Waiting for the Big Fish

I actually have a fish story—

I have been thinking a lot about fish lately. Do not give people fish; teach them how to fish. There is a grilled pomfry stored in my freezer, I have some milkfish and Boston mackerel in my freezer. I want some grilled fish for dinner. The Chinese lady smiling at me when I buy my fish, “no clean? Oki, oki, xie-xie!” I am obsessed with fish for the time being. My niece Joan and I will operate a grill in Manila and it will sell nothing but grilled fish – small fish, large fish; we think this is our destiny- grilled fish gurus and entrepreneurs.

When my son was barely 4 years old, I agreed to fetch some fish from Florida in exchange for a round trip ticket to Pensacola, Florida. What would be the downside; I could frolic at the beaches with my baby and my Florida-based family who lived near the most pristine sugary white sand beaches of Pensacola, Florida. All I had to do was bring home a giant tub of round scad for my sister to sell in her Asian food store in Virginia. In Florida, we read and played under the sun until we were dark like raisins; we ate oysters, crabs, and shrimp to our heart’s desire; laughed and dipped in the warm water of the Gulf of Mexico. Life was good and the sun was warm and my skin was getting as dark as terra cotta. The only thing that cast some sadness to me was that I no longer was able to travel outside of my now smaller world- work and home, home and work. No longer could I afford to go out on European vacations with my friends; my mantra has become “Spending unwisely will take food away from my child’s mouth.” The other thing that was frustrating to me was that my savings was going fast as I pay my lawyer a dime for every nickel I was getting for a pittance of a child support. Nevertheless, my needs may be more than I could afford but I had a very beautiful and healthy child and he was worth more than a few trips to Rome or Madrid.

On the day of my return to Washington, DC, a huge Styrofoam ice box of about four feet long and two feet wide was filled with the round scads and ice, duct taped to make it stay shut and cold. As I checked it in, I almost felt like I was bringing in some contraband from some exotic place; something that was taboo or even illegal. This was what I signed up for and now I was about to check it in. How would anyone know that the woman with a cute little baby, carrying a designer purse and wearing a pair of Rayban sunglasses is bringing into the flight at least 50 lbs of roundscad, otherwise known as “galunggong.” The airline agent smiled at me and said, “This is one huge ice box.” It sure was.

Life as a single mom has taught me the virtue of humility; it was perfectly okay to ask the camp executive director for a huge discount for my son’s summer camp so he could learn to swim and draw and play with other kids. He agreed. It was even okay to ask the mechanics and upholsterers to lower the prices of their services to help me out. They agreed. I accepted hand-me-down baby clothes from coworkers, diaper coupons from friends and acquaintances; and shopped for toys at thrift shops. I even bought a few clothes from the consignment stores to avoid looking like a derelict, while I fought to get child support. It was more important to clothe and feed my child and pay the day care provider. So that on this day, bringing in more than 50-lbs of galunggong in exchange for a round trip plane ticket to get my son and myself to play at a beach was a no brainer.

My son got airsick. The poor baby was a mess when we landed. As I rushed to take him somewhere so he could feel a little better, I saw my ice box on the conveyor. As it began to slide down, the box broke in half, spilling every fish out onto the conveyor. People began to look with amusement at the little round scads, so many with ice still attached to them going around and around amongst the suitcases. I was horrified but I acted as though I had nothing to do with the damn fish. People were quiet and polite at first but then they started to make comments about the fish, “Oh my goodness, whose fish are those? That’s a lot of bait! I have never seen so many fish swimming above sea level.”

I stared in disbelief as the ice box proceeded to break in many places spilling galunggong and a few blue fish. I was horrified. If I walk away, I would not know what I would tell my sister. I had nothing to show for the airline ticket that she gave me. So I stood there stoically, praying to Saint Therese to cover the smell of fish with smell of flowers. She delivered. I could not smell the fish, only a faint smell of my baby’s vomit.

It seemed like an eternity before the crowd disappeared with their suitcases and beautiful memories of Florida, punctuated, surely, with a “funny story” of fish spilling out of a white box as they claimed their luggage. They must know or guessed those fish belonged to that Asian lady with a baby. I was the only one who looked like I would eat those little fish, with eyes staring out into nothingness.

I rushed to change my son’s clothes and cleaned him up. His color was coming back. Now I have to take care of some fish “swimming” on the conveyor belt. I approached a porter, “Excuse me, I need your help. Those fish are mine.” He looked at me, face beaming with amusement, and called out loudly to the other porters, “Hey! Let’s help this lady. That fish is her lunch!” “What?” “The fish on the conveyor! She owns them. Lady, that your lunch?” At least three of them approached me. “Lady, this is a lot of fish! Where did you get all these fish? You gonna use them for bait? Man, ain’t seen them many fish in a long time and they ain’t swimming in no water. Na-ah!” I wanted to die, I wanted to disappear into the floor, but I also needed to take the fish to where I should so I said, “Thank you. My baby and I are trying to sell the fish today in Virginia so I can pay my rent.” “Lady, we will help you, no problem.” “Hey! Help the lady with her rent!”

They found a plastic tub that fit perfectly in the trunk of my car. They put fish and ice in that tub and covered it with plastic trash bags. I was very grateful and knew they would have something funny to relay to their wives and children that night. I on the other hand, drove straight to Virginia to deliver the fish. They were still stiff frozen when I got there.

My nephew René reminded me recently of a saying that says, “That which did not kill you, makes you stronger.” The fish incident did not kill me. It could not have. Despite the fact that it was mortifying while it happened, I focused on my mission to deliver them to their owner. I was also aware that there was something honorable in doing something good for yourself and those who depended on you. The horror and embarrassment of that day did not humiliate me. I moved on with my life doing the best I could to fish and provide for my son.

Today, I look back on that experience as a reminder of what I have gone through; so to speak, I did not raise my son asking for fish; I learned how to fish and I think I finally caught a big one.

His Royal Highness, the Prince of Darkness-

There are only two lasting legacies we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots; the other, wings.”- Hodding Carter

May 2010
My son is back for the summer. Looking at him, all tall and lanky, I realized the changes that occurred. He is more confident (or is it cocky?) and yet forthright in the revelations he professed he has had while away. Unfortunately, one of those revelations meant he is back to stay with Mom and Dad while he figures out where he is going next. He found the Midwest to be too monochromatic. He acknowledged that his mother’s choice of college for him was also his, but he went against her wishes to prove his “independence.”

Well, enough of the independence. He breached a clause in the contract we made him sign; that clause states that if he caused his out-of-state college pursuit to change by his own doing, then he would matriculate in our state's State University and pay his own way for a semester at the community college until he is transferred to the State U. As it turned out, the State is on a first come-first served basis for transferees so he needs to wait for the Spring semester in December.

Much to his disappointment and to ours as well, we all have to live together this summer and the Fall semester while he toils at the community college, waiting to leave in December. He successfully took two courses this summer to jumpstart his “out of ‘rents sight” pursuit of college.

Most people agree that college is an overwhelming place to hone one’s skills in critical thinking, scientific reasoning, communicating, prioritizing, among other things. College teaches a student how to learn. It is a place to celebrate the lack of parental intrusion/control, parental nagging, a place to party, and learn to hug the toilet bowl on weekends.

When we left my son in the Midwest, I had the sinking feeling that he was not ready to be independent. I was wrong; he was so independent that he never sought our advice on anything. While this is good on some areas; it failed in many more. He avoided calling us; would not respond to our emails; and basically got himself independently distracted and independently lost amongst the more than 22,000 kids in the campus. Along the way, he concluded that there’s more to life than getting wasted; more to life than assuming you are doing well just getting by. I strongly believe that he would have been much happier if there were such a thing called MonteSorri University, where one can pursue courses in “Debate Anybody in English,” “Passive Aggression is the New Rebellion,” “Debit Card Sets You Free,” and an elective called "Texting for Ijots."

My son decided he did not like the Midwest enough to want to go back; his political views differed from theirs, he missed the diversity of Washington, DC. The first text message I received upon his return was, “Mom, there is this homeless guy screaming about his false teeth in the Metro. I love D.C.!” He did come home more agreeable to ideas, surprised about the things he found out about himself and his views of the world. We were glad for this apparent quasi maturity. Based upon his choice to continue his studies back home, we discussed the implications of this change of heart. He seemed to be fine with the outcome. Meanwhile, he learned to cook at home and worked as a summer intern in the US Senate.

July 2010

Midway through the summer, everyone in our household came to some level of stress. My son was no longer cooking at this time but he continues the eating, or shall I say the vacuuming of food. The kitchen has turned into a “killing field,” as in “Mom, can I kill all these ribs?” “Shall I kill the grilled chicken?”

Faced with the fact that he is going to be living at home for a full semester, before he can go back safely to the “You don’t have to bathe if you are wearing body deodorant" culture in the dorm, he has become impatient. The eye rolling started again and before long I was telling him that if he is annoyed to be around me, that the feeling is mutual. However, we still had to continue to parent the prince of darkness (PoD). He seems to come alive at night, socializing until the first hour of the morning with his posse. I see him briefly in the mornings before he and I go to work. On weekends, we don’t see him until later in the afternoon when he comes out to “kill his lunch” and sometimes, part of ours too.

Very recently, the time has come for us to exercise, yet again, our “parental control” in his choice of subjects to ensure that they can be transferred to the state university. The university is situated about three hours from our home so that he will still be safely "away" from us. But he is not leaving any time soon. At the earliest, he will be attending the state U beginning January 2011. He did not appreciate our guidance. It came to a head one evening when we were insisting that a certain class will not work they way it is scheduled. He told us that we are doing nothing but controlling his life. Hurtful words were exchanged. He told us that we are annoying, and that whenever he is done with college and successful, he would never have anything to do with us.

It hurts to hear this from your child, let alone your only child, the center of your universe for the last 18 years. When I have calmed down, I told him “When you are done with college and you do not want to have anything to do with me nor your Dad, that is just fine. You can forget all about us.“ His Dad plainly told him that his statement has fundamentally hurt our relationship with him but that regardless, we love him and want him to succeed. I find it ironic that we would still finance his college pursuit so that he can disown us afterwards. What joy!

I would have never dreamt of saying something hurtful to my parents. When I left Manila, my mother told me that leaving would lead me to great opportunities. I left with a heavy heart because I was leaving the warmth and the security of my mother’s and my family’s support. I was going to join my Dad and the rest of my family in the USA, who I have not seen in decades. I was all of nineteen then, the same age as my son's this year.

The most disrespectful thing I had the audacity to utter to my mother, in my Dad’s presence was an innocuous “Pambihira naman!” (You’re unbelievable!) and I found myself kissing a step of our stairs with my Dad’s hand pushing my head. He said, “Don’t you ever, ever disrespect your mother with that tone of voice.” I now hear my Mom’s voice when I warn my son, “Do not use that tone of voice on me.”

The American way is to get the child out of the house when they reach the age of 18, which is the age they can vote but not drink where we live. But it is considered generally the age when they can be on their own. My husband said there is no wonder why 18 year olds make good soldiers. They have so much anger in them that they would shoot anyone who pisses them off. But I am not a drill sergeant who can tell this arrogant asshole of a recruit to shut up and do as I say. “Do you love your Momma piojo?” (louse, Spanish) “Yes sir I love my Momma.” “The Air Force does not need another mama’s boy. "You a mama’s boy, piojo?” Indeed, there might be some wisdom into letting children move out of their parents’ home at 18. They can either go to college where they could be in the company of other angry and lazy kids or take a menial job and do nothing but complain about how their jobs “suck.”

"Here is the deal," as I am known to say: The kid will stay with us for the next semester. He would continue on to the out-of-town state U in the Spring. If he decides to stay around, he has to find a job where he might ask the following things:

1) Sorry that DVD is out of stock. Thanks for shopping Good Buy. Have a good day.
2) What size of soda do you want with your meal? Have a good day.
3) Sign the receipt on this line please. Thanks for shopping Tuesday Evenings, Have a good day.
4) Do you want a regular or deluxe wash? Under car wash? Ok, fine. Have a good day.

Or, none of the above. But he will need to move out. We will no longer tolerate the stink of piled laundry or the half-hour full blast hot showers! He can join the Peace Corps, the Air Force, the Navy but not the Army nor the Marines. I want to be proud of my son but not in a box covered with the American flag. I want to miss him but not miss him for eternity.

On this note, I wish him well and when he is done with “searching for himself,” but not at my or his father’s expense, he may decide that college is not a bad thing after all. As sure as the sun rises, we and our family and friends, and the whole village will be there to help the Prince of Darkness come out in the light.