A star on the Eastwood Citiwalk bears my name.
My name has always been a sore topic.
Mona is not short for a romantic nomme like Ramona or Desdamona. As luck would have it, my father was traveling through Europe for the first time the month I was born and — yep, you guessed it — he was in France. My name is Mona Liza.
Cute, huh? That is if you like to have your name on jeepney windshields and taxi hoods. Or if you’re a big fan of the 1960s character actress who earned the notoriety of having – I’m not sure which — either the first screen kiss or the first nude scene on Philippine cinema.
My family calls me by my official nickname, Monette. My sisters are Suzzette (her real name is Excelsis) and Nanette (her real name is Catherine Bernadette) – flawless logic at work there. We have the matching shirts, key chains and door hangs to prove it. It still stumps me how so many Filipino parents think it’s sooo cool to have a theme for their children’s names. My brother was lucky – my father foresaw he couldn’t possibly have an “-ette” name and live through school without getting roughed up.
At 13, I knew this creepy kid who wanted in on my clique and thought it endearing to call me ”Monay”. She accompanied her salutations with renditions of”monay na di mabili, may amag sa tabi”.
At 15, I had this nasty Filipino (my worst subject) teacher who called me ”Bona”. ‘Didn’t have the guts to correct her until mid-way through the school year.
When I was entering U.P., I realized that the name on my birth certificate was “Mona Liza” and on my baptismal certificate and school records, “Maria Mona Liza.” It seemed that “Mona Liza” was not Catholic enough so the parish priest who baptized me did me the favor of adding a soul-saving name. My parents then thought it best to wait till I was in college to fix the paper work — so I could deal with the legal red tape myself. Aaargh!
I studied French at Alliance Francaise de Manille in Makati for two years. At the first session of my intermediate class, my teacher — the first French national who taught me — laughed in my face when I told him what my full name was.
Mona: Je mapelle Mona Liza Magno et…
Stupid loser with bad skin: Mwah-hah-hah-hah-hah… (He laughed for a really looong time.)
In the mid 90s, co-slaves in the company I now work for found “Mona” too long and abbreviated it to “Mons” (pronounced “moans”). You can imagine the ribbing I got for that little nickname.
Now, I go by the acceptable “Mona” (pronounced ‘mow-na’) or “Ma’m Mona” (when people start to call you “Ma’m”, you know you can’t get away with ponytails anymore). I’ve made peace with my parents’ attempt at being creative back in 1967. It occurred to me that what I’m called is neither all that bad nor all that important. You could call me by any other name and I’de still be the same lovable “me”.
Of course, I was ultimately convinced of my simple blessing when I met Epictetus Patalinhug and Grace Bagonggahasa.
