Late 70s- Early 80s
It was my first foray to the theater in the "Newnited States" and I was very excited. My friend Miles had tickets for us to see "Evita" together at the National Theater in Washington, DC. I asked, "Shall I drive to the theater?" "You are not driving your Pinto to this event, my dear!" Did he just insult my yellow Pinto for which I paid a princely sum of $500? He told me that there would be a chauffered car to pick me up. "Sorry?" "A car will pick you up. You will not regret it. I meant leaving your Pinto at home, you won't regret it. "
It was a big black car, a limousine! It was definitely more subdued than a pimp's car. You know, like a big bad car that Barretta would chase after. The chauffer got out, tipped his hat and slightly bowed at me when I approached. He held the door for me. I hoped I was able to hide my excitement well.
This was the first time I was in a sea of leather car seats. It smelled really rich. There was a mini bar too. The only thing missing was a big bad Italian dude with rings on every finger, wearing a satiny jacket and a hat. And do not forget the cigar. That would really make the scene more interesting. I, a damsel in distress kidnapped by some mafiosi type with all kinds of cubic zirconia rings and a satin jacket. But alas, I was the only passenger, like Cinderella being taken to the ball, only the prince had some gender assignment issues. You read right. Read on...
I was wearing an emerald color dress, bought at a thirty per cent discount from Garfinckel's. I was also wearing a fur stole, borrowed from my friend Martha, who had a closet full of furs, stilleto shoes, and clutch purses. The thing is, at that moment I really wished I splurged on a $100 Amway faux fur. I mean, a faux fur was what I would have really needed to match my moment's circumstances. Regardless, I had a beautiful dress, it was a beautiful night, and I only wished I had someone to wave to, someone to witness my five minute of fame; someone to exclaim to me later, "Hey, was that you in the limo? Wow, that's super!"
Inside the car, I bounced up and down the buttery seats, disbelieving my good fortune. I kept looking around my neighborhood, hoping that someone saw me get into this bad car and I suddenly felt embarrassed of my humble, faded, yellow Pinto in the driveway. The chauffer looked from the rearview mirror. I could tell he was smiling at me. I smiled back, gave him a two thumbs up, which I immediately followed with a V sign for peace. Also, victory.
The limousine stopped right in front of the theater door. People were milling about and as my chauffer got out and ceremoniously opened the door, heads turned in my direction, perhaps expecting someone famous, notorious, or important to get out of the car. They instead got me with my slip showing off the hem of my dress. I pulled my slip while I grinned and thanked the chauffer, who pointed me to my friend Miles. He on the other hand, had his hand, palm facing me just so, as if signaling me to "freeze." I did. Then I remembered the protocol:
"You are not to wave animatedly to call my attention. I will know when you arrive. I will nod at you and we will walk towards each other. We will then kiss each other lightly on the cheek and proceed inside the theater. During intermission, we will have wine in the lobby. We will not talk loudly while we are having wine but we can discuss what we have seen so far. After the play, the same car will take you home. We will have lunch the next day."
The next day, I received a dozen beautiful roses at work from him. As previously agreed, we had lunch at the Hyatt. They all knew him well over there. He handed me three-ounce bottle of Chanel No. 19. At lunch, he was animated and told me that I passed the test and would I mind being his date from now on to all the functions he had to go to? That's the way, ahuh, ahuh, I like it, ahuh, ahuh, that's the way.
He told me I did very well; I had the proper demeanor, I knew how to critique a play, I sipped my wine, I had good table manners. He is gay, he wanted a decoy. I was perfect. I was a stage actress. I can act the part and I am a living dress and tech rehearsals with witty dialogues. In return, I would continue to see Broadway plays, concerts, attend dinners at Four Seasons, attend parties with him in Georgetown or elsewhere in Washington. To make it sweet, I will get flowers each time, a copy of the latest Vogue magazine European edition, and a bottle of perfume that I liked.
For years after that, I was Ms. Photogenic and Ms. Personality in his life. Photos showed me in beautiful clothes I did not own; I borrowed them from friends. There were times where I had to stuff the bodice with Kleenex to help me attain a better silhouette. One flew out of my chest at a party while I was dancing "Gloria!"
Then one day, he outed himself. No longer did he need a pretend girlfriend. The world suddenly did not care if he brought a man with him to his functions and parties. We celebrated with a party he hosted for his and his friends at thier newly furnished home in Georgetown. We partied hard. I remember one of my friends asking if I was okay. I obviously passed out momentarily in the bathroom. Finally, Miles' rules did not apply anymore. I was free!
I was a free woman with a rather impressive collection of perfume.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Groovy 70's-
I was a curiosity. I was not a celebrity but people were curious about me. "Do you have computers in the Philippines?" "Where did you learn to speak English?" "How many sisters and brothers do you have?" "Is there liquid paper in the Philippines?" "Yes, in school beginning in second grade, five, three, yes, respectively."
Yes, we are just like regular folks in those 7,000 islands. We have a love and hate relationship with the USA. We "kodak" each other, we buy Close-UP colgate, we love Levi's jeans, Ford Mustangs, and we speak with that distinct Filipino accent. We know not to say "same difference," "BFD!", or "NFW!", or "I did not do nothing no way." When you ask us, "Did you not like it?" and we answer "Yes," it does not mean we liked it. It only means we are agreeing with your statement. "Yes, (positively) I did not like it." So I had to learn American speak.
I learned to say "How ya doin?" instead of "How do you do?" I learned to say "I am doing well thank you, and you?" and moved on even before I heard a complete response. I understood that no one had the time to listen to how I was doing or that I was not expected to care "how they doin" either. "Have a great day!" "You too!" These exchanges were not necessarily earnest. They were expressions no more thoughtful than saying "How ya doin?" to that homeless schizo named Mary, who yelled on top of her voice every morning, "Washington was not a f***** US citizen!
I painstakingly learned to agree with negative statements by repeating the negatives I was agreeing to. "Did you not see what they brought?" "I did not see what they brought." "That was awfully stated." "That was awfully stated." I became an echo, a reinforcer of negative statements.
I started to address people I was talking to with "y'all or you guys" And I learned to pronounce my long and short vowels. It was not Keem. It was Kim. Say ih. Say Kihm. It was camera like "kemra" instead of "kuhmera," etcetera. Someone said that the Filipinos are the only people who cannot pronounce the name of their country correctly. Philippines. Pilipins. Philifins. Filipins. What...ever! Same difference. Give me a break.
The only non-negotiable item for me was that I would refuse, and never ever put my preposition at the end of my sentence, as in "Where are you at?" It is because I am usually following the preposition.
My "colonial mentality speak" aka "colegiala Taglish speak" - as in all words emphasized with a sing-song melody that only those of my generation in Manila who are familiar with it would understand, "I was making paliwanag to Yeyeng about our plan to join her at the beach really talagah. Pero yun na nga, kase nagkarohn ng problem sa kot-tse so obvious ba, we did not make tuloy the trip no? And she was parang galet?!" died, kaput, nada mas.
My sisters were shocked at this creature before them. They have lived in the USA for many decades at that time. They told, albeit the love they could muster for their baby sister, that she was obnoxious. They said she spoke in a strange language that was weird. They accommodated the leather boots she insisted to wear at 90 degree weather. They had no problem with the jeans and skimpy tops. But they were not too indulgent when she spoke in that funny jargon. I did not understand the problem. I was just being my special self. A friend told me bluntly-"Speak English or speak Tagalog. But not both in one sentence. You are annoying!" So there.
2000's-
"parang" -- not an English word. Parang means "like" or "meadow." It is pretentious to pronounce it "pahrung." Filipinos use of parang is the equivalent of the x-gen speak "as in "Like I was going to the mall with Vicki and , she was like totally late and I was like no, you did not just stood me up...."
"kasi" means "because" but if the speaker wants an American inflection, write it plainly as "kasi" because Americans will pronounce it with a short "i". By insisting on writing it "kase," only defies the pretentiousness given to it because Americans would then pronounce it "kaseeh." Kasi as in Tim, brim, grim, live, yup, short " i."
The insurgent may say: "Pero" is a Spanish word for "but," and should never be pronounced pro, kase there is no word naman in Tagalog na "pro" no?" "Kase, puhrung you're pretending naman to be born sa Cah-lee-for--niyah pro jan ka naman born at chukuh raised sa Maneela!" Uuuuuuuugh!
I may say to them: Oh, I see history repeated. I see the colegiala attitude; trying to be worldly, way ahead of the pack, elitist, and snooty. They put an American inflection on three simple words. In the Pinoy parlance, it is called the "trying hard" mentality. Obnoxious!
So there.
I was a curiosity. I was not a celebrity but people were curious about me. "Do you have computers in the Philippines?" "Where did you learn to speak English?" "How many sisters and brothers do you have?" "Is there liquid paper in the Philippines?" "Yes, in school beginning in second grade, five, three, yes, respectively."
Yes, we are just like regular folks in those 7,000 islands. We have a love and hate relationship with the USA. We "kodak" each other, we buy Close-UP colgate, we love Levi's jeans, Ford Mustangs, and we speak with that distinct Filipino accent. We know not to say "same difference," "BFD!", or "NFW!", or "I did not do nothing no way." When you ask us, "Did you not like it?" and we answer "Yes," it does not mean we liked it. It only means we are agreeing with your statement. "Yes, (positively) I did not like it." So I had to learn American speak.
I learned to say "How ya doin?" instead of "How do you do?" I learned to say "I am doing well thank you, and you?" and moved on even before I heard a complete response. I understood that no one had the time to listen to how I was doing or that I was not expected to care "how they doin" either. "Have a great day!" "You too!" These exchanges were not necessarily earnest. They were expressions no more thoughtful than saying "How ya doin?" to that homeless schizo named Mary, who yelled on top of her voice every morning, "Washington was not a f***** US citizen!
I painstakingly learned to agree with negative statements by repeating the negatives I was agreeing to. "Did you not see what they brought?" "I did not see what they brought." "That was awfully stated." "That was awfully stated." I became an echo, a reinforcer of negative statements.
I started to address people I was talking to with "y'all or you guys" And I learned to pronounce my long and short vowels. It was not Keem. It was Kim. Say ih. Say Kihm. It was camera like "kemra" instead of "kuhmera," etcetera. Someone said that the Filipinos are the only people who cannot pronounce the name of their country correctly. Philippines. Pilipins. Philifins. Filipins. What...ever! Same difference. Give me a break.
The only non-negotiable item for me was that I would refuse, and never ever put my preposition at the end of my sentence, as in "Where are you at?" It is because I am usually following the preposition.
My "colonial mentality speak" aka "colegiala Taglish speak" - as in all words emphasized with a sing-song melody that only those of my generation in Manila who are familiar with it would understand, "I was making paliwanag to Yeyeng about our plan to join her at the beach really talagah. Pero yun na nga, kase nagkarohn ng problem sa kot-tse so obvious ba, we did not make tuloy the trip no? And she was parang galet?!" died, kaput, nada mas.
My sisters were shocked at this creature before them. They have lived in the USA for many decades at that time. They told, albeit the love they could muster for their baby sister, that she was obnoxious. They said she spoke in a strange language that was weird. They accommodated the leather boots she insisted to wear at 90 degree weather. They had no problem with the jeans and skimpy tops. But they were not too indulgent when she spoke in that funny jargon. I did not understand the problem. I was just being my special self. A friend told me bluntly-"Speak English or speak Tagalog. But not both in one sentence. You are annoying!" So there.
2000's-
So, is there liquid paper in the Philippines? Not anymore. That is so 70's! They have "backspace" and "delete" keys these days. They have telephones that sing, ring, take photos, tell them directions, among other things. The Filipinos can eat, drive, sleep, swim, fight, do a sommersault and text at the same time: "d2 na me. wr r u?"
According to an article in the Wall Street Journal, the Filipinos pioneered texting. The insurgents and the soldiers fought, cursing each other through text messages. I can imagine their messages:
Soldier: "Gd am. Srounded na u. srnder na kau. "
Insurgent: "Gd am. We fght 2 dth u.
Soldier: Unjan na kme. Suko na kau."
Insurgent: "C ge subok u. Ha3:-) Kaung ma3tay"
Soldier: "Tado! tk ker u kc ded na u! ulul kau"
Insurgent: "Kulit u. ulul, ptina u!"
Soldier: "Ggo ulol trntado!!"
------
Me to both: LMAO!
-------------
But I do have a question to both Army and Insurgent before they kill each other with their cell phones:
Hey, y'all, tell me something. Is there still a rolling "r" in the Philippines?
The soldier may say: The rolling "r" is an endengared consonant in Manila. It is replaced with a curious twang- they write in TEXT talk, and they talk like they were stranded in a bad storm between Luzon and California and forced to speak in a new alphabet. There are three words in the modern Filipino girls' 20-30 something talk that are curious--"parang," "kasi," and "pero."
Hey, check it out!-- (another Americanese I learned:)"parang" -- not an English word. Parang means "like" or "meadow." It is pretentious to pronounce it "pahrung." Filipinos use of parang is the equivalent of the x-gen speak "as in "Like I was going to the mall with Vicki and , she was like totally late and I was like no, you did not just stood me up...."
"kasi" means "because" but if the speaker wants an American inflection, write it plainly as "kasi" because Americans will pronounce it with a short "i". By insisting on writing it "kase," only defies the pretentiousness given to it because Americans would then pronounce it "kaseeh." Kasi as in Tim, brim, grim, live, yup, short " i."
The insurgent may say: "Pero" is a Spanish word for "but," and should never be pronounced pro, kase there is no word naman in Tagalog na "pro" no?" "Kase, puhrung you're pretending naman to be born sa Cah-lee-for--niyah pro jan ka naman born at chukuh raised sa Maneela!" Uuuuuuuugh!
I may say to them: Oh, I see history repeated. I see the colegiala attitude; trying to be worldly, way ahead of the pack, elitist, and snooty. They put an American inflection on three simple words. In the Pinoy parlance, it is called the "trying hard" mentality. Obnoxious!
So there.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
THAT.....is the White House?
October 1975--
My kind and jovial boss, Mr. Williams, would always take his personal calls on a high note, saying/yelling "Hi how you doin, Tiger?!" I called him Mr. Willams in two syllables with my tounge rolling the "ll" as in "paella" of the high-Spanish pronounciation that the Filipinos have learned in Spanish 11 and 12. I am digressing... This crisp morning, Mr. Willams has tasked me to take an envelope to an address at K Street. "Take a cab and take this to..."
I hailed a taxi and told the driver how to take me to K street. Annoyed, the cabbie cut me off, "Young lady, you sit tight, let me do the driving! I know where to take you." The cabbie was gruff. I shut up. Until I saw a fenced white house. "Sir, what is that?" "What?" "That over there, with many people outside! "That is the White House!" "That is the White House?" "That- is- the- White House."
Every morning on my bus ride, I see a majestic white building, which I thought was the White House. I would think the US president would live in a place as majestic and palatial. It was dissappointing to learn that he and his family lived in a more modest abode as that one on Pennsylvania Avenue! Imelda Marcos would have turned that white house into her sun room.
"Okay young lady, this is your building," the cabbie said in his gruff voice.
"Thank you, sir. Have a nice day. God bless you. God bless your family. Have a nice time, have a nice day, have a nice life, and have a nice one..." All of the above.
This is America, strangers exchange niceties like they meant it--they smile with their gargantuan chiclet teeth. They have flouride in their water. In the meantime, I avoided eye contact; I looked at something else when people spoke to me; it was rude to look at your superior's eyes. I was taught to respect the line between me and those who I thought were better than I. After all, I was just a humble kid on leave from college, experiencing what the technicolor USA looked like. I tell you, it was drab; the trees were all bare, the air was cold, it was always rainy, and the Americans were always high pitched when they spoke. Always, on the up-note. Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti-do! Take it on a higher octave, take the last "do", and that would be the note they are on when they spoke, lest they are misunderstood.
The Americans were always smiling, always friendly people. Their newscasters are always happy, chirpy, with coiffed hair and flawless alabaster skin. "This is America on Live News at six, bringing you the latest news. The serial killer struck again. A 14th victim was identified, found in the ravine by Interstate South 95, grim, grim, grim facts....A small plane in such and such state, carrying five people crashed and killed all passengers.The authorities are investigating the cause of this deadly crash." And then, smiling at the camera she ends, "and this is America Live News, have a great evening everyone!" And she smiled widely with those chiclets...
Two years later, I started working at the "White House." The majestic US Capitol, visited by countless visitors, where I spend many days going around its hallowed halls, is one of my sources of joy. It is not unusual for me to sometimes get lost in this mammoth building and I would turn on my smile and approach a US Capitol Police to get directions. They would always be kind to this Filipino kid and would invariably converse with me, "Where are you from? I was in the service, I was stationed in Subic. Hey, you know balut, you know balut? Do you know Miguel Alejo? Enjoy your visit!"
I am from the Philippines, I grew up in Manila, there are 7000 islands. I think.
I have not been to Subic in the 70's.
I know balut, I do not eat that gross part either.
I do not know Miguel Alejo or any of his family and friends.
I am enjoying my visit---
Have a nice day, have a nice one, take it easy, take care....
All of above, on a higher octave.
My kind and jovial boss, Mr. Williams, would always take his personal calls on a high note, saying/yelling "Hi how you doin, Tiger?!" I called him Mr. Willams in two syllables with my tounge rolling the "ll" as in "paella" of the high-Spanish pronounciation that the Filipinos have learned in Spanish 11 and 12. I am digressing... This crisp morning, Mr. Willams has tasked me to take an envelope to an address at K Street. "Take a cab and take this to..."
I hailed a taxi and told the driver how to take me to K street. Annoyed, the cabbie cut me off, "Young lady, you sit tight, let me do the driving! I know where to take you." The cabbie was gruff. I shut up. Until I saw a fenced white house. "Sir, what is that?" "What?" "That over there, with many people outside! "That is the White House!" "That is the White House?" "That- is- the- White House."
Every morning on my bus ride, I see a majestic white building, which I thought was the White House. I would think the US president would live in a place as majestic and palatial. It was dissappointing to learn that he and his family lived in a more modest abode as that one on Pennsylvania Avenue! Imelda Marcos would have turned that white house into her sun room.
"Okay young lady, this is your building," the cabbie said in his gruff voice.
"Thank you, sir. Have a nice day. God bless you. God bless your family. Have a nice time, have a nice day, have a nice life, and have a nice one..." All of the above.
This is America, strangers exchange niceties like they meant it--they smile with their gargantuan chiclet teeth. They have flouride in their water. In the meantime, I avoided eye contact; I looked at something else when people spoke to me; it was rude to look at your superior's eyes. I was taught to respect the line between me and those who I thought were better than I. After all, I was just a humble kid on leave from college, experiencing what the technicolor USA looked like. I tell you, it was drab; the trees were all bare, the air was cold, it was always rainy, and the Americans were always high pitched when they spoke. Always, on the up-note. Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti-do! Take it on a higher octave, take the last "do", and that would be the note they are on when they spoke, lest they are misunderstood.
The Americans were always smiling, always friendly people. Their newscasters are always happy, chirpy, with coiffed hair and flawless alabaster skin. "This is America on Live News at six, bringing you the latest news. The serial killer struck again. A 14th victim was identified, found in the ravine by Interstate South 95, grim, grim, grim facts....A small plane in such and such state, carrying five people crashed and killed all passengers.The authorities are investigating the cause of this deadly crash." And then, smiling at the camera she ends, "and this is America Live News, have a great evening everyone!" And she smiled widely with those chiclets...
Two years later, I started working at the "White House." The majestic US Capitol, visited by countless visitors, where I spend many days going around its hallowed halls, is one of my sources of joy. It is not unusual for me to sometimes get lost in this mammoth building and I would turn on my smile and approach a US Capitol Police to get directions. They would always be kind to this Filipino kid and would invariably converse with me, "Where are you from? I was in the service, I was stationed in Subic. Hey, you know balut, you know balut? Do you know Miguel Alejo? Enjoy your visit!"
I am from the Philippines, I grew up in Manila, there are 7000 islands. I think.
I have not been to Subic in the 70's.
I know balut, I do not eat that gross part either.
I do not know Miguel Alejo or any of his family and friends.
I am enjoying my visit---
Have a nice day, have a nice one, take it easy, take care....
All of above, on a higher octave.
Friday, May 22, 2009
What would you like in it?
Six months after arriving in the Newnited States of Amreeka:
Brain speaking: "I got it. Got it. Got it....I wanna hamburger and fried fries. No, a hamburger with French or fried french --shoot--again, hamburger and soft drink, no, soda, a hamburger and french fries and a small soda. Please. Do not forget the 'please' "
"Next person in line!"
"Uh, ya, a hamburger and french fries, a medium soda please."
"What would you like in it?" "Miss, what would you like in it? I do not have the whole day!"
Okay, meat, 'ya.
Looking at me like I just disrespected her.
"Mayo, lettuce, tomato, pickle...what else would you like in it?"
Looking at her like I just got disrespected.
“Yes, give me a hamburger with mayo, tomato, no pickle.” “Please.”
"Hambuger with mayo, lettuce, tomato. Want cheese?"
“Yes.”
"What kind?"
Hmmm.....a slice!?
"Say what, Okay One cheeseburger, right? Mayo, lettuce, tomato, hold the pickle!"
Brain speeding: "Who is holding the pickle. Throw it away! Nevermind."
That sucked! Wait, I would not have said "sucked" then. I did not know that expression. That word is a verb, not an adjective. I am sure I would have thought, "That was awful, terribly humiliating!" How could she not know that when one wanted a hamburger, one expects meat in it and certainly, there should be some kind of grease---and what's with the cheese? I never had hamburger with cheese before. So why was I made to feel like an idiot who was so provincial that I did not know what a hamburger deal was? Bread. Meat. Mayonnaise. Kectchup. Sweet pickles. Ya?! StuFid!
The truth is, a hamburger by any other name, is nothing but a giant flattened meat ball, without any personality or character. Or one can bake two pounds of hamburger in a meatloaf pan and come out with a rectangular hamburger. Serve with rice. Do not forget the ketchup. StuFid!
I was told that flipping burger is a rite of passage for kids out of high school in the U.S., an honest but greasy way to make money during summer. And yet, in this stressful situation I was in, it represented most everything that was new and foreign and intimidating to me. I was glad I never had to flip any burger or cut any onions and call out, "May I help the next oppressed, hungry, angry, customer please?"
Instead, I typed letters, I typed, and typed, and typed on an IBM Selectric. I typed until my fingers were achingly numb from hitting those keys. I typed letters asking for deadbeats to pay their credit card bills. I typed the same letter over and over again. The letter was a template. But I had to type at least fifty letters a day. The only thing that changed were the names and the addresses. But it said the same thing, "Dear Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. or Miss Deadbeat, We have not received your payments on your credit card. What were you thinking? Your time is up. Pay up, loser!" That was what that letter was all about. I was a bearer of bad news. A repo man, no, a repo gal. A debt collector in a fancy outfit in a cramped 7th floor office of a very elitist department store. I worked with overweight but kind men and shrill overweight women who wore girdles and support hose. I worked with fashionable nice young women who did not go to college, I worked with classy and elegantly dressed married middle aged women with wrinkles that resembled cobwebs on their faces. And they worked with a young giggly woman who was in awe of the men and women who worked with her.
In the meantime, the burger lady and that young woman....
I heard: "For where to go?"
Me, I am going nowhere. Nowhere.
"Miss, FOR HERE, or to go?
(Where was I supposed to go? )
“Here, I am going to eat inside. Here.”
(She avoids eye contact.
Calls out, I was sure,) I imagined:
"Next idiot in line!"
Brain speaking: "I got it. Got it. Got it....I wanna hamburger and fried fries. No, a hamburger with French or fried french --shoot--again, hamburger and soft drink, no, soda, a hamburger and french fries and a small soda. Please. Do not forget the 'please' "
"Next person in line!"
"Uh, ya, a hamburger and french fries, a medium soda please."
"What would you like in it?" "Miss, what would you like in it? I do not have the whole day!"
Okay, meat, 'ya.
Looking at me like I just disrespected her.
"Mayo, lettuce, tomato, pickle...what else would you like in it?"
Looking at her like I just got disrespected.
“Yes, give me a hamburger with mayo, tomato, no pickle.” “Please.”
"Hambuger with mayo, lettuce, tomato. Want cheese?"
“Yes.”
"What kind?"
Hmmm.....a slice!?
"Say what, Okay One cheeseburger, right? Mayo, lettuce, tomato, hold the pickle!"
Brain speeding: "Who is holding the pickle. Throw it away! Nevermind."
That sucked! Wait, I would not have said "sucked" then. I did not know that expression. That word is a verb, not an adjective. I am sure I would have thought, "That was awful, terribly humiliating!" How could she not know that when one wanted a hamburger, one expects meat in it and certainly, there should be some kind of grease---and what's with the cheese? I never had hamburger with cheese before. So why was I made to feel like an idiot who was so provincial that I did not know what a hamburger deal was? Bread. Meat. Mayonnaise. Kectchup. Sweet pickles. Ya?! StuFid!
The truth is, a hamburger by any other name, is nothing but a giant flattened meat ball, without any personality or character. Or one can bake two pounds of hamburger in a meatloaf pan and come out with a rectangular hamburger. Serve with rice. Do not forget the ketchup. StuFid!
I was told that flipping burger is a rite of passage for kids out of high school in the U.S., an honest but greasy way to make money during summer. And yet, in this stressful situation I was in, it represented most everything that was new and foreign and intimidating to me. I was glad I never had to flip any burger or cut any onions and call out, "May I help the next oppressed, hungry, angry, customer please?"
Instead, I typed letters, I typed, and typed, and typed on an IBM Selectric. I typed until my fingers were achingly numb from hitting those keys. I typed letters asking for deadbeats to pay their credit card bills. I typed the same letter over and over again. The letter was a template. But I had to type at least fifty letters a day. The only thing that changed were the names and the addresses. But it said the same thing, "Dear Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. or Miss Deadbeat, We have not received your payments on your credit card. What were you thinking? Your time is up. Pay up, loser!" That was what that letter was all about. I was a bearer of bad news. A repo man, no, a repo gal. A debt collector in a fancy outfit in a cramped 7th floor office of a very elitist department store. I worked with overweight but kind men and shrill overweight women who wore girdles and support hose. I worked with fashionable nice young women who did not go to college, I worked with classy and elegantly dressed married middle aged women with wrinkles that resembled cobwebs on their faces. And they worked with a young giggly woman who was in awe of the men and women who worked with her.
In the meantime, the burger lady and that young woman....
I heard: "For where to go?"
Me, I am going nowhere. Nowhere.
"Miss, FOR HERE, or to go?
(Where was I supposed to go? )
“Here, I am going to eat inside. Here.”
(She avoids eye contact.
Calls out, I was sure,) I imagined:
"Next idiot in line!"
Take me with you to America, Big Sister....
It was the morning after my arrival. My then "significant other" (now my husband) told me to go down to the lobby, explore the place while he went to work. I was in HongKong, and he stays at the Parkview, one of the most upscale addressess in the colony. I sat down in the lobby and two Filipino nannies eyed me with curiosity. I smiled. They smiled. "Big sister, did you just arrive?" "Yes." "Who is your employer? British or Chinese" "An American." "What floor?" "Seventh." Silence, more glances at my direction. "Where were you recruited, in Australia?" "No, U.S."
"Oh, how much will he pay you?" "I do not know. We have not discussed yet." "Oh...Americans do not pay well, big sister!" "Ah-huh, we like bargains." "Huh?" "Okay, so I am not a nanny. I am with my husband," I said this to "save their face," It would have been too embarrassing for them to know that I was with my boyrfriend. They both said, "OH, BIG SISTER, TAKE US TO AMERICA!"
Later on during that trip, I decided to pick up my SO's clothes at the laundromat.
"Hello, I am here to gpick up some shirts."
"You Indonesian?" the storekeeper asked.
"I am Filipino" I happily chirped.
"No you are not. You are Malaysian."
"I am Flipino" I replied.
"You not Filipino. You Indonesian!"
"Excuse me, but I am Filipino."
"But you are tall."
"And Filipino"
"You speak English well.:
"And Filipino"
"Are you sure you are not Indonesian?"
"I am sure I am Filipino. I am Filipino-American. Not Filipino-Indonesian or Malaysian or anything. Hmmmm... I am not an amah. Okay?"
He smiled, he got excited, "Yes, you are not amah. I told you, you are Indonesian."
Ay naku! Caray! and as my friend Judy would say, "Oy vey!!"
"Oh, how much will he pay you?" "I do not know. We have not discussed yet." "Oh...Americans do not pay well, big sister!" "Ah-huh, we like bargains." "Huh?" "Okay, so I am not a nanny. I am with my husband," I said this to "save their face," It would have been too embarrassing for them to know that I was with my boyrfriend. They both said, "OH, BIG SISTER, TAKE US TO AMERICA!"
Later on during that trip, I decided to pick up my SO's clothes at the laundromat.
"Hello, I am here to gpick up some shirts."
"You Indonesian?" the storekeeper asked.
"I am Filipino" I happily chirped.
"No you are not. You are Malaysian."
"I am Flipino" I replied.
"You not Filipino. You Indonesian!"
"Excuse me, but I am Filipino."
"But you are tall."
"And Filipino"
"You speak English well.:
"And Filipino"
"Are you sure you are not Indonesian?"
"I am sure I am Filipino. I am Filipino-American. Not Filipino-Indonesian or Malaysian or anything. Hmmmm... I am not an amah. Okay?"
He smiled, he got excited, "Yes, you are not amah. I told you, you are Indonesian."
Ay naku! Caray! and as my friend Judy would say, "Oy vey!!"
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Making a difference--
For my first posting, and before I get my writing juices going in all direction, I pay homage to a young woman, Marie, who passed away suddenly in March 2009. I met her through a most ordinary way; she was my temporary caretaker, the "yaya" during an elective surgical procedure I underwent two years ago in Manila. Through her, I was given an opportunity to learn how a farmer raises his family in one of the provinces in Luzon, Philippines. Through text messages and letters, I learned of her struggles to raise a little baby, sell vegetables in the town market, save money to sell halo-halo under the mango trees in her yard. In 2008, she took in an abandoned niece and through her, I became sort of a fairy godmother, becoming the recipient of a child's letter, telling me how she got good grades in school.
Marie passed away due to hypertension during pregnancy. It took her suddenly. She left a toddler, a niece, grieving husband, family, and friends. It pained me to think of her demise especially since her death would affect the existence her niece and her son.
I was in for a pleasant surprise--the community lovingly came together. Marie's brother and his wife took in her niece Maryjoy. Marie's husband, while still grieving and mourning is valiantly raising their son. I on the other hand continue to write a modest check, to make sure that both children are fed and clothed. I continue to worry about the future of these two kids, neither of whom I have met. All I have is a photo and a thank you letter from an eleven year old who just learned how to write and was in first grade as a ten-year old.
When friends tell me that they are conflicted as to whether they have made a difference, I believe that they have. Giving our time, if not our money, to listen to someone's heartache or share someone's good news or even the bad, that is making a difference. When you care for a pet, you have made a difference; when you can genuinely feel happy for your friends' success and emphatize sincerely in their times of sorrow or confusion, you have made a difference. When you share your fortune with others, that is making a difference. Making a difference is about giving of our time, our attention, our talents, a part of us, and it is about having a generosity of spirit for others to bask in their light.
---appreciation---
---This blog site would not have been possible without my friend Shan's help, who painstakingly created the blog and patiently led me to it, she named it aptly to pay homage to a place that is part of her heritage, a land she loved and all that is in it and for this I thank her. She is a sampaguita in my garden of friends and forevermore, maraming salamat.
---Feel free to partake in the goodies of life.
Marie passed away due to hypertension during pregnancy. It took her suddenly. She left a toddler, a niece, grieving husband, family, and friends. It pained me to think of her demise especially since her death would affect the existence her niece and her son.
I was in for a pleasant surprise--the community lovingly came together. Marie's brother and his wife took in her niece Maryjoy. Marie's husband, while still grieving and mourning is valiantly raising their son. I on the other hand continue to write a modest check, to make sure that both children are fed and clothed. I continue to worry about the future of these two kids, neither of whom I have met. All I have is a photo and a thank you letter from an eleven year old who just learned how to write and was in first grade as a ten-year old.
When friends tell me that they are conflicted as to whether they have made a difference, I believe that they have. Giving our time, if not our money, to listen to someone's heartache or share someone's good news or even the bad, that is making a difference. When you care for a pet, you have made a difference; when you can genuinely feel happy for your friends' success and emphatize sincerely in their times of sorrow or confusion, you have made a difference. When you share your fortune with others, that is making a difference. Making a difference is about giving of our time, our attention, our talents, a part of us, and it is about having a generosity of spirit for others to bask in their light.
---appreciation---
---This blog site would not have been possible without my friend Shan's help, who painstakingly created the blog and patiently led me to it, she named it aptly to pay homage to a place that is part of her heritage, a land she loved and all that is in it and for this I thank her. She is a sampaguita in my garden of friends and forevermore, maraming salamat.
---Feel free to partake in the goodies of life.
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