My mom loved dancing. As a teenager, she and her sisters worked at Mini Corps, a California program to support migrant students, where she taught the children how to dance. During her more than 30 years as a teacher at Bardin Elementary School, she taught hundreds of kids ballet folklórico, her way of keeping her culture alive and giving back to the students and their primarily farmworker parents. She produced and choreographed performances and even took the show on the road at conferences and multicultural events, never asking for a dime. While the students were mostly of Mexican heritage, she wanted to accommodate the small, but still impactful Philippine community. My mom studied traditional Indigenous dances like the Maglalatik, using coconuts she cut in half at home with the help of my dad, and the Tinikling, using bamboo sticks. She included the dances in the performances, recruiting the Philippine students at the school. I never realized how incredibly special that was until I was older. At her funeral, at the old cult-like church we attended, the students whose lives she touched filled two stories of pews. People had to stand outside. That’s how immense her impact was. Members from the dance group performed at the funeral, finishing with the ribbon dance, bowing at her casket with a flower arc in each of their hands.
