you call this devotion or plain and simple idiocy? Sure, she was fiercely loved by everyone in the family and she loved us all back. She remained a spinster all her life subsisting only on the affection of her wards. Like any mother would, she devoted her life to these boys.
And what of this, you ask? My brothers grew up expecting many things of women who cross their lives. Thank heavens they found wonderful, empowered women who are not fazed by these antics borne out of being spoiled by a yaya. Yes, they are indulged most of the time by their wives, as fortune would have it, but can you imagine if the situation were completely different, if they had married less tolerant, less understanding, less generous women? A Shakespearian tragedy is the visual I have in mind.
An Aunt of mine, centennial in age and outlook, someone not much enlightened by the ways of the post-modern world, always says, “The worst thing that can happen to a Filipino man is to marry a foreigner because they are not maserbisyo. How can they ever understand that our men all grew up with yayas and mothers who cater to all their needs?” The inverse of which has grown into urban legend proportions—the stereotype of the subservient, docile Filipina that foreign men from all over the world clamor for—you know, that stuff of mail-order brides.
Still, a loving, patient, faithful yaya is a gift. And those who have the intelligence and the diligence to impart nuggets of wisdom to their wards, those who go above and beyond the call of duty by mentally engaging with the children via reading or similar educational pursuits, those who establish emotional bonds with whom they care for, are simply manna from heaven. A yaya helps unburden any mother of a 24/7 shift of non-stop caring for energy-pumped youngsters. The stress, the fatigue, the harassment of single-handedly raising a child is divided among the care-givers, which is indeed, a priceless privilege. Filipino men, fortunate enough to have experienced such from their yayas, learn of unconditional love early on and are automatically afforded an advantage in their future relationships and parenting skills. True, they learn much later in life than their foreign counterparts to be independent, self-sufficient, and resourceful, but isn’t there a down side to just about everything? And what of those who had horrific experiences with their yayas? Well, that’s a totally different story.
I met RJ’s yaya in person, Yaya Cora Malino, and she was as I had expected her to be all along from RJ’s anecdotes—mild-mannered and personable. She remains in RJ’s family, now caring for RJ’s sister’s baby. She says RJ still drops in on them everyday at his sister’s house. I asked if RJ was a difficult boy, “Not at all,” she fondly recalled. “Talagang mabait at bright, malikot lang.” “Talaga yaya?” I had to reconfirm. “Ay, super!”
Well judging from how my brothers— my closest friends and staunchest sallies in the whole world —have turned out; and how RJ has turned out—a high-achieving, multi-tasking, loyal-to-Vanessa man (daw); a loving son; a faithful friend; and a laugh-out-loud humorist, could you ever say that being raised by a yaya is a bad thing?
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Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me by RJ Ledesma is available at all National Bookstore outlets.