Audition for the part of Mrs….Part 5 of many
And so it was that in the summer of 1997 that BF, myself, little son, and nanny moved in together.
There was his ugly sofa. But then I was told that my sofa was equally if not more hideous. So, the hideous sofa went to the basement and the ugly sofa graced the living room. There were heated discussions about where to hang art work and there were “compromise walls” that went empty for over a year. We could not agree as to what should hang on them and we voiced our strong opinions against each other’s choice. We decided that the only thing that was acceptable to us both was to leave the space empty.
A few weeks later, BF asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I wanted a Pyrex meatloaf pan. Seriously. On my birthday morning, he handed me what felt like a metal meatloaf pan, albeit wrapped elegantly. My heart skipped a beat and my mind raced. Why did I do this to myself? I was thinking, “He is cheap! How could he have bought me such a cheap metal pan?” DISSAPPOINTED! (as uttered by Kevin Kline in the movie, “A Fish Called Wanda”) I said “thank you” without opening it. He asked, “Are you not going to open your present?” So I politely sat up and proceeded to tear the wrapper. Inside the pan was a small white box. Inside it was a ring with a four-carat blue sapphire center and a trillion-cut diamond on each side. He got on his knees and asked me to marry him. Thus, BF has earned a new abbreviation of FE (fiancé).
Around the end of January, FE announced that I needed a new car. I had been driving a 1989 Saab, with manual transmission and a big chocolate stain from a Hershey chocolate bar hurled at the rear window by my son. The chocolate bar melted under the sun and made an ugly stain that looked like I attempted to murder my son. FE did not like my car. For a lot of people, a Saab 900 is an acquired taste. I absolutely loved mine.
Unbeknownst to me, FE had been taking little Kris and test-driving cars. At this particular time, when he announced that I needed a new car, my son said “Mommy, we drove a Jaguire.” FE said the Jaguire did not have enough room for his legs so would I mind driving a Mercedes Benz? It was 1997; M-Benzes were not as common as Dunkin Donuts in the US at that time. Did I mind driving one? I minded it like I mind flying business class. Hee-hee. He himself drove one, whom he affectionately called Ben. So we went to the dealership to look for a baby Benz to keep Uncle Ben company. I wanted a black car. He wanted a silver/gray car. Boring. Boring. Boring. I wanted a black car, period. He wanted a silver grey car, period. I told him my skin would look better against a black Benz. He has not heard of such a preposterous idea.
He said grey or silver car color is classic. I told him it’s blah. We quit speaking to one another. The salesman was getting nervous. Then, I saw, a few feet away from us was a Calypso Green model. It was the color of the Interstate Highway signs all over North America. I said, “Okay, we should buy that green one.” The ploy did not work. Instead, he said, “Okay, we will buy that green one.” So we took home the Beltway Green car. The salesman Mahmood told us it was a trendy color at that time (he probably was happy to get it out of the lot) but I honestly did not want a trendy car. I imagined it is perfect for a TV ad – a guy with a George Hamilton tan and a young woman with Victoria Beckham’s balloons are smiling at each other against a backdrop of sun and sand– A voice over asks, “How would you like to spend a week in the Caribbean for as low as $1199? Call now, 1-800-WE-TRAVEL for a 20% discount for the first 100 callers. $1199 is all it takes to stay at the Ranchos Resort for not 1, not 2, not even three but a total of glorious 7 days. You must be eighteen or older to participate. ” Camera pans the twin sister of my green Mercedes Benz driven in front of resort , young woman with Victoria’s balloons in sarong and hat and George’s tan man poses and go towards the green water while the green Mercedes Benz drives away. But not fast enough for viewers to exclaim, "Look at that ugly car! OMG, are they serious?"
He bought the green car. I named her Sally. We both made vicious fun of “her” color but she was dependable and flirtatious!
Lesson 1 – hideous is in the eye of the beholder.
Moving on, FE asked me if I would sign a pre-nuptial agreement.
I consulted a lawyer, but not the one I was getting married to. My lawyer read the pre-nup document and advised me to go ahead and sign it. Some people consider signing a pre-nup unromantic. “Why would he ask you to sign one? It shows he does not trust you about money?”
Why should he trust me? I do not even trust myself to make the right decisions about money. I mean, I have actually overpaid for things and those salesmen exist to rip you and me off. Anyway, I believe that a pre-nup is important to lay down the rule that no one is entitled to anything that each party to the agreement (marriage) earned or owned prior to the time of marriage. I also think that it is absurd to think that I was marrying my FE for romantic reasons. I was marrying him because some people love each other enough to swear they will not leave each other come hell or high waters. I am not sure I got the idiom correctly. I wanted to marry this person who treats me as an equal and someone I respect a lot, and someone who decclare his devotion to me and to my son. Okay, let me cut the BS. It was fine, really, I was okay with it and I was also dying to know exactly how much he was worth that he would spend the money to pay for language to make sure that I do not get my hands on it. And only if I divorce him. If I don't, maybe he would share a little?
When the lawyer asked him what I was bringing into the marriage. He said “Nothing.” She said, “Is she in some retirement plan?” “Yes, she works for the US Congress.” “Well, she might be worth more than you are!” she teased. When he told me this, I cracked up. I told him, “Did you not say I was bringing beauty and laughter, grace, and a kid into your life?”
My fiancé was a quick-thinking, smart, financially savvy guy. He did not want to marry anyone with any debt. He did not want red marks on my financial statement so he and I drew a plan on how I could make the red marks go away before we got married. By the time I signed my name on the pre-nup, promising that I would not be greedy if we get divorced; that I would not try to take what was not mine, that I would not go after his money that I was not about to go after any collections he owned, Christmas ornaments, art, savings, stocks, bonds, the ugly sofa, his monogrammed towels, antiques, coffee mugs, food processor, whatever, I was a good catch. I did not have any debt, I did not have any car payment, no credit car debt. I was clean as a whistle.
The pre-nup work both ways. It stated that if we get divorced, he was not entitled to go after my hidden wealth either, so well hidden, I myself could not find it, or my collections like – my shoes, bags, jewelry, true crime books, my white and blue porcelain bowls, and my Balinese art and my Filipino book collection. Oh, and my jazz CDs and my plants, and my old pots and pans. He told me that he liked the that he did not have to go through diaper changes and bottles with Kris. I asked him where he was when I was doing all that. He responded, “I was busy in law school preparing for our future.” Then, I told him, "This is a hypothetical question. Does a man get to fight over someone's son brought into a marriage that is dissolving?" His response: "Hypothetically? No. Don't worry, you can tell your hypothetical friend her son is safe." Good.
I won the Lotto of life. I found my soul mate - an honorable, caring, responsible, intelligent, successful man who earlier in our relationship told me, “I will not say I love you yet because when I do, it will mean I have thought a lot about it and I have made plans and those plans include Kris.”
Lesson 2 – Powerball hits you only once. When it does, do not duck!
Sally, the calypso green car was sold three years later and I hope whoever bought her loved her as I did. She was replaced by a much bigger model that’s silver and grey. I did not name her replacement. It’s just a car.
Lesson 3 – Learn to accept that color can be blind – or that you can get blinded by color or that you must be blind when you cannot see color. In other words, if it is free and it is a Mercedes Benz, just take the darn thing, say thank you, and drive it.
So I signed our pre-nup and our wedding was set for the Spring of the next year.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Saying "see you soon" is not soon enough...
Middle of summer, 2009 –
We just returned from taking our son to college in the Midwest. We live in the East Coast so why out there, you ask. The only unjust reason I can think of is he wants to stay as far away as he can from his parents. Actually, we gave him a choice to pick a school that would meet the standards that he and we set forth. What made him decide was someone who he worked with as an intern last summer went to the same university and told him how great her experience was. He made a big decision based upon hearsay. A good decision, if I may add. Thus, the journey to his adulthood began with college visits last fall, culminating in his choice of moving out to the Midwest to pursue a degree he has not quite decided yet.
We flew in on a Saturday in the middle of hot August to move him into his dorm by Sunday. It was not lost to us that it took us longer to go to Missouri than to fly from Washington, DC to London, England. We were met with a thunderstorm, a precursor of what to expect in the next few days.
It was a busy day- an organized chaos with adults and would-be-adults moving “stuff.” They were pushing, pulling, carrying, bringing with them computers, mini fridges, microwave ovens, printers, and other accoutrements of the 21st century. I think the move was a moment of truth for our son —he has to share a small room with another student. No longer does he have exclusive use of his own room, play/TV room, computer/study room, and bathroom. Now he has two and a half drawers, a hanging closet that also serves as his pantry, and a storage closet to store his suitcase. There was a tiny desk for his laptop, papers, books, phone, and the printer was put on top of his foot locker. Under his bed were cases of Orange Crush and Fanta Grape soda.
But the ratio of every inch of his space in that tiny room to the size of his freedom is 1 to 10. Imagine - he can eat as much junk if he so chooses; he does not need to do his laundry for the whole semester, he can drink a whole truckload of soda. He can stink as much as he wants for as long as he wants. I gifted him with a can of Febreeze. At last, no longer is his annoying mom fixing his favorite rice and beans, jerked pork and chicken, buying the most gorgeous apples at the little marketplace near home, making popcorn and iced tea to share while watching another one of his silly “Mom, it is so funny, trust me!” videos during those afternoons when his mom is working half days. No longer is his Dad going to ask him twenty thousand questions like, “Did you return the book? When did you return it? Were you late? If so, by how many days? How much did you pay in fees? Now do you realize that you did not have to pay late fees? What lesson did you learn from this experience? ” My son and I have a secret. When he was about twelve, he told me that on his Dad’s second sentence, he (son) is already in Jupiter and in his own orbit. I believe that all three of us were in our own orbits during the move- I am sure my son was in Uranus, I was in Venus, and his Dad was the only one on Earth.
No longer would he hear his parents saying, “Please take your shoes to your room” to his “I will!” progressing to “How many million times will I ask you to take your shoes to your room?” and the final “Take your shoes to your room, right now. I mean, NOW at this moment!” to his “I said I will, calm down, what’s up with you! Calm down. I will do it!” “NOW!” “Ok, jeez, what’s the big deal?”
Here are the “ginzu knives” to sweeten the deal: No longer is he going to take out the trash and clean the cats’ litter box. No longer is his mom going to open his bedroom door and exclaim, “OMG, what died up in here? Is there an alien growing here? How can you breathe? This is an anomaly, no this is abomination. Can Febreeze help this? Clean it. Get rid of your alien. NOW! PLEASE!!” to his “Mom, stay out of my room.” “What do you do on your afternoon off aside from spying in my room?” To which his mom responds, “As long as you are living in this house, you do not have the right to expect reasonable privacy. I will go in your room and spy. I will not read about your secret in the newspapers. That is my and your dad’s job. End of discussion.”
Or, when his mom would say, “You will die if you do not wash your hands! You will die if you do not eat fruits and vegetables! You will die if you drink too much soda!” He always finds it overly dramatic, and I have to agree, but whenever I say that he would die, I am being a Filipino pessimist in my heart. We use the word dying lightly “Sige, pag hindi ka kumain niyan, mamamatay ka.” (Go ahead, if you do not eat that, you will die.) So he laughs and says in a monotone, “Really, mom.”
In reality, I am sure he will not have the patience nor I the time to talk about the dynamics of catching a virus or a life threatening bacteria. When he was young, I would tell him that “munchies” invade and kill and I would have his undivided attention as he conjured visions of the munchies slowly crawling. He is no longer my little boy. “Mommy” gave way to “Mom.” “Kissy gave way to Kris.” Or when I mean business, I say “Kristoffer!” or “Hoy!” (Hey!)
It was rainy when we moved his things but the weather improved to a bright sunny afternoon to our relief. There were so many chores to do yet. The week preceding this move, we spent time packing and attempting to clean his rooms at home. We counted over a thousand videos that were put in his old toy box. We gave away old clothes that had been in his room since he was in middle school.
Now moving into his little dormitory, we helped him connect computers, organize closets and drawers and shop for things he might need. During the momentous move, however, I believe I have turned into the dummy and official punch bag. Everything that came out of my mouth was met with indignation. I had no suggestion that did not meet with a “are you from this earth?” look; I said nothing that was intelligent. If I said, just for conversation, “The sun is out!” I was told, “Why would you think it would not come out?” If I said “The rain started again.” I was given the “what kind of stupid statement is that” look. When I was his age, my equally dismissive retort to any adult’s statement would be “Obvious ba?” (Subtext: you idiot!)
Despite what I was feeling, I had to be the parent and in control of my emotions. I understood, and my husband made sure to remind me, that our son was under a lot of stress. But that did not stop me from reminding my son that all three of us are under stress and he has to be nice, we would leave him alone sooner than much later.
When we were done with our task at the end of one hectic day, he looked at us and asked without fanfare, “So what are you still doing in Kansas? Are you not leaving yet?” We told him we were scheduled to attend parent sessions. He was incredulous. Does that mean that we would still be together? Our mere presence was objectionable to him. Unfortunately for him, the answer was yes because 1) he has not been to an orientation; 2) he has not registered for classes ; 3) we had to set up a local bank account for him; and lastly and most importantly, we had to write the first of the big fat checks that will pay the University to help him become a responsible adult.
I said something about his choosing his classes. He said something that made me furious and I became the child throwing a tantrum, “Listen, this stupid mother of yours graduated with a 3.89 GPA at the university. Until you can top that, do not talk to me like I am some kind of an idiot. I am so sick and tired of your attitude, snap out of it. NOW! “ I slid down the path I had been trying to avoid. I told him that the feeling was mutual, that I did not want to be in the same space that he was in, but that I had to be and that was it. And while we were on the subject, I reminded him that my name's on the check that was paying for his education so maybe he had better be nice to me.
On the way back to our hotel, I cried and my husband said that my son would miss me too. I told him I was not crying because I will miss him. I was crying because he seemed to hate me. Not true? Tell me that tomorrow.
We saw a movie and I completely forgave my son’s demeanor. I realized that maybe he was going through the same separation anxiety process I was going through. My heart was going out to him. I am sure he was tired, overwhelmed, and embarrassed that he has parents.
Then my Blackberry buzzed. "Sorry I was being difficult, I am stressed and I was acting out. Much love." So there.
The next day, we attended the orientation and learned so many insightful things. He is learning about the the value of community, opportunity, hard work, success. For our part, we were reminded that we need to allow him to make his own decisions, be a consultant, not the facilitator. We need to give him space. I met another family whose mom is Asian as well. She and I compared notes about how we are treated by our sons. We seem to be talking about the same “boy.” Her husband is American, she is from Jakarta, her son looked Chinese and they live in Oman. I then realized that as much as we are just like any normal family, outwardly, we are not typical. I am Filipino, my husband is White and my son looked Persian . Ratna, my newfound ally told me that they wondered about us and I told her that I wondered about them. She gave me the opportunity to laugh again. I wanted so much to get back at my son, for how he was treating me. I wanted to momentarily distance myself from him, and declare that he is adopted. But instead I told her, “Oh, he is adopted by my husband...” One beat, two, “He is my son.”
The morning of our departure, the three of us had breakfast . We paid his fees and prepared to go home. He hugged his father and when my turn came, he said, in a warning tone, “Mom.” I gave him a hug, wished him luck and as he turned to go, I said “I love you, Kris!” He turned and walked away to go to a library tour.
I sobbed as we drove away. I could not believe that I was leaving my son behind. I started beating the arm of my husband, telling him that I could not believe he would allow me to leave my one and only son behind. He asked me if I could at least mentally accept that he is in a good place. I agreed but that did not make it easy. When the plane took off, I felt such sadness and cried all the way up to an altitude of 35,000 feet. Then my husband showed me a text message stating, “Dad I will be fine. I like it here. I will be okay. I will do well. Love to you and Mom.” Fifteen minutes later, and feeling a little better, I was drinking a virgin Mary.
The first thing I did when we got home was to go into my son’s room on the pretext of taking a pair of shoes he left behind. There was a lingering, all too familiar stink in the room and I cried despite myself. Our cat smelled his shoes. Cat looked at me and sniffed the shoes, seemingly saying, “Yeah, lady, I would cry too at this smell.”
Very late afternoon on Friday, my son sent me an email stating that he really likes it at the University. His professors are fine and he was thinking of switching a subject. I was not sure that he wanted a response because earlier, when I sent him a text message asking if he was okay, he responded with “Stop it, Mom.” I texted him back with “Stop what?” “I will email you later over the weekend.” “E-mail your dad. Goodbye!”
I was crying like a big loser when my coworker found me. I closed the door and she told me, “We mothers are naggers, we are repetitious, and we mind what is not our business. This is what my daughter tells me. Do not contact him. Wait for him to contact you.” We left to go home.
As soon as my coworker got off the train, I took out my Blackberry and I emailed my son. I told him that the beauty of being in college is that there are many classes to choose from to satisfy the requirements and that if for any reason he does not like any of the ones he signed for, be it the professor or the subject matter, he can drop it and take another one and that I am sure that whatever he decides will be the best decision for him. I stared at the Blackberry – shall I hit the ‘send’ button or not? Will my response be met with another “Stop it, Mom.” I clicked the ‘send’ button and promised not to ever be the first one to send a message, ever, ever again.
We heard from him today, Sunday. He is fine. He did not switch out of Psychology. He saw a movie with his roommate and his dorm friends. He asked to speak with me. We talked for two minutes and ended with “I love you mom.” I had the temerity to say “You need to go. You might have some studying to do. I love you too. Bye!”
The cats are probably wondering where the boy with long wavy hair went. They nap in his room. At lunch, I made noises with the pots and pans and I automatically apologized until I realized there was no teen-ager still in bed at two in the afternoon. I am beginning to feel good about leaving him in Kansas. He has been our source of joy; the center of our universe. He asked us once, rather presumptuously but rather true, “Mom and Dad, I am the center of your lives. Are you going to be okay when I go to college?”
We are okay. We will look forward for his phone calls, text messages, his emails. We know, however, that this is his time to discover new things, meet new friends, and prepare to compete in the adult world. He needs space.
In the meantime, we cleaned and re-assigned space at home. His room no longer stinks. His play room is now a work-out room and the computer screen in his study room is dark. The cat’s litter is cleaned, the trash taken out, life goes on but dude, we miss him more than he will ever know! In the meantime, his Dad has put together things we are sending out to him. We are okay. We are chill, we are cool.
We just returned from taking our son to college in the Midwest. We live in the East Coast so why out there, you ask. The only unjust reason I can think of is he wants to stay as far away as he can from his parents. Actually, we gave him a choice to pick a school that would meet the standards that he and we set forth. What made him decide was someone who he worked with as an intern last summer went to the same university and told him how great her experience was. He made a big decision based upon hearsay. A good decision, if I may add. Thus, the journey to his adulthood began with college visits last fall, culminating in his choice of moving out to the Midwest to pursue a degree he has not quite decided yet.
We flew in on a Saturday in the middle of hot August to move him into his dorm by Sunday. It was not lost to us that it took us longer to go to Missouri than to fly from Washington, DC to London, England. We were met with a thunderstorm, a precursor of what to expect in the next few days.
It was a busy day- an organized chaos with adults and would-be-adults moving “stuff.” They were pushing, pulling, carrying, bringing with them computers, mini fridges, microwave ovens, printers, and other accoutrements of the 21st century. I think the move was a moment of truth for our son —he has to share a small room with another student. No longer does he have exclusive use of his own room, play/TV room, computer/study room, and bathroom. Now he has two and a half drawers, a hanging closet that also serves as his pantry, and a storage closet to store his suitcase. There was a tiny desk for his laptop, papers, books, phone, and the printer was put on top of his foot locker. Under his bed were cases of Orange Crush and Fanta Grape soda.
But the ratio of every inch of his space in that tiny room to the size of his freedom is 1 to 10. Imagine - he can eat as much junk if he so chooses; he does not need to do his laundry for the whole semester, he can drink a whole truckload of soda. He can stink as much as he wants for as long as he wants. I gifted him with a can of Febreeze. At last, no longer is his annoying mom fixing his favorite rice and beans, jerked pork and chicken, buying the most gorgeous apples at the little marketplace near home, making popcorn and iced tea to share while watching another one of his silly “Mom, it is so funny, trust me!” videos during those afternoons when his mom is working half days. No longer is his Dad going to ask him twenty thousand questions like, “Did you return the book? When did you return it? Were you late? If so, by how many days? How much did you pay in fees? Now do you realize that you did not have to pay late fees? What lesson did you learn from this experience? ” My son and I have a secret. When he was about twelve, he told me that on his Dad’s second sentence, he (son) is already in Jupiter and in his own orbit. I believe that all three of us were in our own orbits during the move- I am sure my son was in Uranus, I was in Venus, and his Dad was the only one on Earth.
No longer would he hear his parents saying, “Please take your shoes to your room” to his “I will!” progressing to “How many million times will I ask you to take your shoes to your room?” and the final “Take your shoes to your room, right now. I mean, NOW at this moment!” to his “I said I will, calm down, what’s up with you! Calm down. I will do it!” “NOW!” “Ok, jeez, what’s the big deal?”
Here are the “ginzu knives” to sweeten the deal: No longer is he going to take out the trash and clean the cats’ litter box. No longer is his mom going to open his bedroom door and exclaim, “OMG, what died up in here? Is there an alien growing here? How can you breathe? This is an anomaly, no this is abomination. Can Febreeze help this? Clean it. Get rid of your alien. NOW! PLEASE!!” to his “Mom, stay out of my room.” “What do you do on your afternoon off aside from spying in my room?” To which his mom responds, “As long as you are living in this house, you do not have the right to expect reasonable privacy. I will go in your room and spy. I will not read about your secret in the newspapers. That is my and your dad’s job. End of discussion.”
Or, when his mom would say, “You will die if you do not wash your hands! You will die if you do not eat fruits and vegetables! You will die if you drink too much soda!” He always finds it overly dramatic, and I have to agree, but whenever I say that he would die, I am being a Filipino pessimist in my heart. We use the word dying lightly “Sige, pag hindi ka kumain niyan, mamamatay ka.” (Go ahead, if you do not eat that, you will die.) So he laughs and says in a monotone, “Really, mom.”
In reality, I am sure he will not have the patience nor I the time to talk about the dynamics of catching a virus or a life threatening bacteria. When he was young, I would tell him that “munchies” invade and kill and I would have his undivided attention as he conjured visions of the munchies slowly crawling. He is no longer my little boy. “Mommy” gave way to “Mom.” “Kissy gave way to Kris.” Or when I mean business, I say “Kristoffer!” or “Hoy!” (Hey!)
It was rainy when we moved his things but the weather improved to a bright sunny afternoon to our relief. There were so many chores to do yet. The week preceding this move, we spent time packing and attempting to clean his rooms at home. We counted over a thousand videos that were put in his old toy box. We gave away old clothes that had been in his room since he was in middle school.
Now moving into his little dormitory, we helped him connect computers, organize closets and drawers and shop for things he might need. During the momentous move, however, I believe I have turned into the dummy and official punch bag. Everything that came out of my mouth was met with indignation. I had no suggestion that did not meet with a “are you from this earth?” look; I said nothing that was intelligent. If I said, just for conversation, “The sun is out!” I was told, “Why would you think it would not come out?” If I said “The rain started again.” I was given the “what kind of stupid statement is that” look. When I was his age, my equally dismissive retort to any adult’s statement would be “Obvious ba?” (Subtext: you idiot!)
Despite what I was feeling, I had to be the parent and in control of my emotions. I understood, and my husband made sure to remind me, that our son was under a lot of stress. But that did not stop me from reminding my son that all three of us are under stress and he has to be nice, we would leave him alone sooner than much later.
When we were done with our task at the end of one hectic day, he looked at us and asked without fanfare, “So what are you still doing in Kansas? Are you not leaving yet?” We told him we were scheduled to attend parent sessions. He was incredulous. Does that mean that we would still be together? Our mere presence was objectionable to him. Unfortunately for him, the answer was yes because 1) he has not been to an orientation; 2) he has not registered for classes ; 3) we had to set up a local bank account for him; and lastly and most importantly, we had to write the first of the big fat checks that will pay the University to help him become a responsible adult.
I said something about his choosing his classes. He said something that made me furious and I became the child throwing a tantrum, “Listen, this stupid mother of yours graduated with a 3.89 GPA at the university. Until you can top that, do not talk to me like I am some kind of an idiot. I am so sick and tired of your attitude, snap out of it. NOW! “ I slid down the path I had been trying to avoid. I told him that the feeling was mutual, that I did not want to be in the same space that he was in, but that I had to be and that was it. And while we were on the subject, I reminded him that my name's on the check that was paying for his education so maybe he had better be nice to me.
On the way back to our hotel, I cried and my husband said that my son would miss me too. I told him I was not crying because I will miss him. I was crying because he seemed to hate me. Not true? Tell me that tomorrow.
We saw a movie and I completely forgave my son’s demeanor. I realized that maybe he was going through the same separation anxiety process I was going through. My heart was going out to him. I am sure he was tired, overwhelmed, and embarrassed that he has parents.
Then my Blackberry buzzed. "Sorry I was being difficult, I am stressed and I was acting out. Much love." So there.
The next day, we attended the orientation and learned so many insightful things. He is learning about the the value of community, opportunity, hard work, success. For our part, we were reminded that we need to allow him to make his own decisions, be a consultant, not the facilitator. We need to give him space. I met another family whose mom is Asian as well. She and I compared notes about how we are treated by our sons. We seem to be talking about the same “boy.” Her husband is American, she is from Jakarta, her son looked Chinese and they live in Oman. I then realized that as much as we are just like any normal family, outwardly, we are not typical. I am Filipino, my husband is White and my son looked Persian . Ratna, my newfound ally told me that they wondered about us and I told her that I wondered about them. She gave me the opportunity to laugh again. I wanted so much to get back at my son, for how he was treating me. I wanted to momentarily distance myself from him, and declare that he is adopted. But instead I told her, “Oh, he is adopted by my husband...” One beat, two, “He is my son.”
The morning of our departure, the three of us had breakfast . We paid his fees and prepared to go home. He hugged his father and when my turn came, he said, in a warning tone, “Mom.” I gave him a hug, wished him luck and as he turned to go, I said “I love you, Kris!” He turned and walked away to go to a library tour.
I sobbed as we drove away. I could not believe that I was leaving my son behind. I started beating the arm of my husband, telling him that I could not believe he would allow me to leave my one and only son behind. He asked me if I could at least mentally accept that he is in a good place. I agreed but that did not make it easy. When the plane took off, I felt such sadness and cried all the way up to an altitude of 35,000 feet. Then my husband showed me a text message stating, “Dad I will be fine. I like it here. I will be okay. I will do well. Love to you and Mom.” Fifteen minutes later, and feeling a little better, I was drinking a virgin Mary.
The first thing I did when we got home was to go into my son’s room on the pretext of taking a pair of shoes he left behind. There was a lingering, all too familiar stink in the room and I cried despite myself. Our cat smelled his shoes. Cat looked at me and sniffed the shoes, seemingly saying, “Yeah, lady, I would cry too at this smell.”
Very late afternoon on Friday, my son sent me an email stating that he really likes it at the University. His professors are fine and he was thinking of switching a subject. I was not sure that he wanted a response because earlier, when I sent him a text message asking if he was okay, he responded with “Stop it, Mom.” I texted him back with “Stop what?” “I will email you later over the weekend.” “E-mail your dad. Goodbye!”
I was crying like a big loser when my coworker found me. I closed the door and she told me, “We mothers are naggers, we are repetitious, and we mind what is not our business. This is what my daughter tells me. Do not contact him. Wait for him to contact you.” We left to go home.
As soon as my coworker got off the train, I took out my Blackberry and I emailed my son. I told him that the beauty of being in college is that there are many classes to choose from to satisfy the requirements and that if for any reason he does not like any of the ones he signed for, be it the professor or the subject matter, he can drop it and take another one and that I am sure that whatever he decides will be the best decision for him. I stared at the Blackberry – shall I hit the ‘send’ button or not? Will my response be met with another “Stop it, Mom.” I clicked the ‘send’ button and promised not to ever be the first one to send a message, ever, ever again.
We heard from him today, Sunday. He is fine. He did not switch out of Psychology. He saw a movie with his roommate and his dorm friends. He asked to speak with me. We talked for two minutes and ended with “I love you mom.” I had the temerity to say “You need to go. You might have some studying to do. I love you too. Bye!”
The cats are probably wondering where the boy with long wavy hair went. They nap in his room. At lunch, I made noises with the pots and pans and I automatically apologized until I realized there was no teen-ager still in bed at two in the afternoon. I am beginning to feel good about leaving him in Kansas. He has been our source of joy; the center of our universe. He asked us once, rather presumptuously but rather true, “Mom and Dad, I am the center of your lives. Are you going to be okay when I go to college?”
We are okay. We will look forward for his phone calls, text messages, his emails. We know, however, that this is his time to discover new things, meet new friends, and prepare to compete in the adult world. He needs space.
In the meantime, we cleaned and re-assigned space at home. His room no longer stinks. His play room is now a work-out room and the computer screen in his study room is dark. The cat’s litter is cleaned, the trash taken out, life goes on but dude, we miss him more than he will ever know! In the meantime, his Dad has put together things we are sending out to him. We are okay. We are chill, we are cool.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Thirty years or so ago in New Manila--
I digress and beg my reader’s indulgence -- Someone so very dear to me, all of 18, my son has just discovered the feeling of being with someone who makes him feel special. In his eyes I see a twinkle, his attention is now riveted and I no longer hold the special position as the woman he first loved. He said what they have is "exclusive but temporary." This essay is a nod to that similar special time in my life --
The 70s-
I philosophized like a grown-up and behaved like a child. I was dealing with my own issues and angst. My sense of self-esteem was precariously hinged on my being accepted to attend the state university and to the disappearance of pesky acne. Although I was relatively popular in high-school, there were a lot of things I was insecure about. Then I shot up to an impressive height at 15. I took great photos but I walked with a slight gait. I spoke English well but at times I was full of shit. I also changed my religion. I was articulate, an active student leader, and I was surrounded by a group of smart friends. We were called the “intellectual snobs” in high school. We spoke English and practiced saying ‘choclet’ versus “choco-late”; we spoke in Taglish rather than Tagalog. I was a teen-age beauty queen. I once had the bragging rights of being the prom date of a UP Prep School valedictorian.
The mirror told me something else though—I was breaking out and I was very conscious of my skin. In a country where the standard of beauty was and still is to a great extent measured by how fair skin is I was called “morena,” neither ebony nor ivory. I rebelled by slathering my skin with suntan oil and Coca-cola, and spending hours at the pool to get my skin much darker. I looked like a cocoa bean. I mooned the male students from Marian College who unashamedly use their binoculars to check me and my friends out at the YWCA pool. It was on a month of June in the 70s that I started to be addressed as “Miss…” I was a college student. It was the beginning of a four- year exploration, academically and otherwise.
I was not a straight A student in college. I did not see myself in the future as a brilliant lawyer, professor, or a corporate head. I could not make up my mind what I wanted to be. I did not plan my future. I was living by the moment. I decided to become a journalist. At that time, for me, college was the end in itself. In college, I blossomed; the acne went away, leaving ugly scars on my cheeks. I became the girl everyone became friends with. I was a college theater actress, I was fun to be with, I was tall and I was easy on the eyes, pretty in fact, despite the acne scars.
There was a dividing line between rich and poor in Manila. I was in the middle of a vast gap. Although my family was not poor, we were not part of the privileged few. I knew that it was just a matter of time that I would be going the USA. It was my firm goal as a young woman. This was encouraged by the fact that my Dad lived in the USA and my sisters and a brother did too. It was in the plan. But until I got there, I hated the US for its imperialism. So I was shouting slogans in the streets of Mendiola while wearing Levi‘s and getting deeply tanned by the pool using Coppertone. I was denouncing the US while I was eating Baby Ruth bars and listening to my very own Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band LP at home. It was four years full of irony in my young life.
One day, after lunch, I was sitting on the day’s newspaper on the steps of Vinzon Hall in the Diliman campus of the U of the Philippines. As I looked down, I noticed that I could read text on the paper from between my legs, and I saw an ad that read, “Wanted, female DJ between 18-23 years old. Bonanza Country Club Disco...” It was a very popular disco club during that time. I tore the ad and went to the club before I went home that evening. There were about thirty hopefuls waiting for their turn outside the club. Most of the girls were college students of mass communications; you can tell the “divide” between university coeds and colegialas. (all-girls colleges) The coeds seemed more mature and independent. The colegialas, on the other hand, were standoffish. Most of them wore false eyelashes. The interview was well underway when I got there.
I looked like fish out of water. I was wearing a pair of very casual boy shoes without socks; I had on a checkered red and white shirt under a very short grey jumper. My earrings were huge hoops made of a pair of thin bangles I cut and wore as earrings. I took the jeepney to get to the Club. I was not a privileged Mass Comm princess whose daddy bought her a car for her 18th birthday. Each of the girls got a few minutes of interview with Howard Medina, aka Long Tall Howard at the radio station DWKW. Don’t ask me how I remember; I have a photographic memory, selective, but photographic. I will remember to Google him just in case….We were all told to wait. I was the last applicant. My turn finally came.
He asked me what I did in school, what I did for fun, what music I liked, almost like we were just “hanging out.” We laughed at some silly joke and he asked what I have learned in broadcasting and I told him that I learned to say “Ito ang Inyong….Tiya Dely” or “Lundagin mo Baby!” He and his assistant showed me the DJ booth and showed me how the lights and sound board worked. I asked a few questions like may I “can” the music so I could dance in the booth sometimes? Okay, nothing ventured, nothing gained. But then he said, “Wel, will you be our DJ?” I was so happy I yelled, “Yeba! Yeba!” "You are hired!” He took me outside and announced to the other applicants that he made his decision. To this day, I can hear the grumbling from the others. One of them, dressed in a tight long skirt with a slit up to her hip approached, batted her false eyelashes and said, “Why did you not choose me? I think you chose the wrong girl!” Then he was surrounded by the other girls, whining in protest that he should not decide on the spot. However, Howard was steadfast in his decision. So, the job went to the girl wearing boy's shoes.
Howard was a gentleman and a mentor. On my first day on the job, he took me to his office. I was wearing a clean pair of jeans and a Crispa (think Hanes) tee-shirt. He said, “Now, repeat to me what you saw on the ad.” “Wanted female DJ, 18-23 years old.” “Female, right?” “Right” “Okay, so starting tomorrow, I want you to look female.” “Huh? What’s wrong with me?” “Well you look like a boy.” “A what?” “A boy who does not wear high heels and socks…” “Do you have shoes with heels?” “Yes but I do not like wearing them.” “Okay, sometimes you need to wear some shoes and clothes that will make you look like a girl.”
One day, I wore heels and a pair of slacks, a blouse that showed my midriff and he looked me over and said, “Now that you look like a female, stay away from the men.” He told me that my job was to play music for four hours and I was not expected to socialize with any patron. I was going to be paid P750 a month, about $210 a month, a lucrative pay for a rising 19-year old. I had free drinks and a free dinner. I was at the professional level, which meant that I could eat whatever I like from the club’s menu vs. the employee kitchen, I was entitled to three mixed drinks, and any soft drink I wanted. I was discouraged to be friends with the hospitality girls but that if I befriended them, I was to avoid being identified with them. He told me that I was not a hospitality girl, I was a DJ and those are two very different jobs. I was all of 19, I was eager to please my boss but I was also curious about the hospitality girls (HG).
I befriended Helen. She was supporting her parents and two younger siblings. She was the main breadwinner. She was a nice and pretty young woman, tall and svelte but heavily made-up with false eyelashes. She had the build of a model. Then there was Liza, who ignored me for the most part. She liked to talk about the self-pampering trips she made to the spa with her upcoming starlet friend, always carried on like some colegiala telling her exploits to her yayas. There was also Mirna and her sister Beatriz; both coeds and pretty with skin, white as alabaster. They were lively and the younger girl Mirna, looked very uncomfortable when she was working. I learned from Helen that they worked on commission. This was how the hospitality girls worked. They asked men who came to the Club without a date if they would like some company. If the man agreed, the HG would sit on the man’s table and order a drink. The girls get ½ of the price of the liquor plus any tips the men gave them. The more they drank, the more money they made. Helen told me that the men sometimes took them out on dates. She also told me that I should eat dinner with her in the “house.” When Howard learned that I ate at the employee kitchen, I was appropriately lectured. He told me that I should never do that again; that my job was above that of a HG. It was part of the great divide; like a caste system dictating who should be socializing with whom. I was DJ, Helen was HG. Two different abbreviations, two different implications. One is noble than the other depending on who is making the distinction.
"Long Tall" checked regularly if my shoes were clean. It was not unusual for my shoes to be smeared with mud from walking. He would sometimes tease me, “O, ano, are we a boy today?” He would share bits and pieces of his home life with me. I admired him. He was unusual in the Filipino husband paradigm. He was faithful to his wife and he loved her and his children. We had a technician named Noel and both he and Howard were very supportive of me at the Club. It was the time of the Doobie Brothers, the Isley Brothers, Smokey Robinson, Eric Clapton, Billy Preston, Roberta Flack, and many others. Life could never be better for a young college kid who had a great gig.
One day, I asked Howard why he hired me over the other girls and his response resonates up to the present. “Because you’re “viva” [full of life], “totoo ka” [you are real], and because you do not wear false eyelashes.”
When the Philippine's premier asshole Ferdinand Marcos declared martial law, a curfew was set. My shift ended at about 11pm, leaving me an hour to get home. I did not own a car; I took a taxi or bus or jeepney to get home. It was during one of those stressful times that a car filled with young men my age stopped and asked me if they could take me home. The young men were at the Club earlier and they recognized me as the DJ. We introduced ourselves to one another. One of them also went to the same university I did. We were definitely not going to make the curfew. They invited me to go with them and wait until the curfew was lifted. I agreed. I was a naive young woman without much choice.
We ended up in an apartment where other friends of theirs seemed to be in the middle of a party. They were kids of privilege I was not accustomed to. They were partying on, and they were making out like they were the only people present in the place. I imagined this was what an orgy was like and I have never been to one and I did not plan on being in one either. I was a nerd in their midst. All my young life, despite my bravado, my exploits were very limited and awkward and sometimes disastrous. The young man who owned the car we drove in was nice. He introduced himself as Jake C. He sensed my discomfort. I was clearly not a party girl. He and I started to talk and we hit it off.
Jake and I became inseparable. We socialized with his friends and mine. I was his "it" girl. I wore his ring. He was kind and thoughtful and always sensitive to how I was feeling or what I needed. He wrote me short sweet notes inserted in chocolate boxes. He waited patiently until I was done with my classes and then we would spend time together, listening to music, discussing the wisdom of smoking or not smoking grass. When you’re 19, there’s really not much to share. Life is just beginning.
In the meantime, word got around that I was the DJ at the club. Many Friday nights, I see my friends and their friends at the university in the crowd, a whole class would be there having a good time. I was good for the business. I loved my job!
Almost each night, around 11pm, I would see Jake quietly sitting in the club while I spun records for the patrons. He was gorgeous. Near the end of my shift, I would start spinning slow dance music and I would get down from the DJ booth to dance to our songs with him. I was utterly lost in my young love.
Sometimes, Jake drove me and his friends to his family’s beach house and there we would talk or walk along the shore. The two of us did not discuss the future, we did not declare great love for each other; but we lived in the moment. Love at 19 was not complicated. You laugh, love, fight, and start all over again.
It was New Year’s Eve and the club was full. I spotted Jake’s close friend Tony. He was born and raised from the same place I was so we had a rapport. He was very happy to see me at work that night and he told me that perhaps I should go with him after my shift, he would drive me to Jake’s and I would be his “New Year’s gift to my friend.” I readily agreed. Huge, huge, huge mistake. Jake was livid that I was with Tony. There was an exchange of harsh words. There was apparently something about Tony and Jake’s former girl friends that I did not know and before I knew it, Tony was being handcuffed and jailed for “kidnapping” me, and I was being accused of two-timing Jake. In Manila, privilege had its privileges. Jake was an heir to one of Manila’s wealthy families. He felt betrayed when he saw me and Tony together. The schism between them has come to a head. When you are a teen-ager, you value friendship as you value yesterday’s stale bread. I was caught in the middle of two boys fighting over their toys.
Actually, it was Tony who told me the truth about Jake. He introduced himself to me using his mom’s maiden name. One day, when Tony saw that I was wearing Jake’s ring, he commented that I must be special because none of the other girls wore Jake F’s ring. I asked him what the ‘F’ was in the Jake F. and Tony was surprised that I did not know so he proceeded to tell me that Jake’s last name was such. He was this of that family of that and this background and this and that of that and this. No one could ever know how completely humbling that revelation was to me. My mom warned me about falling in love with rich men’s children. She was disowned herself by my wealthy late grandfather Don Joaquin because she fell in love with my father, a mere mortal. And that is another story.
I explained to him why I was with Tony. I realized I was in the middle of something dark that I was trying to get out of. Tony was “regular people” like I was. But he obviously crossed the line, and since he was regular people, he spent time in jail. Muck was around me; it was dark and putrid and I could not get out of it. My heart was breaking and I cried until I could not cry anymore. I was defending my honor. I was defending my love. At the same time, I was horrified at how shabbily Tony was treated. He was accused wrongly and he did not do anything bad. An injustice was done and I was not equipped to deal with it. I thought Jake overreacted but he told me that it happened before- Tony would cheat with Jake’s girl friend. He would give the girl a ride and become intimate with the girl. That did not happen to me. I was trying to make him understand that through my tears. What about me- was I that type of girl? I obviously was not special after all.
We drove to the beach house and he asked me over and over again why I was with Tony in the car. We talked until the sun came up. He said he believed me, he said he loved me. We loved and we cried and then I never saw him again. It was, to borrow my son's words, "exclusive but temporary."
I worked my shift at the Club, spinning sounds that broke my young heart. I quit the job; I was becoming too unreliable. I left for the U.S. shortly thereafter. I wrote Jake letters. I had a stong need to let him know that I moved on. He never responded.
Years later, a post card came in the mail from him. We briefly saw each other – we were both in our twenties. Some things have changed – we were involved with other people. We were a little older but not the wiser. We talked until we ran out of things to say and we loved and disappeared again from each other’s lives.
Now, thirty some years after, we are both parents of children the same age as when we thought life was all about us. We have reconnected, old friends sharing fun memories, but no longer lovers. We have not had the time to fill each other on what transpired in the last thirty plus years. I have almost forgotten through the years, how profound he was, how elegantly he wrote and how well modulated he spoke, how his smile used to make me happy, how tender he was, how I looked up to him because he was more worldly than I was thirty some years ago. I tell him we are so much older. He tells me our outside appearance have changed but that we are the same people inside.
“Won’t you please read my signs, be a gypsy, tell me what I hope to find deep within me, because you can read my mind, please be with me…” (Please Be With Me, by Eric Clapton)
I no longer wear boy’s shoes. I am no longer insecure about my acne scars - laser has zapped them, I wear much better clothes, my shoes, all 100 pairs or so of them are always clean, I have seen most of the world but deep within me I am still the same – I am real, I love life, and I still do not wear false eyelashes.
The 70s-
I philosophized like a grown-up and behaved like a child. I was dealing with my own issues and angst. My sense of self-esteem was precariously hinged on my being accepted to attend the state university and to the disappearance of pesky acne. Although I was relatively popular in high-school, there were a lot of things I was insecure about. Then I shot up to an impressive height at 15. I took great photos but I walked with a slight gait. I spoke English well but at times I was full of shit. I also changed my religion. I was articulate, an active student leader, and I was surrounded by a group of smart friends. We were called the “intellectual snobs” in high school. We spoke English and practiced saying ‘choclet’ versus “choco-late”; we spoke in Taglish rather than Tagalog. I was a teen-age beauty queen. I once had the bragging rights of being the prom date of a UP Prep School valedictorian.
The mirror told me something else though—I was breaking out and I was very conscious of my skin. In a country where the standard of beauty was and still is to a great extent measured by how fair skin is I was called “morena,” neither ebony nor ivory. I rebelled by slathering my skin with suntan oil and Coca-cola, and spending hours at the pool to get my skin much darker. I looked like a cocoa bean. I mooned the male students from Marian College who unashamedly use their binoculars to check me and my friends out at the YWCA pool. It was on a month of June in the 70s that I started to be addressed as “Miss…” I was a college student. It was the beginning of a four- year exploration, academically and otherwise.
I was not a straight A student in college. I did not see myself in the future as a brilliant lawyer, professor, or a corporate head. I could not make up my mind what I wanted to be. I did not plan my future. I was living by the moment. I decided to become a journalist. At that time, for me, college was the end in itself. In college, I blossomed; the acne went away, leaving ugly scars on my cheeks. I became the girl everyone became friends with. I was a college theater actress, I was fun to be with, I was tall and I was easy on the eyes, pretty in fact, despite the acne scars.
There was a dividing line between rich and poor in Manila. I was in the middle of a vast gap. Although my family was not poor, we were not part of the privileged few. I knew that it was just a matter of time that I would be going the USA. It was my firm goal as a young woman. This was encouraged by the fact that my Dad lived in the USA and my sisters and a brother did too. It was in the plan. But until I got there, I hated the US for its imperialism. So I was shouting slogans in the streets of Mendiola while wearing Levi‘s and getting deeply tanned by the pool using Coppertone. I was denouncing the US while I was eating Baby Ruth bars and listening to my very own Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band LP at home. It was four years full of irony in my young life.
One day, after lunch, I was sitting on the day’s newspaper on the steps of Vinzon Hall in the Diliman campus of the U of the Philippines. As I looked down, I noticed that I could read text on the paper from between my legs, and I saw an ad that read, “Wanted, female DJ between 18-23 years old. Bonanza Country Club Disco...” It was a very popular disco club during that time. I tore the ad and went to the club before I went home that evening. There were about thirty hopefuls waiting for their turn outside the club. Most of the girls were college students of mass communications; you can tell the “divide” between university coeds and colegialas. (all-girls colleges) The coeds seemed more mature and independent. The colegialas, on the other hand, were standoffish. Most of them wore false eyelashes. The interview was well underway when I got there.
I looked like fish out of water. I was wearing a pair of very casual boy shoes without socks; I had on a checkered red and white shirt under a very short grey jumper. My earrings were huge hoops made of a pair of thin bangles I cut and wore as earrings. I took the jeepney to get to the Club. I was not a privileged Mass Comm princess whose daddy bought her a car for her 18th birthday. Each of the girls got a few minutes of interview with Howard Medina, aka Long Tall Howard at the radio station DWKW. Don’t ask me how I remember; I have a photographic memory, selective, but photographic. I will remember to Google him just in case….We were all told to wait. I was the last applicant. My turn finally came.
He asked me what I did in school, what I did for fun, what music I liked, almost like we were just “hanging out.” We laughed at some silly joke and he asked what I have learned in broadcasting and I told him that I learned to say “Ito ang Inyong….Tiya Dely” or “Lundagin mo Baby!” He and his assistant showed me the DJ booth and showed me how the lights and sound board worked. I asked a few questions like may I “can” the music so I could dance in the booth sometimes? Okay, nothing ventured, nothing gained. But then he said, “Wel, will you be our DJ?” I was so happy I yelled, “Yeba! Yeba!” "You are hired!” He took me outside and announced to the other applicants that he made his decision. To this day, I can hear the grumbling from the others. One of them, dressed in a tight long skirt with a slit up to her hip approached, batted her false eyelashes and said, “Why did you not choose me? I think you chose the wrong girl!” Then he was surrounded by the other girls, whining in protest that he should not decide on the spot. However, Howard was steadfast in his decision. So, the job went to the girl wearing boy's shoes.
Howard was a gentleman and a mentor. On my first day on the job, he took me to his office. I was wearing a clean pair of jeans and a Crispa (think Hanes) tee-shirt. He said, “Now, repeat to me what you saw on the ad.” “Wanted female DJ, 18-23 years old.” “Female, right?” “Right” “Okay, so starting tomorrow, I want you to look female.” “Huh? What’s wrong with me?” “Well you look like a boy.” “A what?” “A boy who does not wear high heels and socks…” “Do you have shoes with heels?” “Yes but I do not like wearing them.” “Okay, sometimes you need to wear some shoes and clothes that will make you look like a girl.”
One day, I wore heels and a pair of slacks, a blouse that showed my midriff and he looked me over and said, “Now that you look like a female, stay away from the men.” He told me that my job was to play music for four hours and I was not expected to socialize with any patron. I was going to be paid P750 a month, about $210 a month, a lucrative pay for a rising 19-year old. I had free drinks and a free dinner. I was at the professional level, which meant that I could eat whatever I like from the club’s menu vs. the employee kitchen, I was entitled to three mixed drinks, and any soft drink I wanted. I was discouraged to be friends with the hospitality girls but that if I befriended them, I was to avoid being identified with them. He told me that I was not a hospitality girl, I was a DJ and those are two very different jobs. I was all of 19, I was eager to please my boss but I was also curious about the hospitality girls (HG).
I befriended Helen. She was supporting her parents and two younger siblings. She was the main breadwinner. She was a nice and pretty young woman, tall and svelte but heavily made-up with false eyelashes. She had the build of a model. Then there was Liza, who ignored me for the most part. She liked to talk about the self-pampering trips she made to the spa with her upcoming starlet friend, always carried on like some colegiala telling her exploits to her yayas. There was also Mirna and her sister Beatriz; both coeds and pretty with skin, white as alabaster. They were lively and the younger girl Mirna, looked very uncomfortable when she was working. I learned from Helen that they worked on commission. This was how the hospitality girls worked. They asked men who came to the Club without a date if they would like some company. If the man agreed, the HG would sit on the man’s table and order a drink. The girls get ½ of the price of the liquor plus any tips the men gave them. The more they drank, the more money they made. Helen told me that the men sometimes took them out on dates. She also told me that I should eat dinner with her in the “house.” When Howard learned that I ate at the employee kitchen, I was appropriately lectured. He told me that I should never do that again; that my job was above that of a HG. It was part of the great divide; like a caste system dictating who should be socializing with whom. I was DJ, Helen was HG. Two different abbreviations, two different implications. One is noble than the other depending on who is making the distinction.
"Long Tall" checked regularly if my shoes were clean. It was not unusual for my shoes to be smeared with mud from walking. He would sometimes tease me, “O, ano, are we a boy today?” He would share bits and pieces of his home life with me. I admired him. He was unusual in the Filipino husband paradigm. He was faithful to his wife and he loved her and his children. We had a technician named Noel and both he and Howard were very supportive of me at the Club. It was the time of the Doobie Brothers, the Isley Brothers, Smokey Robinson, Eric Clapton, Billy Preston, Roberta Flack, and many others. Life could never be better for a young college kid who had a great gig.
One day, I asked Howard why he hired me over the other girls and his response resonates up to the present. “Because you’re “viva” [full of life], “totoo ka” [you are real], and because you do not wear false eyelashes.”
When the Philippine's premier asshole Ferdinand Marcos declared martial law, a curfew was set. My shift ended at about 11pm, leaving me an hour to get home. I did not own a car; I took a taxi or bus or jeepney to get home. It was during one of those stressful times that a car filled with young men my age stopped and asked me if they could take me home. The young men were at the Club earlier and they recognized me as the DJ. We introduced ourselves to one another. One of them also went to the same university I did. We were definitely not going to make the curfew. They invited me to go with them and wait until the curfew was lifted. I agreed. I was a naive young woman without much choice.
We ended up in an apartment where other friends of theirs seemed to be in the middle of a party. They were kids of privilege I was not accustomed to. They were partying on, and they were making out like they were the only people present in the place. I imagined this was what an orgy was like and I have never been to one and I did not plan on being in one either. I was a nerd in their midst. All my young life, despite my bravado, my exploits were very limited and awkward and sometimes disastrous. The young man who owned the car we drove in was nice. He introduced himself as Jake C. He sensed my discomfort. I was clearly not a party girl. He and I started to talk and we hit it off.
Jake and I became inseparable. We socialized with his friends and mine. I was his "it" girl. I wore his ring. He was kind and thoughtful and always sensitive to how I was feeling or what I needed. He wrote me short sweet notes inserted in chocolate boxes. He waited patiently until I was done with my classes and then we would spend time together, listening to music, discussing the wisdom of smoking or not smoking grass. When you’re 19, there’s really not much to share. Life is just beginning.
In the meantime, word got around that I was the DJ at the club. Many Friday nights, I see my friends and their friends at the university in the crowd, a whole class would be there having a good time. I was good for the business. I loved my job!
Almost each night, around 11pm, I would see Jake quietly sitting in the club while I spun records for the patrons. He was gorgeous. Near the end of my shift, I would start spinning slow dance music and I would get down from the DJ booth to dance to our songs with him. I was utterly lost in my young love.
Sometimes, Jake drove me and his friends to his family’s beach house and there we would talk or walk along the shore. The two of us did not discuss the future, we did not declare great love for each other; but we lived in the moment. Love at 19 was not complicated. You laugh, love, fight, and start all over again.
It was New Year’s Eve and the club was full. I spotted Jake’s close friend Tony. He was born and raised from the same place I was so we had a rapport. He was very happy to see me at work that night and he told me that perhaps I should go with him after my shift, he would drive me to Jake’s and I would be his “New Year’s gift to my friend.” I readily agreed. Huge, huge, huge mistake. Jake was livid that I was with Tony. There was an exchange of harsh words. There was apparently something about Tony and Jake’s former girl friends that I did not know and before I knew it, Tony was being handcuffed and jailed for “kidnapping” me, and I was being accused of two-timing Jake. In Manila, privilege had its privileges. Jake was an heir to one of Manila’s wealthy families. He felt betrayed when he saw me and Tony together. The schism between them has come to a head. When you are a teen-ager, you value friendship as you value yesterday’s stale bread. I was caught in the middle of two boys fighting over their toys.
Actually, it was Tony who told me the truth about Jake. He introduced himself to me using his mom’s maiden name. One day, when Tony saw that I was wearing Jake’s ring, he commented that I must be special because none of the other girls wore Jake F’s ring. I asked him what the ‘F’ was in the Jake F. and Tony was surprised that I did not know so he proceeded to tell me that Jake’s last name was such. He was this of that family of that and this background and this and that of that and this. No one could ever know how completely humbling that revelation was to me. My mom warned me about falling in love with rich men’s children. She was disowned herself by my wealthy late grandfather Don Joaquin because she fell in love with my father, a mere mortal. And that is another story.
I explained to him why I was with Tony. I realized I was in the middle of something dark that I was trying to get out of. Tony was “regular people” like I was. But he obviously crossed the line, and since he was regular people, he spent time in jail. Muck was around me; it was dark and putrid and I could not get out of it. My heart was breaking and I cried until I could not cry anymore. I was defending my honor. I was defending my love. At the same time, I was horrified at how shabbily Tony was treated. He was accused wrongly and he did not do anything bad. An injustice was done and I was not equipped to deal with it. I thought Jake overreacted but he told me that it happened before- Tony would cheat with Jake’s girl friend. He would give the girl a ride and become intimate with the girl. That did not happen to me. I was trying to make him understand that through my tears. What about me- was I that type of girl? I obviously was not special after all.
We drove to the beach house and he asked me over and over again why I was with Tony in the car. We talked until the sun came up. He said he believed me, he said he loved me. We loved and we cried and then I never saw him again. It was, to borrow my son's words, "exclusive but temporary."
I worked my shift at the Club, spinning sounds that broke my young heart. I quit the job; I was becoming too unreliable. I left for the U.S. shortly thereafter. I wrote Jake letters. I had a stong need to let him know that I moved on. He never responded.
Years later, a post card came in the mail from him. We briefly saw each other – we were both in our twenties. Some things have changed – we were involved with other people. We were a little older but not the wiser. We talked until we ran out of things to say and we loved and disappeared again from each other’s lives.
Now, thirty some years after, we are both parents of children the same age as when we thought life was all about us. We have reconnected, old friends sharing fun memories, but no longer lovers. We have not had the time to fill each other on what transpired in the last thirty plus years. I have almost forgotten through the years, how profound he was, how elegantly he wrote and how well modulated he spoke, how his smile used to make me happy, how tender he was, how I looked up to him because he was more worldly than I was thirty some years ago. I tell him we are so much older. He tells me our outside appearance have changed but that we are the same people inside.
“Won’t you please read my signs, be a gypsy, tell me what I hope to find deep within me, because you can read my mind, please be with me…” (Please Be With Me, by Eric Clapton)
I no longer wear boy’s shoes. I am no longer insecure about my acne scars - laser has zapped them, I wear much better clothes, my shoes, all 100 pairs or so of them are always clean, I have seen most of the world but deep within me I am still the same – I am real, I love life, and I still do not wear false eyelashes.
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