Sadly, at least one Aeta family made it to Cubao. I saw them yesterday on my way to the shops: a father, a mother, a little boy, and a little girl. They were sitting beside the street, the father a distance away from them as though unwilling to accept their situation. Each of them had cardboard folders on which were written, "Namamas Ko Po. Palimos Po." It was evident that no one, in vehicles or on foot, had anything to give them.

Later, when I was with Peter in M's cafe, they trudged by, glancing wistfully through the glass doors. All of them looked hurt, unhappy, and undignified.

I didn't do anything this time because, when I did do something for them in the past, they came back everyday for more, took other Aeta families in tow with them, and camped out on my plant box. They lit fires to cook rice and trampled on my flowers. I even gave in to buying from them a set of bows and arrows embellished with goatskin I neither wanted nor needed. Perhaps they were attracted by Chito's huge, ficus tree, one of the few trees on P. Tuazon Boulevard. All of them were beautiful and exotic, and I believe there is something intense and enchanted about aboriginal faces,  but I swore to myself that I would never do again what I did. For, indeed, ignoring them is the best way to ensure that they will not come back and live the lives of beggars.

I felt sad, therefore, not only for them but also for myself.

When urban children see ethnic minorities as mendicants, they lose all respect for them and ultimately for their heritage. And, of course, they grow up to be atchays.