Ilagan Day marks the city’s founding, a time for everyone to stop, look around, and realise how far they have come. It is not just about remembering a date on a calendar. It is about remembering the farmers who worked the land before there were big roads. It is about remembering the teachers, the workers, and the parents who built the city piece by piece while no one was watching.
Morning kicks off with the usual burst of noise. Marching bands weave their way through the streets, horns blaring, drums shaking the pavement. Students in pressed uniforms and bright costumes grin through the heat, waving at neighbours perched on balconies or lining the sidewalks with umbrellas in hand. Even the old folks who usually stay home come out today, sitting in folding chairs with fans fluttering lazily in their hands.
The parade is a little chaotic, and nobody seems to mind. Floats glide by, some simple and some trying hard to outdo each other with flowers, streamers, and dancers who barely fit onto the flatbeds they are riding. Somewhere along the line, a man selling ice candy weaves between the crowd, shouting over the music, his cooler slamming against his legs as he runs to catch up.
Later in the day, speeches are given in front of the city hall. There is a lot of clapping and some words about progress and future dreams, but nobody forgets to thank the people who carried the city through harder times—the ones who stayed even when things got rough, who planted crops when the rain forgot to fall, and who built homes when money was tight.
As the sun starts to drop and the streets cool down, the mood shifts again. The concerts start, food stalls open their doors, and the smell of barbecue, pancit, and fresh lumpia fills the air. Groups of friends laugh over plastic tables. Kids run wild with balloons tied to their wrists. Someone will sing too loud. Someone will dance too early. Nobody will care.
[Photo by SHARMAINE MONTICALBO]
