It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like… September

In some places, September means new notebooks, cooler weather, and pumpkin spice. In the Philippines, it means Christmas—unapologetically and at full blast. The moment the calendar hits a “ber,” parols are unearthed from storage, fairy lights go up, and Jose Mari Chan resumes his throne as if September were written into his contract. Somewhere in the background, Mariah Carey begins her slow annual thaw, but here she is only the glamorous guest star. The undisputed king of Christmas is Chan, smiling from every radio and mall speaker like an early herald of glad tidings. And if Earth, Wind & Fire once sang of remembering the 21st night of September, Filipinos might answer, “Of course—we were already three weeks into Christmas.”

To the uninitiated, it looks at first like a marketing stunt. Coca-Cola may have painted Santa Claus into red velvet, but in Manila he’s been given a four-month tropical assignment. By September 1, mall speakers are already shuffling Mariah and Chan in duets nobody asked for but everybody accepts, while department stores sell both Halloween masks and Christmas lights on the same aisle. Santa, meanwhile, appears deeply uncomfortable, perspiring heavily under the weight of his North Pole wardrobe.

Yet to dismiss it all as commercial overkill would be to miss the point. Beneath the sales and sparkle is something sturdier: a cultural instinct to rehearse joy, long before December arrives. When traffic, storms, and politics try to set the mood, Filipinos simply answer with Christmas lights, karaoke, and lechon. Why ration hope to twelve days when you can stretch it across four months?

It feels less like a countdown and more like a vigil—not the solemn, candlelit kind, but the noisy, karaoke-laced version. A months-long anticipation of the Paschal of Nativity—that great interruption of history in which birth itself becomes salvation. Here, celebration is preparation, and preparation is itself already joy.

And so, what might seem excessive elsewhere becomes here a kind of stubborn wisdom. By October, you’re humming along to “Christmas in Our Hearts.” By November, you’ve stopped asking why and started asking where to order lechon. By December, you realize four months was barely enough.

Because in the Philippines, Christmas does not necessarily tiptoe in politely. It barges in with Santa, Mariah, and Jose Mari Chan in tow, scattering light, song, and hope far earlier than expected. And perhaps that’s the real lesson: joy is not meant to arrive on schedule—it should catch you early, surprise you often, and last as long as possible.