Carrying a supposedly expensive signature bag feels like a social experiment. I know it to be true; I’ve been observing how people react to this certain bag for the past couple of months. I received this bag after an unexpected turn of events (i.e., nang-habwa ang tag-iya sa iyang cabinet), and really liked it from the first time I touched the soft leather. I loved its dainty print, how roomy it was and how I was able to pair it with several outfits. But the moment it changed hands, I also received the accompanied intangible benefits, which stemmed from the waiting list (three months), cost (i.e., equal to a year’s college tuition fee or a down payment to a four-door car) and the arms it was spotted on (American and English actresses).
So far, it has gotten admiring comments from colleagues and second looks from bystanders. It became the first thing fashionable metrosexual friends said to me as I approached them. It was now: “Very nice bag!” as compared to the previous: “Hi, asa ta mangaon?” Interesting shift of priorities. It became a stamp of approval from former acquaintances, who confessed that they noticed the bag when I entered the room and followed its movement from the couch, to the table and then to the floor. The bag is so powerful that it caused a palpable shift in perception in the supermarket check-out line. I hurry to the counter with my single basket, and out the corner of my eye, I see the up-and-down looks with the subtle change in expression. I am a foreigner in this developed country, but since have a coveted bag—I am probably smart and rich enough to be able to afford it. Therefore, it must be safe to talk to me. I pass muster.
The interest, mind you, is on the bag, not on me. It can be convenient. Now, I have a new hiding place, a new shield. They can fixate on the accessory, and not on the carrier.
Yet there are moments whereby bags and shoes and cars become all but burdensome. There are moments whereby all we hide are shaken to the surface for all to see. We also see ourselves.
Take last Monday’s massive quake for instance, all 6.9 magnitude and four immediate aftershocks of it. When the ground suddenly seemed to lose its solidity and jiggled like Jell-O, we got up, ran as fast as our calves can carry us. We brought little and left the superfluous behind. It was as if our priorities got jolted as well, and what rose to the surface were what we held sacred. The adrenaline made us think so fast, in the blink of an eye, but none of that thinking made us go back for our gadgets, our bags and our jewelry.
The crisis also revealed how we think of others. Did we grab on to others and bring them to a safer ground? Did we run outside, like a wind, desperate to be the first out there? Why did we post and spread news about the supposedly rampaging waters in Colon and Banawa—was it to genuinely inform people, or was it because we just want to be the first to tell?
The dust is settling in once again in our fair isle, and kibitzers are realizing the recklessness of their statements. They were the social networkers who cried flood.
I also took a look at my bag today, and have noticed that the inner lining has started to flake and tear. After its much touted star power on my arm, it is, after all—a very good fake.
False bags and false statements can be earth-shattering.