Magdaragat, page 35
Unsure, Maya agreed. A day later, Maya stood in line inside the Canadian Imperial Bank. She stayed close to Annie and gripped her bank card in her hand. She asked the teller for two thousand in USD, but the limit was one thousand per order. He told her she could send two orders if she’d like.
“Why don’t you send five hundred and send more later?” Annie said behind her.
Maya took her advice. Annie brought her to Canada Post after. The seven dollars to register her mail did nothing for her anxiety.
As two weeks passed, she imagined some thief steaming her envelope open, then forging her signature, all the money disappearing from her bank account. The impossibility of justice clouded her thoughts. She tried to believe she could only be robbed once. The dark part of her wondered why she even tried. But she sent the second money order with the same leap of faith.
After a month passed, Maya always felt too sleepy to eat breakfast. Maya didn’t want to burden Annie, so she kept her fears to herself. Annie had been making batches of soup and bone broth to save up for a new purse. Annie beamed when she brought home an orange box with Louis Vuitton written on it. Maya looked enviously at the beautiful leather bag printed with the LV logo and its stars.
“I’ll get an LV hat one day too.” Annie put the bag around her shoulder proudly and waltzed around the apartment.
Besides saving, Maya used her money to buy phone cards.
Her mom chastised Annie’s new purse. “Save for a house, anak.”
“I am. Did you forget that I own this apartment?” Annie defended.
“How much was that thing?” her dad asked, half-jokingly.
“I’m just having fun!” Annie handed the phone over to Maya.
Though Maya and Annie called their parents every two weeks, Maya wondered what they were doing all the time. She wondered if Tito Ton was somewhere in traffic yelling at someone, while listening to peaceful flute music on the radio. She also listened to her parents’ favourite karaoke song over and over: “Over the Rainbow.” Her sister had a little ukulele at home that her boyfriend had bought her. Annie told Maya all about her trip to Hawaii with him, the trip that Joseph complained about. Maya was envious of all the good food and the tour Annie took at the pineapple plantation. One day, she would go, Maya thought. For now, Maya taught herself by ear how to play “Over the Rainbow” in her lonely hours. During the minutes of the song, it was the only time she felt like she was allowed to feel the things inside. It allowed her to remember. One memory that always came back to her was waking up in the morning, seeing her dad sketching by the window, just before they all ate.
“Come on, eat na, Maya.”
She was afraid of forgetting their home. Maya would cry in private, because she felt like an insignificant, distant planet revolving around her family back home.
Every day at work she would cheerily deliver specimen results. The doctors called her sunshine. Smiling was hard but being sad was too easy. One day she couldn’t hide how she felt and wasn’t as talkative.
“Who are you and what have you done with Maya?” a doctor joked. “Where’s your smile, sunshine?”
At this, she found her smile and felt embarrassed. “Sorry, sir.”
One night after work, she noticed a note from Annie saying to call Rosa. Her stomach twisted. As she called, she stared at the drawing of a cat her dad gave her on the fridge, the only thing she unpacked. She lived out of her suitcase, not quite accepting this place as her home yet.
There was no answer. She called her parents instead with her last couple of minutes on her phone card. Her mom answered, static crackling in the background.
“Hello, it’s Maya …”
“Oh Maya! We got the money. Thank you, anak, we appreciate it.”
Maya cheered, teary eyed. The weight inside of Maya vanished, replaced by a renewed resolve.
Her mom asked, “Did you eat?”
An automated message spoke, “You have five minutes.”
“No. I’m out of minutes, ma.”
“Eat, call later!”
“Yeah, I will,” Maya said, wiping the tears out of her eyes.
“We love you so much and miss you!”
Maya thanked the Lord and asked Him to keep them all well. She prayed for life not to change in the blink of an eye ever again. She promised to work hard, build a house for her parents back home, and live with them again one day.
* * *
(Author’s note: In 1985, Manila Express Cargo opened in Vancouver, BC, making money remittance and mailing to the Philippines easier.)
II.
October 1995.
The cold air bit at Katherine’s ears. She felt her little pink rain boots sink into the mud, and she glanced at the endless fields, dotted by pumpkins. Her mom pulled down her toque past her ears.
“Vid,” her mom called to her dad, who was still in the car, “can you get Kay’s gloves?”
“What’s that, Maya?” her dad responded.
“Kay’s gloves,”
“Oh. Nic, can you get it?”
Kay’s sister, Nicole, came out with her gloves. “Put it on, silly.”
“Where are we?” Kay asked.
“Abbotsford,” Nic answered.
“Hello lovelies. Make sure to pick a big pumpkin today!” An elderly woman walked past them.
Kay recognized the elderly woman: she was her friend James’s grandma. She had glittering green eyes and reddish skin. Kay liked her because she always gave them candy at school. Kay didn’t meet either of her grandmas in the Philippines before they passed away. She had only met her grandpa from her dad’s side, who lived on the east coast. He was a funny old man who liked bananas and perfume. He always told her to be proud to be Filipino. When Kay’s other grandpa died, her mom spent hours in her room, door shut. Nic and Kay would play tag and cards outside her door, calling for their mother to join them. Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn’t. Their mom never talked about how her mother and father passed to Kay. Only once had Kay heard her say, “Our house back home is empty now.”
In the present, Kay took her sister’s hand as they walked into the muck, their dad following close behind. The smell of pine trees and fresh earth wafted into her nostrils. The air was cool and crisp.
Kay found a big pumpkin all right: she wrapped the entire length of her arms around it in an embrace. She tried to pick it up but only got it a couple inches off the ground before dropping it with a thud. “Pa! Pa! Over here! Paaa!”
Her dad came over and swooped up the pumpkin with no issue, and she glanced up at him in awe.
When they drove back, he said simply: “We have to go to the mall and pick up a couple of things. Your titas are coming.”
When they arrived at the mall, whatever their dad had to buy was overshadowed by Nic running into the music shop first.
“Pa, can I please, please, please get this?” Nic waved a Backstreet Boys album at him. “Please!”
“Wait one second.” Their dad went to the sound booth, put on the headphones, and selected a random track. Their dad responded, “They’re singing about getting down and moving around … Is this song about sex?”
“What? I don’t know,” Nic said, completely beet red now.
The grin on his face told Kay that her dad was messing with Nic. He stuck his tongue out at her and they went to the cashier, their dad still whistling the tune of the song.
Shortly after they arrived home, their dad began to cook. He started chopping onions and garlic. Kay hoped it was pancit and wondered if he was going to put those jumbo shrimps she liked in them. She realized she had to look nice for her aunties. Kay went into her room and found her ruby red slippers that her mom got her last Christmas. She loved The Wizard of Oz and would sing all the songs with her mom. When the doorbell rang, she bounded down the hall and her titas Rachel and Mary came in. They were always so well-dressed, she admired their fresh makeup, sweet smells, and large hairdos. They were so glamorous and beautiful. Her mom was never excited to see them. She seemed to stand like a ghost as she let them in and they walked past her with a simple hello, then went over to embrace Kay’s dad.
“We got you your perfume!” Mary boasted, placing a bright pink bag onto the table.
“And I got this Estée Lauder kit,” Rachel piped in. “What are you cooking?”
“Pancit canton,” he responded.
“Why not bihon?”
“Do you want to eat or not?” he joked.
Mary sat and opened a tabloid, and the cover was of O.J. Simpson. Her mom walked in to help their dad with cooking.
Rachel shook her head and started, “First O.J. goes off scot-free, and can you believe all those Blacks marched too? Scary.”
“Marched for what?” their mom asked as she helped their dad grab more ingredients.
“How do you not know?” Mary shot.
Their mom didn’t answer. She gave their dad the noodles and then went down the hall.
“She doesn’t keep up with much,” their dad offered.
“I have to remember not everyone is educated like we are,” Mary said, then turned to Kay. “Does she teach you anything about what’s going on, Kay?”
“She tells me lots of stories of growing up in Bohol. Did you know that she could shoot a bow and arrow at my age!”
Her aunts restrained a laugh. “Did she tell you about the aswang too?”
“What’s that?”
“Evil spirits and monsters.”
“Oh yeah, she told me about how people believed in Santelmo —” Kay couldn’t finish because her titas just let out roaring laughter at what she was saying.
“You don’t need to learn about that, you’re Canadian,” Mary scoffed. “You can’t even speak Tagalog.”
“I can say kumusta ka! And na-naw … uhm, nawawala ako!” Kay struggled on that last one.
“You sound like you have a Chinese accent when you talk.” Mary twisted her nose. “It’s better you learn English anyway.”
Kay deflated, this was one of the few ways her family reminded her she was not Filipino enough. Her dad asked his sisters to try his noodles. Kay joined in and she loved the citrusy taste that came with each bite.
“That’s kalamansi, the real deal. Sarap.” Tita Rachel gave Kay another scoop.
“Thanks,” Kay said as she stuffed her mouth.
“Isn’t she cute? You have our family’s skin.” Rachel pinched her cheek. “So light and pretty!”
“Just like her papa.” Her dad ruffled her hair.
Kay’s spirits lifted. She liked the compliments about her fair complexion: it made her feel special. Kay giggled and ran away from Rachel’s pinches. Kay went down the hall to meet her mom in the living room. Her mom was cleaning the pumpkins they picked.
“Take off your shoes first.” Her mom pointed.
Kay peeled off her ruby red slippers, her feet pressing against the cold tile. Her mom smiled at her when Kay slid in next to her and started to draw the face with a Sharpie.
Her mother cut the top of the pumpkin out. Kay reached in, squirming, squealing as she extracted the pumpkin guts, dropping it onto a pile of newspapers her mom readied. Her mom gave her a little child-friendly knife and Kay sawed away. Nic joined them halfway and began cleaning her pumpkin. When Kay was done, her mom placed a candle into the pumpkin.
“Do they do this in the Philippines too?” Kay asked curiously.
“I didn’t do this,” her mom answered.
“Tell me stories about the aswang, ma.” Kay held on to her toes in excitement, swaying back and forth. “Tita told me what it meant.”
“Yes, I heard. I know they think I’m uneducated, but I sent everything I had back home.” Kay was confused but her mom continued: “I built my parents a house and helped my family, but I guess it doesn’t matter to them.”
Kay or Nic didn’t really have a response, so their mother sighed. She turned on the TV instead. The two parked themselves in front of the TV. Their mom sat on the couch as well and watched cartoons with them for the rest of the afternoon.
When their mom left, Nic turned to Kay and pulled a pack of cards from her pocket.
Nic snickered. “I got these tarot cards, don’t tell.”
“Why?” Kay asked quietly, excited to be part of a secret.
Nic made a cross with her two fingers and hovered them above the deck. “The priest would burn us. Ask it a question and draw three cards.”
Kay thought of the future and only drew two: the World and the Hanged Man. The Hanged Man was upside down and was hanging from his foot, his money falling from his pockets. The World was a nude woman holding two sceptres. Before she could draw the next card, their mom came back, and Nic slid the cards off the table.
“Come help.” Their mom waved them over, and they went into the kitchen.
They saw their dad sitting by the table with a giant metal mixing bowl. His fingers were covered in sticky, wet pieces of ground meat and chopped veggies. Kay instinctively knew to sit at the end and start unpeeling the spring roll wrappers for their lumpia. She always peeled it off the edge really slow to avoid tearing. Her first one had no such luck and she tore a small tear-shaped hole in the centre.
“What is this?” Nic waved it at her. “Fired.”
Nic rolled the lumpia because she was more coordinated than Kay. Her dad scooped the meat mix with a spoon onto the wrappers before Nic rolled. Her mom heated up the oil in the pot and waited for their first batch of lumpia to fry. As soon as they started frying, the crackle and pop of the pan filled the room. In the distance, Kay heard her titas howl in the living room as they chittered about everything.
Their dad placed a postcard on the table with a grin. “Guess where we’re going next spring?”
Kay saw a palm tree and a white sandy beach before Nic scooped up the postcard and squealed, “Hawaii!”
“I wanna see!” Kay reached for the postcard.
Their mom smiled at the stove. She placed the cooked lumpia from pan to serving plate.
III.
June 2021.
“Konichiwa. Ni-hao! Are you Japanese?” a man catcalled at Kay on the street.
“Sure,” she responded, half-there since she was on her phone.
Kay recently got into kali, also known as arnis or escrima, which was the national martial art of the Philippines. Her latest Instagram post detailed her recent trip to Bowen Island with Isabel. During a rainstorm, she decided to do kali in the woods. In the picture, she stood drenched, mid-Redondo with her bamboo kali stick. The caption read: reconnecting with my roots, so proud to be Filipinx!
Some butthurt side of the Internet decided to descend upon her, and a handful of people in the Philippines were @-ing her account like wildfire. Her pronouns were also she/they in her bio.
I and the majority of Filipinos would appreciate it if Filipinx would stop being used
Tagalog is a gender-neutral language already idiot
Look at these desperate “Filipinx” reaching for a culture that’s not theirs
Kali is our tradition, it is not for some dumb American like you
“Speak Eng-rish?” the catcaller asked, following her.
I just spoke to you in English, Kay rolled her eyes. She sped up her walk and lost him eventually. She took a seat at an outdoor patio by the Vancouver Art Gallery. She waited for Isabel. She sanitized her hands, then her phone, with a wet wipe.
She remembered her kali instructor’s words: “In typical gyms, I’d have to leave one half of myself at the door. Here, you bring both selves: the warrior, the sun, and the intuitive, the moon. Do not leave that other half at the door.”
Do whatever you want, but I don’t trust someone who is whitewashed
The x is performative sjw bs
Filipinx is a word only for the oppressed, not for us true Filipinos
Kay thought more about the x. Maybe one day this word would change and language would shift. Maybe it would stick like Pinoy and Pinay, which Filipino-Americans coined in the 1920s. The x was there to break down the feminine and masculine -a and -o that the Spanish introduced into Tagalog and unweave the machismo threaded into what was once a gender-neutral language. Filipinx also represented her love for Isabel. Also, she felt that if she called her work Filipino, some people would maybe assume that she lived in the Philippines, which she didn’t. On a dorky note, the x also reminded her of “xoxo” or when you pair something together like “JLo x Ben.” Or when you use an x as a kiss at the end of a text message. She saw the word “FilipinT” when she read the x.
You’re too westernized, neocolonist
“Hey.” Isabel appeared. She had chestnut brown hair and a soft, goofy face.
“You need to take my phone away from me.”
“How bad is it?”
She shook her head. “How was work?”
Isabel described the impending amount of overtime coming her way because of a patch update to her company’s mobile game. But Isabel stopped. “No seriously, are you doing okay?”
Kay let out a sigh and showed Isabel the comments.
Admit that you’re a little brown brother
You can get baybayin tattoos, say catchy Filipino phrases, but you are American
We’re not a “motherland” like china. You’re not one of us.
I don’t tell anyone how to identify but Pilipinx is a misguided word
She/they? Where’s the other ppl dumb bitch?
Isabel’s response was: “What kind of nationalist bullshit is this?”
“They just see this x. I’m not human to them. It’s like they’re saying: ‘Don’t tell me how to identify but let me tell you how not to identify.’ ”
“Are they in the Philippines or here?”
“Mostly the Philippines. Even my relatives can be like this, they remind me how I’m not Filipino enough when I don’t know something about our culture. But then some people here believe I’m not Canadian just by looking at me. When I’m asked, ‘Where you from?’ it implies that. Who am I then?” Kay sighed. “But, maybe all of this is coming from the same place of hurt?”
