And so this is Christmas--

On December 17, 2009, my ESOL class met for an hour before we all headed to the school’s Christmas party. I distributed old Christmas cards my family received through the years. I asked each one of them to read the language inside, in effect, teaching them vocabulary words like holiday, gift, joyous, joyful, message, carol, to name a few. A student proudly said that his card said “The massage of season is the birth of Heysoo.” (sic) I explained the difference between message and massage. As we all laughed and talked about the holidays, I asked each one of them what they were planning to do. I was sad about the answers they gave me. “I am not doing anything. I have no money.” “My family is not with me.” The only bright prospect was my student Leticia. She is a nanny. She drives a new car and she talked about her Christmas tree. It is artificial, with lots of ornaments and multi-color lights. They asked me if I have a Christmas tree and they were surprised that I did not. Yet. They all know I am waiting for my son to arrive from college. I would not have a tree until I have my son home.

As we talked about the holidays, I learned more about my students. Their circumstances may not be as different as mine 35 years ago when I experienced my first Christmas in the United States.

I worked on Christmas Eve and the office had a party. I was young and I did not cook so I was just basically a free loader. There were leftovers and I took home two fried chicken legs. I was by myself in the tiny apartment my sister and I shared. My friend came over with a fresh Christmas tree bought on sale. It looked tired and dry but we tried to revive it by putting it in a plastic bucket with water and all the pennies I had in a jar. Since I did not have any ornaments, we decided to hang Christmas cards on it. I named the tree “Teng-teng.” Filipinos love nicknames and this nickname was because the tree looked like a broomstick. It looked happy once we hung the Christmas cards but it was lacking some lights. So we were young and brilliant and decided to attach a cheap lampshade on top of the tree to light it up. The lamp was bought from a dime store, the shade was made of plastic and it was light enough to hang. It looked like an out-of-place Asian lantern hanging on a dry tree with Christmas cards all over it. As we sat to admire our work, we heard an explosion and then the tree was on fire!

My friend had the presence of mind to open the window, yes, for oxygen, no less, which of course made it worse. But at least he grabbed the burning tree, along with the lamp pulled in one second from the switch and shoved it out of the window. It landed with a loud thud on the sidewalk. It was late, it was cold, and we watched the burning tree in shock. Then we started laughing! We were proud that even though it caught fire, that it did not happen while I slept.

My friend left to be with his family and I went to sleep. I woke up at midnight with a feeling of intense homesickness. I have never spent Christmas by myself until this time. In Manila, there is a midnight dinner tradition. The terminology of this midnight dinner depends on who you are talking to. In my family, we call it “media noche,” literally meaning midnight. Others call it Noche Buena, “good night” but since Filipinos use “Buena” as “first” as in “Buena mano” (first hand), my family referred to New Year’s midnight dinner as Noche Buena. So today, every Filipino will refer to their Christmas dinner as Noche Buena.

My parents used to prepare the traditional “suman sa lihiya” (rice cake in lye water) for our media noche. There was always freshly grated coconut and ginger tea. I am not sure if my recollection is correct but I guess everything is big to a child so I will dare say that these sumans were as big as my forearm. The rice is soaked in water and lye water a day before they are wrapped in banana leaves wilted over open fire. My mom and dad would spend so much time wrapping each of these sumans lovingly and tying them with twine. The sumans resemble a tamale, only that these humble goodies, loved by the Filipinos, are made of sweet rice and wrapped in banana leaves. My mom owned a giant caldera, as big as the Ngoro-ngoro crater, and they would put the sumans in them, covered with water. My dad would build a fire and they would be boiled and simmered for a long, long time for the rice to have a gelatinous consistency.

My sisters and I would attend the misa de gallo, (mass at the crack of dawn) and on Christmas, after the midnight mass, my sisters and I would come home from church and we would all be singing merrily in front of our house waking up my parents in the process. Still, the sumans were cooking. My parents would take out a sample and spread the suman on the table. My mom would ceremoniously add sugar to the coconut, always, always, mentioning that that would prevent the coconut from getting rancid. Then she would cut the humungous suman in slices and we were in heaven. Nothing, nothing in my childhood memories of Christmas is more vivid than my Mom and Dad’s loving gesture of fixing these goodies for us to eat. Today, my sister Emma continues on with the tradition of making these goodies. She buys the sweet rice from the Filipino store, she buys the frozen grated coconut, she ties the sumans in silky thread and she puts them in the basket. And we love grabbing them and hiding them from each other because she does not make a lot. Sometimes she “hits the right note” but other times, they are off key and inedible. Regardless, I see and feel my parents through my sister’s efforts.

On my first Christmas media noche, I woke up to two stiff fried chicken legs, still wrapped in aluminum foil. I looked at them and my tears started. I was impossibly homesick, lonely, feeling sorry for myself.

As I told the story to my students, their expression was of disbelief. I told them that I did not come without an accent, without my own ignorance of the American idioms; certainly I had the whole immigrant experience. We learned the word “encourage” – I encouraged them to further their learning of the English language and of setting their sights onto bigger things; of educating themselves and their children. I told them a few “smart-aleck” remarks and explained what it meant. I had them practice “dramatic expressions,” like “shut up! For real?”, “Get out of town!” Then Armando had a question. What does “lol” meant? It meant “carcajar con fuerte” “Where did you see it?” “My friend in Internet.” So I taught them how to access the internet by drawing the PC screen on the blackboard. I came home that night and created Yahoo address for one of my students, Jose. I learned later he spoke Korean as he works in the kitchen of a huge Korean supermarket.

Then we all went to attend the school Christmas party and have some dinner. As I looked around me, I saw a lot of faces I did not know and others whom I knew from the past years that I taught. I realized that I was just like them, no more no less.

I was an immigrant like them; only I spoke my host country’s language and learned a few others along the way. I heard a conversation behind me and one of the students was saying something “…chicken, gallo o gallina” and he looked at me “what chicken es boy or girl?” I turned around and responded, “La gallina es la hembra, la “hen”. El gallo es el macho, lo que se llama “rooster.” El pollo es el producto, tal como la vaca es biftek o beef en ingles, el pollo es de carne de gallina, ok?” Their eyes bugged out. The “china” spoke Spanish. And I smiled and said, “I told you, watch TV and you will speak English fluently. Did you think I learned it by just wishing I did? I watch telenovelas!” They were inspired.

Then I excused myself to get more pollo con arroz Peruano. Feliz pascuas!

Lying to my Husband, nothing to do with Fedex guy!

This holiday season is an opportune time to confess one of my greater sins, “Thou shall not lie.” It all started a couple of years ago around this time of the year. As we prepared our Christmas list and discuss the holiday party we hold each year, I saw my husband stuff the Christmas envelope with money for our cleaning lady with three crisps hundred dollars – a week and two extras as a thank-you for all the hard work she did to clean our house come hell or high water.

Up until Kris was nine, we had a live-in housekeeper. Husband (HB) told me that he does not value cleaning house as an attribute that I can take pride in. Can you imagine how devastated I was that he would actually have someone keep the house for us? Yes I was so distraught that I was grinning from ear to ear. First of all, I am hopelessly disorganized. I am a slob, despite my best intentions. At one time in my life, my baby sister threatened to take a photo of my closet and send it to my friends to shame me. It did not work. An ex-boyfriend who saw my room asked me, “How does a very well dressed woman come out of this mess?’ I did learn a few things when I had a roommate who was in the armed forces; all hangers shall face the wall of the closet, all similar color clothing shall be next to each other, fold towels, and do not roll the sheets in the closet. I did clean my apartment but my tidy genes were in the off position. I did not have that obsessive compulsive behavior to stack the yogurt according to flavor in alphabetical order in the fridge or line my pairs of shoes like I was selling them on a yard sale. If there was a closet, I throw the shoes in there and fish them out later. Close the door, tightly and put up a sign. “open at your own risk.” What is the big deal?

When I was a teen-ager, I had an aunt who would arrange and re-arrange my shelves of clothing. She could not believe the disarray, day after day after day. But then I had another aunt who loved the fact that I “took after her” in being disorganized. My late aunt was educated and independently wealthy and she had servants in her house. So I knew from her that if I were educated, and hopefully half as wealthy, I could pay someone to keep my secret affliction of being a slob.

So what could be the downside of HB hiring someone to take care of the house? This woman folded the fitted sheets like she worked for Bloomingdale’s linen department and HB was my hero when he told me he does not put value in housekeeping talents. Is he smart or what? But even he was not prepared for the major production that turned the kitchen upside down while I fix something complicated like omellettes. Every pot and pan are out when I am doing some concoction in the kitchen and he is well aware that it is a “hazmat” zone should he insist on being in the kitchen with me.

I am not a Benihana chef but I can make knives fly. When I am done, I am covered with what I am cooking. So, if I fix omelette, chances are I am smeared with eggs, and I might have slivers of cheese in my hair but then he values my penchant for presentation. The omelette will have some berries on the side and a burnt toast to go with it. He has not stopped telling me with great affection, “You are such a slob!” And I would reply, “Thank you!”

We were very lucky to find this charming young woman Coco after the Colombian housekeeper was let go. Coco would live with us and take care of our house and be our son’s caregiver. She was young enough with excellent eyesight that she could turn Kris’ dental appliance without stabbing the roof of his mouth. However, she eventually got married and could only come once a week. On this particular busy Holiday season week, she called me and told me she could not come. She and her family had to go to her husband’s state. She said she was not sure if or when she would be able to come back.

I eyed the cash on the kitchen table. An inspiration hit me right there and then. You see, I have been observing these ladies all along. I knew exactly what they did. So, I had this bright idea – if I clean the house myself, without my husband knowing that the cleaning girl left, then I can keep all that cash! All I had to do was make sure it was cleaned the way Coco cleaned my house. Voila, I just found a way to have extra money for Christmas. Greed was good.

When my son came home, he found me to the point of hysteria. I was hauling the vacuum, I was tripping all over the place and I was hyperventilating. When he asked me what was going on, I was incoherent. I told him what I was doing but I was also becoming more and more scared of my scam! I was afraid to get the trash out of the house for fear of my husband would come home and ask me what I was doing with the trash so I asked my son to take it out, quickly, as I pushed it into his hands and pushed him outside the front door. I also put all the trash from the bathrooms in his room. He was so spooked, thinking that I have absolutely gone mad. There was $300 at stake and I could not let the chance go by. It would have been irresponsible. So I just walked away from my son and frantically went about mopping the floor.

I have put away all the cleaning implements when my husband walked in the door. The house was spotlessly clean. I have calmed down. I turned on the charm. I was feeling confident until he made a casual comment. He asked if Coco came today. What a stupid question, I thought, Jeez if he suspected what I did, I was going to pee my pants. I said, borrowing his technique, “Why do you ask?” He said, “There is a pine needle right here,” pointing to a microscopic pine needle on the kitchen floor, which I would have needed a magnifying glass to see. I was so spooked but I had to say something quickly so I said, “It is your fault.” “How so?” “Because you will not buy Coco a good vacuum cleaner. The poor girl is vacuuming the floor with an antiquated vacuum.” That weekend, we bought a brand new vacuum cleaner.

Coco called me later and said she regrets it but she would not be able to come any time soon from Nebraska. So I told her it was okay. I called her sister, who used to help Coco and told her the situation and that henceforth, I am Coco. I also told her that from time to time, I might need her to sub for her “sister.” She agreed.

For the first few weeks, I was engulfed with such paranoia that I would be found out and I made sure to go over the list that I have prepared for Coco to make sure that “she” was doing what was on the list. Then one evening, I followed my husband upstairs. Don’t ask but it was as if by following him and distracting him, I was hoping he would not be paying attention to the cleanliness of the house.

This particular evening, he went to the bathroom and I realized that I did not dust his night table so while he was in the bathroom, I frantically wiped the glass with the hem of my skirt! Then I heard him, “Uh oh! Coco forgot to clean my soap dish!” CRAPOLA! I said, “Oh she did not feel well today, so it was her sister who came and I will make sure to mention it to her.” "Oh, okay." YES!

The next day, I called Coco’s sister, “Please apologize to ‘Sir’?” She laughed loudly. In the Philippines, the domestic staff address their employers “Sir and Ma’am,” something I cringe at but I use the term to be facetious. “What was I supposed to have done?” “You came to our house to clean yesterday and you did not clean the soap dish!” Her laughter was so loud I had to hold the receiver away from my ears. Then I started laughing with her. Then she emailed to Sir, apologizing and saying she would do better next time.

Every week during the first two months, my son would confront me, “Mom, why are you doing this? When are you going to come out clean to Dad?” So I explained to him my real reason. I am helping to send a great niece to nursing school in Manila and this extra money makes it a lot easier for me to do it. I told him that I am not just pretending to be the housekeeper; that I am actually doing the job and I do not put the money away until I am sure I did a good job.

Then I had a bright idea: instead of living in fear not only of being found out but of my son outing me from the broom closet, no pun intended, I proposed something to him. For a fee, would he do the vacuuming from me since he comes home early from school? I would pay him $10 a week and I would give him incentives of up to $5 if he does a good job. I was buying his silence, his loyalty, and his ability to do a better job than I could. He was sympathetic to the ‘cause.” I told him he would in essence be helping a cousin of his continue with school by helping me. He agreed.

Every week, he would vacuum the whole house after school before he does his homework. He would be done when I get home. I would check his work and if he did an acceptable job, I would hand him his $10 and at other times I would tell him he did an excellent job and give him additional $2. And yet there were times when I told him he did not deserve to be in my employ!

At the end of the first semester of my thriving business, I had a bad case of tennis elbow. Furthermore, it was our peak season at my regular job as the end of the federal fiscal year approached. I was not doing a great job in my part time job as a cleaning lady or as what Coco’s sister and I term “G-5” job. G-5 is the visa given to domestic helpers by the US Immigration. I was doing a very bad job and it showed! Sir made a comment that Coco seemed to be doing a sloppy job and I reminded him that when we were hiring a cleaning lady, he told me that her performance was going to be measured against my standard. And I told him that by my standards, Coco was doing a perfect job and that I trust her that I could leave cash and jewelry without having to worry. I also reminded him that she only comes once a week and the rest of the week, I seem to be single-handedly taking up the slack!

That summer, we returned from vacation and I forgot where I put my ring that he bought me when I graduated. I could not replace it because it was custom made. I was frantic. I could not know how to tell him the ring was missing. I was concerned that I would have to say two sentences that would lead to my demise: 1) I lost the ring; 2) there is no Coco. Why was I afraid? First, if the ring was lost and the only “stranger” in this house is Coco, then she must have stolen it. But how could she steal it when she does not come anymore? I started to sweat like never before. I prayed hard—to the patron saint of lost minds and lost causes and lost stuff—Saint Anthony of Padua. I went straight to the point, “Saint Anthony, please help me find the damn ring or I will not be able to send my niece to college.” He listened. I found it under a basket of soaps in the linen closet. I would not have put it in there, I swear. Who da man? Saint Anthony was da man. “He the saint!”

I became good in cleaning and better in my impersonation. When HB would make a comment about something not clean enough, and I would get defensive, my son, if he was present would give me the “eye” to remind me to just go along instead of saying things like, “Well, I will tell the very ignorant and stupid cleaning lady how horrible of a job she is doing!” My son said, “Mom, just say you would tell Coco, okay. You do not need to be smart with Dad, what’s wrong with you?”

I also took notes from HB for his special requests and he sees me leave the note on the kitchen table for Coco. When I would come home to clean, I would check the note on the table. When there are new things in the house, HB would ask me how Coco liked it and I would do an impersonation of Coco, complete with her accent and he would always find it adorable, not my impersonation, but the way Coco spoke with a Visayan accent.

When Sir would complain about how the bed was not made according to his liking, I would ask him to show me so “I can show Coco specifically how it should be made.”

Being a best-practice skilled cleaning lady is not that easy. I had to do a research on the best green cleaning agents and how to clean “smartly.” To that extent, I was able to convince my husband to buy a Romba (robotic vacuum) for Coco, which at this time has assumed the identity of her mother. I do not remember how or why but at some point, when things were bad, I had the nerve to tell him that Coco just did not want to continue cleaning our house. I told him we were complaining too much and she left for the Philippines with her children. I said she was nice enough to ask her Mom to take over so as not to put me on a bind. From thereon, the cleaning lady became Manna.

The change of character was brilliant. Manna is older and would forget all kinds of things to do! She was not that energetic. (I mean the “character” I built for Manna versus the real person). More importantly, she does not speak English well so all communications to Manna had to go through me. Manna would not speak to HB. I was kind to “her” because she was doing me a great favor and I always forgave her infractions. One time, HB made a comment that Manna had not been vacuuming for months. Excuse me? I made a point of dramatically checking the rug in the living room. I knew I vacuumed the damn thing!

When he saw me I said, “Okay, I know she cleaned this rug and I brought in my plant so I will tell her that you said that she is doing a crappy job.” He said, “Well, maybe you can tell her in a kind way.” “There is no kind way to tell her that you think she just takes your money in exchange for a crappy job.” “You know you can do better than that!” “Well, I am afraid she would quit. She is doing us a favor, you know.” Silence. I added, “She cleans once a week. You pay her once a week, not 24/7.” “As I recall, you do not clean after yourself.” I had to add some smart-aleck remark to make my point. Go figure.


That weekend, while we were driving to go somewhere, he proposed an idea. He was increasingly becoming unhappy with Manna’s increasingly poor performance. (Jeez, Louise, I was getting cortisone shots and I was not getting a break from this guy! And I am working so hard at my usual job) He said that perhaps he should look for a replacement of Manna. I lost it, in a big way and gave him a "Munam." I hissed and wailed like a cat being slaughtered. “How dare you! You are so bleeping picky and you are a total jerk. You know what, I will hate her replacement! I will not trust her. You are an asshole. You think you own the world for $100 cheap dollars you are paying Manna and you know what, I will tell her that you think she is stupid and a loser and then she would quit before I can even tell her that she is being replaced. The replacement will steal my stuff and my jewelry and I will never know about it and you know what else, if I lose Manna, I am warning you, I WILL NOT CLEAN THAT HOUSE! You are heartless! You are so petty, keep your $100 dollars! TRUST ME, YOUR HOUSE WILL BE SO MESSY AND I WOULD NOT TOUCH A BLEEPING THING!!” Shock. Silence. He stopped the car.

He calmed me down and said, “Okay, Manna stays. Boy, you do look out for the interest of Manna, don’t you?” OMG, in more ways than one! Wait, is he suspecting something?

Eventually, I started to take Wednesday afternoons off so it became much easier to manage my “theater performances.” But there were times when I knew I was a hairline away from being found out. In the meantime, I diligently put the money away so that my great niece can stay in the dorm at Saint Louis University in Baguio City and pursue her dream of becoming a nurse. Her family is of modest means and I am trying to change her future. I needed the extra income to do this. I wish I could say that I wanted to confess my secret and get it out of my chest but it was not the case. Years ago, I learned my lesson the hard way.

Years before Coco or Manna after the Colombian left, we had a weekly lady who did a wonderful job. One day, she told me she needed to go back to Argentina because her father was sick. She was going to be away indefinitely. I took the money from the kitchen table and cleaned the house for two weeks. HB worked very, very long hours. I had the opportunity and the motive to clean the house. One Saturday, my husband and my son who was young at that time, and I ran some errands. One of those was to get money out of the ATM. As we sat in the car, my HB turned to me and asked, “Well, shall I get money for the cleaning lady?” My son, in his angelic voice said, “The lady has not been coming to the house.” He was seated between me and his Dad in the truck so I pinched him on the thigh to warn him. Instead he yelled, “Aw, Mommy, why did you pinch me?” BUSTED! HB never discussed it with me to save my face but there was no money for the Argentinian that week or the week after.

When I complained that I should be paid for doing the cleaning lady’s job, he told me that part of being married is keeping the house. Oh was I ever offended. First I told him how sexist he sounded and that I did not get married to clean some man’s house and that this is truly unacceptable and someone had to do it because I am not going to. He said, “Look for someone.” Meanwhile, the money disappeared from the table until the lady actually came back.

In any case, I learned my lesson that if I were to continue my dream for my great niece, that I would assume this responsibility until she was graduated without saying a word and without letting it out. When my husband told me that a firm in Massachusetts was offering him a job, I worried not of moving from the DC area but of “losing the cleaning lady.” Of course he would not consider leaving the law firm he is with. But it occurred to me that there might be a possibility one day of leaving the DC area altogether. While we are here, I could not, under any circumstances let myself be exposed. So I used my improvisation skills to avoid it. For instance, when HB would be sick on the day the cleaning lady would come, she would not make it in. When he would ask why Manna did not make it, I would tell him that I told her not to come so that he would not be disturbed.

The next day, I would ask how he was feeling. If he was not sure about whether he would come to work, the cleaning lady would not be sure either. If he stayed at home and asked me why she did not come I would say, “We already messed up her schedule, she would come next week.” I had a repertoire of reasons should there be a conflict of interest – “It was windy today and Manna’s husband is not used to driving in windy weather.” Really. If I knew in advance he would be home, I would have Manna’s daughter to send me an email that I made up myself, replete with grammatical errors and have her send it back to me as a fresh message that I could forward or relay to HB later with an excuse as to why Manna would prefer a different day.

Never, ever, has he seen her clean the house but the house was nearly spotless as I learned more and more how to do the job better. When I would go on vacation, I would call Manna’s daughter and ask to come and do the job. I have specific instructions not to make it so unreasonably clean that I could not follow her example.

When we would all go on vacation, I would have someone do it for me so that we can expect to come home to a clean house. There is always someone wanting to make that $100 a day. A friend of mine told me, “Everybody wants Manna’s job!” Meanwhile, I had in my bank account a couple thousand dollars to get my great niece through two years of college. Life was good. Manna was getting complacent.

Then All HELL BROKE LOOSE:

It all started rather innocently. Husband (HB) and I were remodeling our bathroom. We had to remove wall paper. It was a mess. Manna was supposed to come that Wednesday. So far, no problem. Then the following Saturday, as we continued to work on the bathroom, he found a piece of wall paper, no bigger than a small “Post-it Note,” and proceeded to announce, “See, Manna did not clean the bathroom. She is not doing her job.” I said, “She cleaned that bathroom!” “Did you see her do it?” “Yes, she was kneeling on that floor cleaning the mess. “Well, she did not do a good job.” “A little piece of paper and you are up in arms?” “Well, I am paying her, am I not?” “We are paying her are we not, not just you, but we!” “Ok, well, does she understand English?” “Maybe not, she is stupid that she does not understand English. Do you understand Tagalog?” “Okay, well, does she speak English?” “NO SHE IS THE MOST STUPID PERSON IN THE PLANET! Of course she can speak and understand English, what did you think, she is some kind of a cave woman who comes to clean your palace?” “Well, here is what I will do. I will take off on Wednesday so I can speak to her about how to clean the house.”

If there was ever a moment in my life where I felt trapped this was it. I just had to be strong. My mind was doing Math very quickly. I was making sure that I could still send my great niece to college without my “Manna” job. However, my emotion got the better of me so I screamed, “You do not have to take off on Wednesday, and you are talking to Manna!” His face showed his confusion. “What did you say?” “YOU DO NOT HAVE TO TAKE OFF on Wednesday! YOU ARE TALKING TO THE CLEANING LADY!!” Silence. Then, “You are the cleaning lady? You are Manna?” Then I heard peals of laughter. His. Not mine. I heard myself wailing and not because I was being slaughtered. All the omission (note, I do not use the word lying) through the months have caught up with me. It was like a dam breaking. I was crying and I heard him say, “No wonder she does a sloppy job!” Then I laughed. And I cried. And I laughed. He sat down on the other end of the dining table “How long have you been doing this?” “Months. A year, since Coco left. I don’t know.” “You have been lying to me?” “I was not sleeping with the FedEx guy you know, I was only cleaning the bleeping house.” “Why are you doing it?” I was choked. One thing that I hate was humiliating my own family. We Filipinos are proud and we work hard for our money. “I am sending Jenny to nursing school.” “Your allowance is not enough?” “No, this is more expensive.” “I need to think this one through. We will talk about it later. But you are right, this is not so bad but still I cannot believe you could not come to me and ask for help.”

I was actually relieved. It felt like a great burden was lifted off my back. I did not feel sorry about being outed. I was getting tired of doing it and having to build this great BS story about how Manna reacted to new things she finds in my house, I was getting annoyed of having to answer questions about how her family was doing. I just did not understand why I have to know what Manna got for her birthday or something like that. At some point, I said, “If you want to know about those things, call her yourself and ask her. I am usually not the confidant of cleaning people and I do not generally socialize with them.” Really.

The next morning, as we sat down for our morning coffee, HB said he wanted to talk first about the cleaning lady situation. He said he felt that I lied to him and he was sad that I could not go to him to tell him how much I needed money; he asked if our son knew about it; that he and son could have helped to clean the house. No he did not just say that! Are you kidding me? Then it was my turn.

First I asked him a few questions: 1) Is the house clean on Wednesday evenings when he comes home? Yes. 2) Is he getting any value from this cleaning service? Yes. 3) Is the price she is charging reasonable? Yes.

Then I said, pay up the cleaning person whether it was someone else or me.

I told him that I was not just pretending to be the cleaning lady; I actually do the job and I think I am generally doing a good job. I also reminded him that WE were only paying for a day and the rest of the week, I personally maintain the house. I said, “I am doing this because first, I like doing it. I find it rather therapeutic for me. I would rather clean than go shopping on my afternoon off. Also, I am helping someone realize her dreams. And I do not just take the money; I work hard for it. “

He then made a mistake. He said, “I feel that maintaining the house is a family thing and our son and I can help.” I said, “Excuse me, do you not know that you are one of the laziest people in this house? That you leave your newspaper and you do not lift your finger at anything here?” Then he responded: “You were advancing your case until you attacked me personally.” To which I replied “Then to hell with you and your money. Oh by the way, half of that money is mine because you are not the only one who works in this house and maybe I should remind you, I do not make minimum wage. So if you think I am stealing from you, keep your piddly little change and I take mine. And I quit!”

He said, “No, you do not understand. All I am saying is that I do not know why you had to lie about it…” “All you are saying is you are too cheap. You are saying you would rather give the money to others than help me help my family, that is what you are saying. You told me years ago when the Argentinean left that you considered cleaning the house part of what I signed up when I got married. Well, I am not a maid. And I do not deserve to be humiliated like this, ok? So if you do not want to give me this job, I will go and earn the money somewhere else. I will take a part time job and maybe even clean other people’s houses.”

I was full of it but I was going after the gold. I have become good at this that I know I could clean somebody’s townhouse. I will wear my tight jeans, load my Mercedes with cleaning agents and a vacuum and I will be a smart cleaning lady because I have a college degree and a post grad certificate. I know the best green cleaning products, the best dusting rags, the best hardwood floor cleaners and I do not mind cleaning a litter box. I can even help people’s kids write a term paper on any subject they choose. This can be my other career yet and I would be proud doing it.

He continued, “I thought about this and I think your reasons for doing this is noble. I only wish you had come to me to explain that you needed more money. " "Excuse me but will you please cut the bullshit?" "Let me finish." "No you let me talk. I work for the money. When all is said and done, I worked my butt off to clean this messy house."

He was preempting me, talking as though I was not. "Since you are determined to make the extra money, I decided to let you keep the job. You can do it for as long as you want. When you get tired of it, we will hire someone to do it. (Get out of town, shut up, really:)? But I just have a question, he continued, "Why did you ask me to start giving Manna gas money over the summer?”

It was my turn to laugh nervously. “Well, since the prices of gas was high, I thought it was a good opportunity to get a $10 weekly raise. What the heck, I buy a nice lunch, ok?”
He said, “Okay, we will continue to pay this cleaning service $100 a week. The gas money is cut off. The money will be electronically transferred to the maid’s account every 5th of the month.” I protested, “Let it be clear, she is not ever going to be referred to as the ‘maid.’ She is either the cleaning service or cleaning lady. You are not to utter a word that would degrade this woman.”

Epilogue:

1. The contract is still in force.
2. At times, when Sir wanted something done, he would say, “Whoever is cleaning this house, will you please tell her to move this and clean behind it?”
3. At times, the cleaning lady would say, “That is not part of weekly maintenance cleaning. This is remodeling debris, you clean it yourself. She will absolutely refuse to do that.”

Years before, Sir would ask me if Coco or Manna thanked us for a Christmas bonus. I would say, “She is a cleaning lady, she is not a PhD, she does not know Letitia Baldridge. She does not send formal embossed thank you notes. She said thank you and that’s it.”

This year, on my first year of being Manna, I went to Sir and said, “We have a tradition of giving the cleaning service a fat Christmas bonus. She will be happy with time and a half.” Sir said, “Please be advised, the cleaning lady deserves double time.” Cleaning lady said, "Thank you for your generosity. Please extend my warm greetings to your beautiful wife as well." Some cleaning lady is going to be smiling all the way to the bank.

Some young woman in Baguio, Philippines is going to be sleeping in her tiny dorm bed, warm under her purple sheets and purple quilt, in her purple night gown. She made the Dean’s list and she was “capped” last summer. I, on the other hand, continue on with my task of cleaning the hardwood floor and kitchen, with a fervent prayer that my heart continue to beat for a little longer as I continue to hold the hands of others who need it for a little while longer…

The Lion Sleeps Tonight - Summer 2006

My son told me and his dad that we have “soured” international travel for him. He said that we go too often and it is grueling! His idea of a vacation is being cooped up in a hotel room and watching TV. However, he had no choice but come with us.

During his college visits last year, the first thing he would inquire about was the university’s study abroad program. I did not realize we traumatized him that much.

In this particular posting, I write about our trip to Africa, which was a very memorable trip that I need to put in writing before I become compost. First, it was my first trip to the African continent and my first safari. African sunsets I realized during this trip are to die for, albeit not in the claws of lions, thank you very much.

Armed with our safari color (no one goes on safari looking like the catalogs, ok!) clothes (khaki and olive slacks and muted earth colors, no Hawaiian shirts:) , we flew from Washigton, DC to Amsterdam, the Netherlands, and caught our connecting flight to Johannesburg, South Africa. From there, we flew to Dar Salaam, Tanzania. We then boarded a rather small plane that could carry only 18 passengers at the most. With us in the plane were eggs, fruits, vegetables, and other supplies. From our point of view, we could see animals grazing on the vast terra cotta earth below. We were dropped off, by group, at our corresponding camps.

We first stayed in CC Africa's Klein Camp in Tanzania, located at the heart of the Serengeti. The camp had a total of maybe 10 cottages. The cottages look out into the vast savannah where we could spot wild animals grazing. At night, the wind blew mightily while beasts and humans both rest for the night. It was surreal to wake up in the middle of the pitch black night, realizing that some wild animal might be lurking, and not necessarily just in my imagination.

Kris had his own cottage and his own private butler as we had ours. Every morning, the butler would come and wake us up with the sound of a bongo drum. We would get ourselves outfitted for our early morning game drive, where we would “hunt” for animals as they grazed.

It was not Disneyworld. Either you would see animals or not. It is highly possible that the animals were seeing us and camouflaging themselves so well that we could not see them. I discovered to my surprise and my husband’s delight that I was good in sighting animals.

Around noon, we would go back to camp for lunch. The chef would tell us what he had prepared for us and the sommelier would present the wine to accompany our lunch. When I would decide to go to the back of the camp for some sun by the pool, my butler would follow at an appointed time with a glass of fresh fruit juice. If I had asked him to turn the sun off, I would not be surprised if he did.

At three in the afternoon, we would be awakened by a gentle rustle of dried leaves and the pulsating sound of a conga. The butler would put the tray laden with tea and cakes on the table in the veranda. We would then, after tea, set out for our evening game drive.

By six, the skies would turn into intense fiery gold and at sunset, the horizon turns into spectacular magenta. Our guides would set a table and out there in a safe spot in the savannah, while the animals start to graze for the night, we would have our cocktails while the sun sets in a spectacular fashion. “Would Madam have a gin and tonic?” I would, and fell deeply in love with G&T.

We would enjoy the hour and continue to look for more animals late into the evening. When we were done, we would drive back into camp, driving through paths our guide knew by heart, with the “spotter” saying something that sounds like “bara barambya”. I researched later what that bara-bara meant: “the road is bad.” That would be accurate as they are hardly roads but trails made by the Land Rovers. With lights scanning the thickets, with eyes looking at us from behind the bushes, we could spot the animals and we delighted in watching them in their habitat. One of the most memorable “hunts” during one of the night drives was discovering a den of lion. As we approached, we all knew to keep very still and quiet. We were oriented as to how to behave around the animals. First, the animals view our Land Rover as an animal much bigger than they were and would not attack it. Because of this, any safari goer must stay inside the vehicle at all times.

We learned to do a quick pit stop and stay behind the vehicle, and not a foot farther away from it. We learned to state a code for a pit stop, which was “I want to check the tire.” Kris was not happy with the idea of doing his personal business knowing that there were other people just a breath away from him. One night, he started to walk away from the SUV and his Dad had to pull him back and told him that if he did what he was planning to do, chances are he would be mauled and killed by some wild animals lurking in the dark. One early evening, we encountered a male elephant on our way back to the camp, which lifted its front legs and hooted, showing us who was the boss. Not too far away from it, a male baby elephant did exactly the same thing, with the dust rising around it. The guide revved the engine in response. I was petrified. My son never again insisted on going behind the bushes. He hugged the hubcaps so to speak, when he would ask to “check the tires.”

Back from our evening game drive, we would go to the pavilion to have our dinner. The pavilion was heated with a huge fire pit in the center. We would go over the game we saw earlier and recall the highlights of our day. When we were ready to retire to our cabañas, a Masai tribesman, carrying a bow and arrow would accompany us. Waiting in our cabaña was a hot water bottle and a Coleman lantern. At precisely 11pm, the camp turned off its generator. The camp would be enveloped in total darkness. In the distance, some animal sounds could be heard. At some point, it sounded like murder was being committed nearby out in the savannah.

I worried each night that Kris would be eaten by a tiger or a lion but he survived. Each day, when I heard the gentle beating of the drums, I knew that he was fine and so were we. From Klein Camp, we travelled to different camps. We ate lunches in style and elegance in the most unlikely corners of the savannah.

We witnessed a wildebeest migration, a fascinating march to where the grass was greener. Thousands of wildebeest marching in a formation was one of the highlights of the trip.

It horrified me to ride a small plane, with only the three of us and the pilot and his copilot. I had visions of a plane crash, with animals devouring us. I did not know that part of this safari trip were to ride those small planes. And I prayed and offered a quid pro quo, to whom it may concern, that I would continue to do good and help others if we would survive this flight. We always did. The planes took off and landed on grassy clearings. I never saw a tower, only a bright colored wind flag and a guy waving at the pilot.

We left Klein Camp in Sarengeti to go to the Ngorongoro crater. It was an eight- hour long drive through the desolate Shara desert. From time to time, we would see movement of some color; a group of tribespeople looking for wood or food. The landscape looked unforgiving. It pained me to see how they desperately travel on foot to find kindling while we were riding a motorized beast to take us to our destination. We ate our packed lunch, prepared by the Klein chef, under a tree, surrounded by lava rocks, spewed by the volcanoes hundreds of years ago. We were covered by volcanic dust including our suitcases and our clothes by the time we arrived at the lodge.

NGORO-NGORO:
The crater has a "gate" guarded by tribesmen, complete with a bow and arrow. Our guide was met by one of them, a medium built Masai man with a huge hole in his ears and something that resembled a wooden bangle inside of the hole. I commented about that to my son, but I did not want Moses, our guide, to understand me so I said it in Spanish. Every time we saw something notable, I would say a phrase in Spanish.

The lodge we stayed in gave us a breathtaking view of the crater. The salt part of the lake shone like a big bowl of fire as it reflected the sun as it set. At night, it looked like a bed of snow, glistening and standing still in the distance. The crater had a zoo appeal; it was not difficult to spot the animals but it was still an exhilarating experience as the caldron like cavity covers one hundred miles. If you have never heard a lion roar, at night, then believe me it was terrifying. I thought he was in our terrace. He is the King of the Jungle, alright.

Moses drove us to Arusha for our trip out of Tanzania. During the trip, he struck a conversation that started with him saying, “Madam, I heard you speaking in Spanish…” I was dumbfounded. My son and I looked at each other. My brain was racing. Did I say anything that might have been offensive? Have I insulted him or his continent? I realized the things that I have said thus far would be innocuous things like “Look at his lip! Look at his ears!” “Look at this guy, the tribesman, did you see that? He is wearing a digital watch!” They were candid observations but then I remembered saying, “Is this guide mental or what? Why did he do that?” Maybe he did not know what “mental” meant, Ojala! I smiled and said “Moses, you speak Spanish?” He said, “Si Madam, tambien hablo French and Italian. I need to, I am a tour guide.” End of discussion. Lesson: When in Africa, speak Tagalog or shut up.

BOTSWANA :
We stayed at a camp in Chobe National Camp and later stayed at the Sandibe at the Okavango Delta in Botswana, with vivid memories of a water safari and a canoe ride on the river. The elephants visited at night. I could hear their giant hooves stepping on the leaves. We were told to keep our cabañas locked. Apparently, baboons love to play pillow fights and they like ransacking duffel bags for candies and other goodies. The Sandibe was voted as the number 2 resort in the world. If you ask me, I was not too enamored with it.
Everywhere we went, we were treated very well and kindly, fed with foods carefully chosen and cooked by chefs to delight even the most discriminating gastronomer. Africa had some interesting wineries. I also recall to this day the delicacy of the South African bream, poached to perfection and served under the beautiful canopy of stars that shone upon East Africa.

AFRICAN Community:
During our stay at our camp at Chobe, my son and I had the opportunity to visit an African vilIage. The huts they lived in was made of mud. All the members of this family were seated outside to welcome us. A kitchen, no more than a lean-to had a counter where chickens pecked on some grains left about. The ground felt like dry and hard. Some holes in the huts were packed with rags. They raise a few goats and cows. The bush was dry and the land arid. I wondered what they ate at all. It gets cold at night so I was wearing a thick black woolen sweater. I saw a teen-age girl who was eyeing me and who gave me a shy smile when I made eye contact. I took off my sweater and asked her if she would like it. She smiled shyly and nodded her head. Henceforth, I would beg or borrow my son’s or my husband’s sweatshirt to keep warm. To this day, my husband would tease me about my long pursuit of a nice sweater, finding one in San Francisco, CA, only to give it away in an instant to some teen-ager I did not even know in Africa. His exact words when I told him that I gave my sweater away: I admire your generosity but this one is just plain s#up!d!

Before we headed to Botswana, we took a two-day break to see the Victoria Falls so we headed to Livingstone, Zambia. From there, we took a half hour walk to Zimbabwe to find out that we had to pay something like $80 to get a visa to go in. Despite the fact that the falls have a spectacular view from Zimbabwe, our dislike for the policies of their president, Mugabe, forced us not to want to spend a penny to benefit his administration. Thus, we walked back into our lodge and that night, we feasted with other guests, bathed under the beautiful moon and serenaded by an African rock band. During this break, my son and my husband bartered with the merchants who set stalls some distance from the falls between Zimbabwe and Zambia. The two gringos bartered their sports shirts, tennis shoes, yes even ball point pens for woodwork. The came back shortly at our hotel to look for other things to barter. They said that when they went back to the market, everyone was wearing their shirts. They also teased them that Kris looked more like their son than my husband's. As you know, Kris like his Mom has almond skin color that turns deep raisin during the summer:-). I could not bear to see these negotiations so I bought what I liked and stayed in our room.

FORTY FIVE MINUTES OF TERROR:
The pilot asked me close the door of the tiny plane that picked us up from Sandibe, the last resort we stayed in at Botswana. I pulled the door and turned a lever absentmindely.

Our guides waved goodbye to us and as the plane ascended, I prayed that my family survive this flight. I made pacts with God in exchange for our safety. The plane glided and I could see villages hundreds of feet down below. My son, seated in the back of the plane was staring into the distance , so tiny and brave in his resolve not to show me his terror in being in this little claustrophobic plane. My husband was getting pale from being airsick. I had to be the brave one. I took photos of the savannah below us.

Then I was consumed by fear. I was worried that I did not lock the door properly. I could not believe that I did not protest when asked to do so. I wanted to hit the pilot on the head had it not for the possibility that first, I would definitely make the plane crash, and secondly, I would definitely be put in jail. I could just imagine—“Why did you hit the pilot on the head?” “Judge, the lazy ass asked me to lock the door of the plane? Hello, do I look like a flight attendant to you?” How lame was that?

I feared every heart beat that I took that I did not close it tightly enough and I would cause the plane to crash! I would be be blamed for killing my family and myself and the Bozo that was given the job title of "Pilot" and his blond airhead co-pilot. Ok, ok, I know I had to calm down.

When we landed, my husband was literally bent over from being airsick, my son was finally glaring at me because he hated every moment of it. When we got out of the plane, I asked the pilot as to why he asked me to lock the doors, was that not his duty and what if I did not lock it properly and made the plane crash? He told me that he checked what I did by looking into his “rearview mirror.” If I had the strength to punch the SOB, I would have done so but I was limp from my panic attack and just happy that we landed safely . I told him however in my "this is your Mom talking" manner, with my forefinger pointing at his chest, that he should never, ever ask that of any of his passengers.

We departed from Tambo (Johannesburg) International Airport at the conclusion of our trip. The people of Zambia, Tanzania, Botswana, and South Africa have been warm and hospitable to us; sharing the wealth of their jungles and the generosity of their spirit. Every place we went, I could not help but admire their industriousness, friendliness, and dignity. On our last day, my husband’s wish came true- we spotted a leopard in the Okavango, a graceful cat, agile, handsome, preciously playful (with and by himself), and wild!

--When my husband told me were going on safari, I was skeptical. “What do you mean I am going to look at animals for over five days? Are you kidding me? I will be bored.” At the conclusion of our safari, I told him that if any other vacation is a safari from hereon, I would be delighted to go. However, there is a caveat – I will never, ever, ever ride in a small plane where I could imagine the horror crashing into the middle of a lion's den and of being devoured by vultures. I may not be an African queen, but I can be a drama queen.

Hakuna Matata!

Wasting away--

I was on my way to a mammogram this morning. The rain underlined the fact that I was not too enthusiastic about this appointment, as it were, I have been putting it off until I realized that the referral might expire if I did not do it soon.

The city is awash with gold and yellow chrysanthemums, lush and freshly planted, a true reminder that Fall has come upon us. In the Philippines, my mother used to plant chrysanthemums from seeds. They bloom unpredictably as the Philippines do not have four seasons. Well, maybe it does. Rainy, Dry, Hot, and Ber Season. The Ber season is from September through December, or the “brrrr” season. The Philippine seasons may be described as rainy, hot, muggy, and mosquito-ey season. The plants thrive all year, blooming in beautiful intense colors, with bright green leaves after the rain and grayish green patina from the dust before the rain.

I arrived at the clinic on time. The technician did not smile once. She would not make eye contact when I stood up after she called my name. I was thinking that maybe she was already guilty of the pain she was going to inflict on me. And painful it was.

I found her monologues annoying. She positioned my left breast against the plate (that looked like a paper cutter to me)and pressed the bejeesuz out of it. “Alright. Hold your breath for me. Okay, step back and let us see what we have here.” Right breast, now pressed against the guillotine. “Alright. Hold your breath for me. Okay, step back and let us see what we have here.” Can we be done already? Do you have other lines, lady? Four shots with four exactly the same sentences, uttered by the unsmiling technician. Then I realized she was not addressing me; that she was saying these lines over and over again every single day to every woman who comes to surrender her breasts. I stopped listening. I felt sorry for the robot lady. I went to my own universe where mammograms are so yesterday’s procedure.

As soon as Ms. Personality took the last shot, she invited me to “Come and let us look at the picture together.” What picture? There was an image that looked like the black hole, outlined like some constellation, peppered with little white specks. Those are pictures of my breasts? They were not photogenic at all , so why did she not just say, “Your suffering is over, go in peace.” Was I supposed to say something like, “Gee that is nice, I want 1 five-by-seven copy? And can I have them matted and framed?” I did not say a word and stood there like a moron, deliberately staring at some pink pencils, as a form of passive aggression. She did not offer me a pencil and I did not take one.


Then she smiled. I glared at her. I’d be damned if I would thank her for having my breast flattened like chicken breasts on a plexiglass cutting board. Sorry, lady, this was not exactly my idea of an early morning activity. She wished me a good day, I thanked her (for my good day, not hers) but I did not return the wish. Hell no, if she did not think I was worthy of her smile earlier, who the hell was she to expect one from me? So I exercised my freedom. Freedom of expression. That expression this morning was ungratefulness. I left in a hurry and walked back to see the mums once again.



Decades ago, I met a Japanese woman at work. Mrs. Ito was an elegant woman who dressed immaculately. She spoke English with a beautiful melodious voice. I arrived in Washington, DC during the Fall. I told her how beautiful and lush chrysanthemums are in the States and I have not seen them in yellow or gold color. Mrs. Ito told me that here in the States, they are grown in nurseries and people just plant them in their yard during the mums’ season and afterwards, they die or they are dug out and replaced by other plants.


Indeed, it was Mrs. Ito who broke the news to me that the mums I see during the fall are temporary. As I admired the mums by K street this morning I was sure that they will not be there in a few weeks. Most everything here is disposable.
Mrs. Ito told me that this is a wasteful country. Indeed, if the car radio is not working, they replace it instead of fixing the broken part. If the vacuum cleaner is not working, it would cost more to repair it so people just buy a new one. Why fix a watch or a dishwasher when you can get a new one? Why stay married to a person who has gone past his/her useful life when you can get divorced and get a new one? This is America, you have freedom of choice- to decide to keep the old or get something or someone new.


Thirty plus years ago, when I made a choice to live in this wasteful country, I said goodbye to my childhood where banana leaves and twine are used to pack a nice picnic lunch; I said goodbye to my teen-age years in muggy and noisy and politically unstable Manila. Change for me and in me was inevitable. I was fully immersed in the US by the time I was in my late twenties. This is where I voted for the first time and this is where I became self-reliant for the first time. Many milestones in my life happened in this country.


My full immersion in disposable USA is nothing unexpected or truly dramatic. I just went with the flow. I throw away struggling plants and buy new ones; I buy more when I could not find the thing I am looking for and throw it away when I realize I do not fancy it after all. I became accustomed to disposing whatever does not suit my need anymore. I own up to my wasteful contributions. I wasted smiles on people who would not smile back; I wasted my heart and my mind on people that did not return my love; I wasted words on people who are too stubborn to understand, my efforts on endeavors that were fruitless, and wasted my time on friendships that turned out to be untrue. In the US, I learned not only to dispose of things but also of relationships that are making me unhappy. I learned to take back as much as I give. I learned that I will be subjugated only if I allow it.



Even today, I allow myself to absorb more, to learn more from people and experiences and in the process, I become stronger in my beliefs. No more wasting. My best friend has a mantra she made up. One day, she said, “Kung ayaw mo, huwag mo…” This can be literally translated as “If you do not like it, don’t” Indeed, a true form of self-preservation is not to waste any of your resources on something you do not like.


As for where the mammogram fits in this diatribe, I will offer that I think I started with the premise that I considered it was a waste of my morning. However, I could not discard it like common rubbish. The chrysanthemums that are bright and lush are a reminder that nothing stays the same forever. Even their brightness and color will fade in a few weeks and go to waste, discarded and forgotten.



As for me, I continue the rest of my journey in life, and as I do, I will take great care to cherish and preserve the friendships I have forged, keep the love I have for those who matter most to me, and use the knowledge I attain to widen my point of view. I will continue, every moment, to end each of my profoundly outrageous thought with peals of silent laughter, wasted in some corner in my brain.

Madam, how shocking to see you here??!!

I was at a gala reception at the French Embassy recently; fancy but not overly done so as to intimidate me. We were requested to wear cocktail chic. This was a welcome signal that it was not going to be that stuffy. In fact, we even drove our little SmartforTwo, a baby Mercedez Benz mutant that is made in France.


We were at one of the wine stations when out of the blue, someone I recognized was looking at me and exclaimed, "Madam, how shocking to see you here!!!" Exclamation on Decibel 7, roll and drums please. He was the friend that I have earlier written about, the one who took me to parties decades ago, so that he could stay in the closet until he outed himself. We were so happy to see each other and I gladly introduced him to my husband. With him was his pretty young niece, who he referred to as his protege. He obviously made it his life's goal to turn young women into confident social creatures.


My husband thanked him, "Thank you for what you did for my wife. She is so good at these functions." I was trained all those times decades ago, by this same friend; to treat food with indifference; nod only to acquaintances; use the room he booked to powder my nose, talk in a quiet voice, etc. During this particular night, the rule was forgotten as my friend and I saw each other after a very long time. It was a feel good occassion; we were supporting our mutual friend who is the CEO of the non-profit having the reception. Furthermore, the non-profit employed my young son as an intern for two summers. And in fact, CEO used to babysit "the intern" when my son was all of four years old. In the truest sense of the word, we were with "family" and I sat down and enjoyed my Merlot. My mentor/friend was shrill with happiness having reconnected after these long years.


My very first formal function as the wife, was at the Lukemia Ball. I was conscious of the fact that it was a real test as to how I could handle these types of occassions. I put on my beautiful midnight blue beaded gown. My digicam was bulging through my evening clutch bag. My husband (HB), noticed the bulge, asked me what I had in there. I 'fessed. I was after all Filipino. Pinoys love photos. If there is a roasted pig on the table, we take a picture with the pig. If we have a new purse, we take a photo with the purse, we cannot start to eat at parties until we have blessed and taken photos of the spread. If there is a wake, we take photos with the dead. That was just something we do without further discussion. If you point a camera at a Filipino, he could not help but pose and smile. I was not an exception. My husband still teases me about a family photo during my mom's wake. I was seated in front with a wide smile on my face while my siblings all looked sad. My baby sister had a smile on her face as well- the two of us are the "carcajadas" in our family. (given to loud laughter). The only defense I could offer, is that, my mom was never a sentimental person and would have understood why her two baby daughters were smiling on the photo. Perhaps we knew something the others did not!


HB forbade me to take the camera with me. He told me that only the Press would take photos at this occassion. Really? After spending a good amount of money for my gown and my accessories, there would not be any photos to show for? That was first of only two times I went to the Leukemia Ball thereafter. I failed in prevailing the second time so I told him that I would not want to spend money on fancy gowns if I could not even have proof that I was there!


HB has a rule that if anyone uses manipulation, whining, or passive aggression, that he will deal with it so that the only person who suffers is he/she who whines, manipulates or otherwise use passive aggression to get what she/he wanted. I learned quickly. My son said that I take advantage of his Dad. I retorted, "That is my job! I am the only girl in this family. Your Dad needs to spoil her." "Is that why you take advantage of him?" "Who else would?"

I realized therefore that I was on the losing end and that the fun and the exposure outweighed the lack of photos during those occassions. I recycled my ball gowns and my cocktail dresses and agreed to go. Some of the functions are truly memorable like the time we were at the Museum of National History in New York , or the Museum of Women in the Art in DC, or the Portrait Gallery of Art, or the time we attended a function where the Secretary of the Treasury was the honored guest, or the Canadian ambassador; and others.

The honest truth is, I could only remember what I was wearing or how much my shoes hurt. Oh, and I also pay attention to jewelry. Not mine but what others are wearing. And then I would make hints about getting a big-@xx diamond someday. The ploy never worked. And that is another story. During these functions, the food was always special, the wine was always very impressive, the ladies were always beautiful with sparkling jewelry and full make-up, and the men look like penguins. One of the things I enjoy during these functios is the small talk. I love listening to where people have been, to discover most of the time, that I have been there at one time too. I like looking at faces of couples who are married and unmarried as well, reading body languages and sometimes, wow my husband when I would make an observation later that would turn out to be true.


One time, walking from the Plaza Hotel in New York City to a function not too far from it, I asked my husband if I deserved to be there. He told me, "The day I married, you, you belonged everywhere I take you." I have gone to many functions and had some near misses, like the time I drank from the glass of the firm's partner. My husband was grinning at me and whispered, "You just drank from his glass." I was quick to apologize and the partner smiled at me and said, "You too? I do the same thing and both I and the other guy were tipsy enough not to care." He laughed and told me not to worry. Or the time in Manhattan when I wandered off to another function, thinking it was a lesbian's wedding. The mom asked me if I was having fun and I said I was so having fun. I admired the flowers, as though a whole garden was plastered on the wall. The mother said, "So how do you know Juliette?" That sobered me up. I said, "I know Heather, I do not know Juliette but I hope your daughters are happy ever after." Then she had a funny look and then I realized that I was in the wrong wing. I said, "I am so sorry, is this your daughter's wedding reception?" "No this is a joint bat mitzvah." I apologized and told them I was attending my friend's wedding. I bid adieu and she wished me a good evening.


As I continued to enjoy my friend's gala reception, I reflected on how far I have come. I no longer question the validity of my presence in any of the events I go to. I am confident in who I am and what I stand for and the dress, shoes, and jewelry are just part of my evening's costume. The true person resides beneath them. And I happen to actually like that person:-)

The food line was getting long and my mentor, who decades ago would have prevented me from getting in line was in it and I knew, that even he, has learned that it was perfectly acceptable to be humanly hungry both for wine and bread and everything else is, well, a photo op.

Cheers!

When in Rome, do what the Romans do!

We got settled in our seats, happy to take a break from the last few months of having to plan a wedding while rehearsing for a play. Now, husband (HB) and I could relax. My passport was amended to reflect my new status as Mrs. Russell. The plane never left. I dozed off and on and still we were grounded.

We were asked to disembark our plane at Dulles after being held in the cabin for over an hour. A bad thunderstorm came and made us late for our connection flight to NY. It was a zoo when we arrived in JFK. No amount of explanation and appeal could get us to Rome. HB had to be in there for a meeting the next morning with a Big-5 accounting firm. While the airline could put him in the next available flight, and his firm would pay for first class, he turned to me and asked if I minded going back to Washington, DC. I was okay with that. I have been to Rome a few times before. But even that possibility went for naught. No flights were leaving. It was almost midnight and he was still negotiating our flights for the next day. The airline booked us into a hotel in the Big Apple for the night. It was past midnight.

The flagship of fleabag hotels in NYC was waiting for us. It was so bad that we could see cables sticking out of the hallways. “Please do not get used to this.” This was the mantra HB would always remind me. When we got into our room, we both decided to sleep in our clothes for fear of contamination. I could not wait to get this night over with. With much trepidation, I took a hot shower at dawn’s break and we were out of there as fast as we could and buried the memory of the last nightmarish twelve or so hours. We caught “Les Miserables” in Broadway to while our time and proceeded to the airport, got into our Swissair flight and off we were, to a new start.

Rome was happy to see us or was it the other way around? I have forgotten how crazy they drove on the Auto Strata. HB told me to hold his hand and close my eyes. It was awful! There was no seat belt and I was scared I would make Kris into an orphan. I must have made an impression on the cabbie. He stopped somewhere and got out, came to the passenger’s cab and took out the seatbelt, which was tucked under the seat! He motioned me to put it on and off we flew! The five-star hotel we were staying in was situated right across from the American Embassy at the Via de Venetto. It was not lost on me that it was next to a Salvatore Ferragamo shoe store, which I could only afford a pair if I were willing to forfeit a full week’s salary. And I was not used to that :-)

Before being a mom, and before being a wife, I travelled on a shoe-string budget. My travel buddies and I would save enough to buy our airline tickets, get some pensions lined up, survive on cheap eats and cheap wine. One year, we ended up staying in a pensione in Italy that was managed by a Filipina maid. It was owned by a priest who was not in residence. The pensione faced the street called Via de Merulala. Miss Letty was forever asking us to hush up, like the pensione was part of the Vatican! The more she told me to hush, the more I cackled because she was so scandalized by our rowdy group of seven. We teased her; asked if she and the priest were having an affair and does the Pope approve, is he handsome, any plans of taking him to the Philippines? She kept saying “Ay naku, patawarin kayo ng Dios!” (May God forgive you!)

Miss Letty was an enterprising woman. She asked if we were interested in shopping for Italian designer goods. She then proceeded to open a walk -in closet. She had a whole walk –in closet full of leather goods in there. Gucci, Ferragamo, Celine, Cartier, Balenciaga, she had them neatly stacked, wallets, purses, shoes. She also had bottles of Holy Water, “rosaries blessed by the Pope you only need to wave it during the procession from the Vatican on Thursdays.” She had post cards, with stamps already affixed to them, “you only need to leave them with me and I will post them for you.” She also cooked some Filipino food for us, hoping to quiet us down with purses and food.

My friends and I took a bus into town and there were Filipinos in the bus. They said to us, “So, you look like you just arrived. Too bad the Signorinas are not hiring these days. Are you looking for jobs?” We told them that we were touring, we were not looking for a job. So they told us to go to the train station to eat Filipino food. We were not prepared for what we saw. There were hundreds of Filipinos at the train station. They were selling cooked food from the trunks of their cars. There were people playing mahjong on a card table, situated on the sidewalk, complete with miron (kibitzer). We bought some noodles and had small talk with some of them. They were teachers, engineers, accountants, etc., working as domestic helpers in Italy.

A few years before this trip with my friends, I visited my friends in Belgium and stayed for over three months. During my stay, I was introduced to some of the domestic helpers (DH) working in Brussels. They were hard-working and hospitable. I had the opportunity to be their guest in a room not much bigger than my bedroom at home, and there would be a total of five women in that same room. And yet, they gladly shared with me their food, their laughter, their friendship, and their stories.

Here in our beautiful room, HB and I got settled in and went out for stroll along the avenue. That evening, we had dinner in one of the cafes along the avenue, and the next day, he went to his meetings. I took strolls around the blocks, lined with oleander trees and teeming with people in their fashionable outfits. I ventured out to the Spanish Plaza, sitting on the steps, making a mental note of a restaurant named Domino. On the way back, I stared longingly at a pair of Salvatorre Ferragamos next door to the hotel. Ah, so close and yet so far in my horizon.

The accounting group was hosting a formal dinner for twelve people including us that evening. I wore a little black dress and a pair of high heels. I was horrified that I was not going to sit next to HB, was worried I would make a fool of myself. I was mentally taking it all in. There were just too many things to remember. I did not want to embarrass myself and my husband. I know a few reliable concepts: Red wine, meat. white wine, fish or seafood. Bread dish, left. Glasses, right. Dessert spoon, above my plate. Okay, what the heck were those extra darn things for?

The waiters served us in unison and I was mesmerized by the synchronization of it all, akin to how I feel when I am directing a play and the actors are doing their stage “score.” Suddenly, I saw my HB eating with a flatware that I could not determine. OMG, I was angry! I was angry at myself for being such a peasant. How did he get to that part? Where was I? Outside in, right? But he seemed to be using something from the middle of the setting. I glanced at the person beside me on my right, I glanced at the one to my left. My brain was not absorbing anything. So I looked at the waiter and he fixed me a look and raised his hand ever so slightly motioning to stage left, number 3. I smiled at him and proceeded to eat like this is an everyday occurrence for me. What is with these Europeans and their weird implements?

The wine was excellent, the food was delicious, and the small talk was fun. I had a buzz and feeling great. I excused myself to go the ladies' room. I thought it was weird that a man could openly come in and use the stall next to me and that I was just seated there when he passed by me. I have never been to a unisex bathroom was all I could think of. No big deal, when in Rome do what the Romans do!

We took a cab tour of Rome at night, when the lights were like stars shining on the city, abuzz with traffic sounds and smells. It was great to be alive and in the center of such an exciting city. I was realizing if I have not before that I was indeed committed, a married signora. My rings sparkled and winked like little stars on my finger, sapphire and diamonds, midnight strewn with stars. Midnight and high noon - as dramatic as Miss Saigon.

That night I told HB that I really loved the dinner albeit stressful it was for me. I mentioned that I could not understand why a classy place would have a unisex bathroom. I proceeded to tell him the men who would come in while I was in it. He looked at me, and said something calmly. And that is how so I found out that all through my visit, I had been using the men’s room. Fault me not. I thought the doors had a picture of spomeone with a skirt (tails) and a ruffled blouse. And I had a buzz going in, so pardon the signora por favore.

I also made a case for similar situations, and there would be more in the months and years that followed, that we would make eye contact before he lifts any of those confusing tableware to prevent his “fair lady” from committing a faux pas.

A private car took us to the Leonardo da Vinci airport. When we arrived in Washington, a car was supposedly waiting for us to get home. HB told me to wait for it. It would have our name on it. A big black car passed by, with our last name on the window. I waved. It went past me. It came around again, I waved. It did not stop. So when HB asked me if our car came by, I was frustrated. “It did! I waved and the driver saw me but he did not stop. I mean, come on, do I look like a Russell?” Indeed.

Post Script: Years later, HB took me to an Italian Restaurant in Baltimore, Maryland. I used the bathroom. When I came out, a group of men on a table smiled at me and asked, “How was it?” Startled, I was wondering what they meant. One of them pointed to the bathroom door, “Did you like the men’s room?” I quipped, “Ugh, I was wondering why it was awful in there!” They raised their glasses to offer a toast to the lady who survived the men’s room.

I no longer wave for cars. I stand and wait to be asked if I were Mrs...I act like I am entitled to it. I got used to it.

Midnight Special

Summer’s end- September 2009

A month has passed since my son left for college. I took over his room and did minor decorating changes. I installed a floor lamp and drafting table and placed my laptop on it, moved some of my books on top of his dresser, turning the room into my Face Book and “blogging room.” His dad was stunned. “You cannot do this! This is still his room!” he exclaimed. I argued that my things are portable; when our son comes home, I will move them out of the room.

Being in my son’s room makes me feel close to him. I go over the books in his bookcase; a collection of Beatles books, Rolling Stone’s Encyclopedia of Rock & Roll, The Gig Bag Book of Guitar, Six By Seuss, The Football Book, Graffiti World, Pedro and Me, among others. I open his closet and I see the bag of stuffed toys he decided to keep. He is on a crossroad, caught between adulthood and childhood. While I would give anything to hug my son good-night, as we always did before he left, I understood that my job (and his Dad's) has been done raising him from being a baby to being a young adult and now he needs a whole different community to help prepare him for his future.

However, despite my best efforts not to show it, I miss my son greatly. It was clear that he wanted to wean himself from the structure at home and “annoying parental control” we exercised over him before he left. But before we let him go, we made him sign a contract between himself and us, that in exchange for eight (8) semesters of excellent performance in college, his parents would pay for tuition, room and board, clothes, information technology gadgets and access, books, allowance, providing among other things that he does not get in trouble with neither the university nor the government , and providing further that he would communicate with his parents his grade status in school. We also added a provision, for good measure, requiring him to engage in a meaningful and friendly conversation with us over dinner, at least once a week when he is home from college. While he agreed, at first reluctantly, to most of the clauses of the Contract, he asked to strike the paragraph requiring him to engage in a joyful conversation with his parents when he is visiting from college. He asserted that we could not contractually bind him to his emotions. I wonder if he figured out why we put it in there in the first place. We agreed, and we concurred, and we struck it from the contract.

At some point after he was born, I stopped crying. Everyone told me that I needed to be strong. He should not see me cry. I had to relearn how to cry. The therapist told me that it was okay for a child to see a parent cry. It shows a child that crying is normal. She told me that that it is normal to have appropriate reactions to each situation. In other words, I should not always be the calm and in control supermom.

After that meeting, I went home and parked my car behind a grocery store and did a quick reflection of my life and I cried like I have never before. All through those years of making decisions that affected my little son and myself, I had built a wall between me and my emotions. As a consequence, I started feeling a stranger inside myself. I was not real anymore.

I wanted the old me with a strong mind and sensitivity to other people’s feelings. I wanted to cry at sad movies and I wanted to laugh at the absurdities of life. I heeded the advice of my therapist. Shortly thereafter, when I cried in front of my pre-schooler, he handed me a Band-aid saying, “Mommy, put this on your eyes so they would not hurt anymore.” When I looked in his eyes, his innocence and concern for me reduced me to an indescribable feeling of gratitude for being his mother.

Now, he is a young man who is not intimidated by big words and not impressed by material things. He celebrates his being “culturally androgynous,” and takes pride in being a child of a multiracial background. When we let go of him, we did not expect that he would take to being in college like fish taking to water. We were concerned that he would opt to disappear into the crowd, happy just to go with the current flow. On the one hand, that maybe a good thing but on the other hand, we were hoping that he would take advantage of his very unique self; the boy who is gutsy enough to pick purple as his favorite color and does not care what others think of him and is confident about his fashion choices, the one who formed a cult-movie club or used his camera to film crazy plots with his friends. We were impressed by his sense of individuality and we hope that he would take advantage of his self confidence. We should not have been too worried.

Two weeks ago, I was in front of huge bins of pears at the supermarket. I cried. My son loves pears. I could not bring myself to buy Gala apples. The very sight of them bring knots into my throat. When he was young, he would kiss a Gala apple before eating one, exclaiming, “Mom, these apples are so pretty, I just want to kiss each of them!” I heard Queen’s Freddie Mercury singing and I thought of Kris imitating Freddie and regaling me about his life story. Mama mia, mama mia! I thought of the time we went to London where his dad and he went to a West Side show of a group who relived a Queen concert. I think of him often but he is exploring his newly found freedom and his thoughts are not with what he left behind.

I think of all the times he would try to entertain or shock me with a YouTube clip. Our home is quiet since he left. He is not here to make me laugh. I seldom hear from him. Now that he is in college, it is as though he has forgotten about those whom he left behind.

I was running out of tricks in my bag for him to call or text message me. I sent him a check. Nothing. I wrote him an email signing off with my first name vs. ‘Mom.’ Nothing. I sent some fruits. Nothing. Desperate situation merits desperate action. So I sent him a text message.

“KrS, what is ur problem w/ me? Tell me what I hv done 2 u that u won’t respond 2 me. Tell me NOW!!”

He texted back, “Mom, what? Calm down please. Im js terribly busy. I texted you.”

I responded, “Texted my a$$! I hv not recd a text fm u! U r Busy? We r busy 2 but when u need us, we stop evrythng n giv u all our tym! Leche! U behave lk u hv no PARENTS!!!

My Bb was hot. It kept telling me the "field was full" but I was fired up. So I edited, “Wht txt? Txt my a$$! Nothing! We r b c 2 bt when u need us we giv u all our time. LECHE! U act lk u hv no PARENTS!”

Then I scrolled my Blackberry and found his text to me half an hour earlier that I did not see. “Mom, hi, been busy, I got a 97.5 out of 100 on my exam and I now have a radio show. College is great. Will email you later. Much love, K”

I texted him back, full of regret for my schizo text a minute ago. “Wow! Awesome grade! Radio show? Proud of you! Love, Mom”

He must know his Mom is a good egg; cracked but a good egg. I felt like the biggest bleeping fool. I felt like a total jerk acting out. I went home late and an hour later, I received an email from him. I was so happy I wanted his Dad to hear what he had to say so I read aloud:

“Hey Mom sorry, I was really busy….I am really liking the mind bending lectures of Dr.Prof ….I like college, I am enjoying so you should enjoy yourself too. With regard to the TV in my room, fret not, it is not an issue.
“Check this out, I now have a radio show on Saturdays. The administrators like that I am not playing regular college radio stuff. I have friends in MD who listen on the stream. You might not like it and it is also very late so just go to sleep.
Please do not cry. Your crying makes my Dad stressed out and I end up having to deal with it.

I love both of you guys very much but I just do not have the time to talk to you all the time. I will call Sunday. Much love…”

How did he know I was crying? I looked at my husband. I said, “How did he know I was crying when I did not speak to him? I only texted him.” He sheepishly murmured, “Busted.” Apparently, someone emailed this college kid and said, “However busy you are, your mom is missing you a lot, she has been crying. Get on your butt right now and send your mother, a short email to tell her that you are fine.”

All the guilt I felt went down the drain. He deserved to be textYELLED!

Friday night eased into Saturday past midnight. A very special midnight for us. We could not wait to hear him on the air. His Dad checked the university website and thought of how he could archive his son’s show on the PC. What do you mean sleep? This was big. This was a milestone.

He told us while he was in high-school that he wanted to become a radio personality. His Dad advised him to get started in college. Our friend told him that he himself had a radio show while in college. Kris had only been in college for a month! He stepped out of his comfort zone and chased his dream of being on the radio.

We waited patiently for 1:00am DC time, midnight Kansas time. I was online and my husband was online downstairs as well. We listened to the music playing before our son’s show came on. To call it different was an understatement. It was weird. The music sounded like new wave meets heavy metal meets tribal and back- to- the- future, stoner’s music. It was psychedelic. My husband came upstairs and when we looked at each other, we both said, in unison, “WEIRD!” But still we listened, then it was 1:00am. Silence. I stared at the screen.

Then I heard my son’s voice “on the air.” “This is KristofferG here, just woke up from a nap. It is 76 degrees, this is KJHK University of Kansas in Lawrence so we are locked and loaded, so let's fire it up... then he eased into music. ‘We must be in Love…” His dad and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows and exclaimed, “WOW!”

He likes Prince, High Society, Kanye West, Michael Jackson, Sam Cooke, D’Angelo, Beatles, Queen, Led Zep, even Bob Marley among countless others. He had guitar lessons for over seven years and has had exposure to classical music. I remember the day he told us he did not like to see the National Philharmonic anymore. “Mom and Dad, I have had enough exposure to classical music. I do not want to go with you to the symphony anymore. It is depressing. It smells of old people there. The symphony is for grandparents.”

At KJHK meanwhile, he was spinning discs and then suddenly, there was silence. Then we heard a needle scratch vinyl. The boy was born in the age of CDs and DVDs. How would he know how to cue an LP album? Then we could hear the scratchy sound of needle over vinyl. He named the artists he picked, an ecclectic playlist and we were nodding our heads in agreement. That is the boy we know! Temptations to Prince to Beatles to J.Dilla. His choices, so far, are good, but generally not for anyone over forty. They are not, by any stretch "easy listening" music. However, I am used to them. I have had previous exposure to them. Many afternoons after he is done studying, he would call me downstairs. “Mom, I want you to listen to this artist.” “Kris! OMG, I am not sure about this. Okay, I think I like it. I mean it is not oppressive. ” Or at times, “What is this? No, thank you!” “Kris, enough, I don’t like it. It is boring.” I would raise my hands up, roll my eyes and walk away while he would laugh at my reaction.

When he was younger, he heard me playing the melody of “In My Life” on the piano. He said he could not believe I knew the song. He would smile when I react to a Beatles song or Michael Jackson’s songs. I loved “I Will” as I also loved “Got To be There.” So I texted him, “K! I am listening to your program. I like the songs you are playing. U r doing great. Mr. DJ, pls play In my Life by d Beatles?

He responded, “I will play a different Beatles song.” and I thought, he really is his own person now. He just told me, didn’t he? What would he play, Lucy in the Skies with Diamonds, perhaps?

Feeling stymied by his response, I texted, “That is fine. Goodnight n pls b careful getting bk to your dorm. Love. Peace. Mom” He smiles when I use his words “peace, hating, chill, cool, shamona” with him. I try to communicate in his ‘language’ but I often times get lost in translation.

Ecactly three minutes later, the Beatles came on. As I stared and listened in disbelief, the song came on:

“Who knows how long I’ve loved you, you know I love you still, Will I wait a lonely lifetime, If you want me to, I will.

Love your forever and forever , love you with all my heart, Love you whenever we’re together, love you when we’re apart…”

"… For the things you do, endear you to me, oh you know I will. I will."

My tears started on the first note. I longed to see the face of the boy I love of “all the boys in the whole wide world.” Hearing him over the stream brought him physically close to me. I was hanging on to the sound of my son’s voice. I wanted to embrace him but it was just his voice over the stream, “on the air.”

My son is the pulse of my heart and the life behind my soul. I do declare that loving him is the most selfless kind of love I feel. The unconditional love of parents makes children feel safe in taking that love for granted. They know that it will always be there no matter what. But at this particular moment, when my son gifted me with a song that he knew has always moved me, I felt "much loved," by him, as he always tells me when he wants to assure us of his love. (Or get out of a difficult situation with his parents.)

I texted him, “Anak, u r playing my song. U r making me cry. Goodnight my dear son! U make me so proud. “

His response was classic ‘Kris.’ He played “In My Life”, as his penultimate spin, but not by the Beatles. The vocalist sounded like he had just a lobotomy, or too much scotch. Kris knew I would be laughing my head off. And I was. I was sleepy but I had to TextAsk, "Who is this guy butchering my favorite song?"

No response. What did I expect? I went to sleep at the sound of his voice, signing off and handing over the helm to the next DJ.

This morning, there was a text message from him: “Haha, that was Johnny Cash!”