We were riding a tricycle on our way to the nearest mall to treat ourselves after a long day of schoolwork when the vehicle abruptly slowed to a crawl—an unusual sight in General Santos City. The driver leaned forward from his six-seater customized Bajah, craning his neck toward the line of stalled vehicles.
“Traffica oy (It’s traffic),” he muttered.
My co-worker laughed.
“Lage. Daghan man gud ug kwarta ang mga tao. Ting bonus ug 13th-month pay raba. (Right. People have a lot of money. They got their bonus and 13th-month pay.)”
There it was: December fever—thicker crowds, fuller malls, busier streets. People had money. People like us.
And I will admit it—I felt the excitement, too.
The 13th-month pay has a way of making adults feel like children allowed back into the candy aisle. But as we sat there in the tricycle—engine rattling, people chattering, traffic inching forward—I felt an unexpected sting of guilt. It surfaced quietly, without drama. A simple realization: this joy was not shared by everyone in that vehicle.
Because in the same tricycle where we celebrated our bonuses sat the man who would never receive one.
Tricycle drivers, vendors, construction workers, and thousands of daily-wage earners live in a different December. No employer means no 13th-month pay. No fixed income means no holiday cushion. Their December looks exactly like their July, except with more bills and more people expecting cheer.
It is ironic how easily we celebrate perks that others will never experience. There we were, discussing holiday shopping and Christmas plans, while the man responsible for bringing us to our destination was calculating how many more passengers he needed just to cover his family’s needs.
This is the divide that becomes visible every December: those who can celebrate, and those who must survive the celebrations of others.
While we browse mall sales, many are wondering how to stretch today’s earnings until tomorrow. While government agencies boldly declare that P500 is “enough” for Christmas dinner, countless families will not even see that amount after an entire day of labor. And while we debate whether to spend our bonuses on gifts or getaways, others quietly pray their children won’t ask for things they cannot provide.
Our joys become their impossibilities. Our celebration turns into their traffic.
When we finally reached our stop, I handed over kinse—P15.
“Mudawat man kag piso-piso, ya no? (You accept one-peso coins, right?)” I joked lightly, aware of the irony.
“Oo sir oy. Kwarta mana (Of course, sir. That’s still money),” he replied with a joy on his face—smiles shaped more by necessity than by the generosity of the season.
As I stepped off, holiday excitement and bonus money in my pocket, I felt that guilt settle in again—not the paralyzing kind, but the type that demands recognition.
Privilege often feels invisible to the person who has it.
It appears normal, deserved, and earned. But in moments like that tricycle ride—compressed between people who have and people who work tirelessly just to have enough—the illusion cracks open.
We like to believe that December is a season for everyone.
But for many Filipinos, Christmas is not as “merry” as it seems; it is merely another month they must endure with the same earnings, the same pressures, and the same invisible labor that keeps cities like GenSan moving.
And sometimes, all it takes to see the 13th-month divide clearly is a traffic jam built by someone else’s December.
