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My Turnby Maileen Hamto |
 |
From The Asian Reporter, V17, #51 (December 18, 2007), page 6.
Letter to lola
Dear lola (grandmother),
For years, we have been on a campaign to get you to come over and visit us in America. Your answer was always an empathic "No."
I understand. Your good friend who came to live with her daughters in New York came back to Manila six months later. She told stories about how life is terribly lonely and isolated for Pinoys in the States. While her daughter worked a 9-to-5 job, she was a virtual prisoner in the apartment, left without the means to get out and do things. People are always busy working, and most have no time for family and friends.
We won’t lie. Life in America isn’t a cakewalk. Everyone has to work really hard. For many immigrants, no matter how long you have lived here, life is a constant struggle. Most people we know work two or three jobs. Friends who work in places where they can pick up overtime usually do, logging insane amounts of work hours during the week. Do we really have to work that hard? Yes, especially if we want to keep up with the pace and quality of life here. As newcomers, we have a lot of catching up to do.
I’m writing because there are things we can’t adequately cover in regular 30-minute long-distance phone updates. You lived through the roughest spots of the Japanese occupation, so you were never one to enjoy mushy trips down memory lane.
Needless to say, you were a big part of my childhood. I remember distinctly how you would come back from the palengke (public markets) with treats, snacks, and hard-boiled quail eggs as pasalubong (presents) for me and brother. Noche Buena (Christmas Eve dinner) at your house was always a delight. New Years were quite loud, chaotic, and fun.
One thing I never appreciated was your constant nagging about why I shouldn’t play out in the sun too long. "You’re dark enough. You’ll only get darker," you would say. I rebelled against the premium that society placed on light skin, and understood later that sentiment is a holdover from our colonial history.
I fully revelled in how your spiritual beliefs bordered on the eclectic, a curious mix of indigenous, Spanish, and Chinese influences. A Santo Niño (statuette of child Jesus) in the living room, and a statue of Buddha in the kitchen. You listened intently to radio shows on herbal and folk medicine.
Forty years after the war, memories loomed. You were only eight years old during the time of the Japanese occupation of the Philippines. I can only imagine how living through uncertainty and less-than-ideal conditions has shaped your world view. You would admonish us to eat our meals quickly. I remember the mini-lecture that followed every tacit reminder about panahon ng Hapon (the Japanese era). A quick meal is insurance against starvation, even death.
"In case the soldiers came. If we had to go into hiding for an undetermined length of time, at least we’d have food in our stomachs."
You and lolo did well. He came from the Dumelod clan, who descended from the proud Gaddang mountain people of Nueva Vizcaya. His family never needed to adopt a Spanish surname to become more acceptable — more palatable — to the ruling class. Taking a risk to go to the big city, he came with only his will and determination to make a life in post-war Manila.
Although the war interrupted your grade-school education, you and lolo managed to send Mom and the rest of your nine children to college. Not an easy feat, considering hard economic conditions in the Philippines. It would have made more economic sense for titos and titas to take jobs right out of high school, but you and lolo insisted that wasn’t a good long-term strategy.
I have always admired your resilience. Widowed with nine children and six grandchildren, you stood firm and held the family together. Your daughters and sons took after your strength. As the eldest in the growing brood of grandchildren scattered all over the world, I speak for others in showing appreciation for everything you’ve done for our family.
That said, who are we to try to bring you out of your element? Don’t stress about coming over. We’ll come and see you.
Sincerely,
Your apo (grandchild)