Sometimes people would ask, “Where did you come from?" and I’d answer, “I was born in San Diego, California.” Then they’d shake their heads. “No, I mean, where did your family come from?” I’d reply, “My baby sister was born here in Guam, but my mom and pa were born in the Philippines, but they’re Americans now because my pa joined the Navy when he was 21, and my mom married him when she was 21, and they moved to the States.” “Oh, you’re from the Philippines,” they’d say, ignoring everything else except for the word “Philippines.” “I thought so.”
Then it would be my turn to shake my head. I’d insist, “But I’ve never been to the Philippines,” but they, usually non-Filipino adults, had gotten the answer they wanted and their attention went onto something else.
“You are from the Philippines,” my mom told me as we went shopping for stationary on a windy, Saturday morning. “Your roots, your roots are in the Philippines.”
It was funny to think of my roots in the Philippines because, what with my father, a Navy supply officer, being transferred from one naval base to another, I never really had a place to plant my roots in. My parents were stationed in San Diego long enough for me to be born then learn to say “Mama” and “Papa.” My father then got orders to Great Lakes, Illinois, and we stayed there long enough for my parents to stop speaking Tagalog at me and to start speaking only English, and for me to start pre-school, where I was the only Asian in my class. Then we moved to Charleston, South Carolina, where I started kindergarten and where my father took me fishing once, me still dressed in my pink Sunday dress. How my father did that without my mom throwing a fit I hadn’t found out. Just when I was to begin first grade, my father got his orders to transfer, this time to Guam.
California, Illinois, South Carolina, Guam. And many more transfers to come, more changes of place. But some things didn’t change: the off-base military duplex we always moved into; my father, a Chief Petty Officer, First Class, dressed in his khaki uniform with his thin slip of a cap; my mother shopping in the Navy Exchange, buying stationary and candy bars; my father in his cut-off shorts and undershirt, making me a bologna-and-mayonnaise-on-white in the living room, while “Sesame Street” played in the background; the snappy salute of the gate guard, usually a young man, signaling my family into the bases, which looked the same wherever we went.
“Do you want to get anything?” my mom asked me. She had picked out two boxes of airmail stationary and envelopes, the light blue, rice-papery stuff which looked as if it could dissolve in your mouth. Mom always got the airiest stationary because postage was expensive. “The Navy doesn’t really pay well for enlisted men, but at least we don’t have to pay bills,” my pa once said to my mom during a fight about money, and he had motioned to the roof above us. The house, electricity, water, even phone bills were all paid by the U.S. government. We shopped in the commissary for our food, we went to the Navy Exchange for everything else (with stints to the nearby flea market, which was just off-base), and we went to the base clinic for free health-care. That’s what being a military dependent meant. You depended on the military for everything.
At least that’s what you’re supposed to do.
My mom had a cottage industry of catering, crocheting, sewing, and baby-sitting to supplement my father’s income. This cottage industry started well before I was ever born, back in California, and she picked it up from the more experienced military wives in the neighborhood. First catering, because my Mom was a great cook. Friends would eat a couple of her fare, like lumpia, then ask if she could make six dozen for a party, and she’d charge. Then came crocheting, anything from doilies to curtains to blouses. She’d sit back in front of the TV, letting her mind wander, and let her fingers go at it with hook and string. Viola! A work of practical art. And her sewing and baby-sitting were just to fill in the times when she wasn’t catering, crocheting, or looking after her children. Even though my father’s income was rather small, there were no bills to pay, so Mom really didn’t need to work. But I think she needed to work because, before she married Pa, she was a third-grade teacher in Manila (she tried the nursing program in college because nursing was a secure job -- just like the military was a secure job -- but she found out that she hated biology). Before she became a teacher, she worked in a tobacco factory. And before that, she worked in the rice fields. My mom spent all of her life working, and I think that if my mother, Grace Rizal Martinez, as a new Filipino-American bride, didn’t have some type of work to do, work that made money (because that was what she was used to; work equals money for the family), I think she would’ve gone absolutely bonkers with feeling useless.
So, not surprisingly, my enterprising mother made decent money, which was why we sometimes were able to go to Agana Mall in downtown Agana, Guam’s capitol, where my baby sister and I had gotten our ears pierced in a real, civilian shop. My mom’s working out of our military duplex was probably not allowed, but our neighbors didn’t say anything because they were military wives, too, and did similar money-making things.
“Hurry, Ellen! I have to baby-sit the Johnson baby in half-an-hour,” Mom said, and I grabbed a box of Hello Kitty stationary to match my Hello Kitty envelopes, which I already had, and gave it to her.
Ching! Exchange of money, no tax (another advantage of being a military dependent -- no tax for on-base purchases), and out the glass doors. Mom bought me a hot dog from a vendor who was always in front of the Exchange, and by the time I finished my hot dog, we were at the house. Yes, we lived off-base, but not too far off-base.
Mom was washing some rice for lunch for herself (she didn’t like hot dogs) when Mrs. Johnson, a black woman who was a part-time receptionist at the Agana Hilton, dropped off her baby Anthony.
“Be a good boy, Tony,” she said, handing her little boy and his baby bag to my mom. “Thanks a lot, Grace.”
“Ah, no problem. Tony is a good boy,” my mom said, and she bounced him up and down and made Tony laugh. “See you this afternoon.”
Then my mom brought Tony to the living room and set him down in the playpen so that he could play with Shell, then she returned to washing and cooking the rice. My mom liked sitting babies because she could let them play with Shell while doing other chores or while sitting in the living room, crocheting doilies for somebody, and watching soap operas, talk shows, and game shows on TV. Since it wasn’t noon yet, my mom was also waiting for the mail to arrive; I waited behind the screen door, which kept out the flies and mosquitoes but let in the cool, moist air and the smell of salt from the sea.
At noon, the mailman came in his little white jeep with the blue eagle painted in the side. He parked on the curb, and, because military housing didn’t have mailboxes next to the curb, walked up to our mailbox next to the front door, looking severe. Crunch, crunch, crunch on the gravel driveway to the carport, sqeeeak of the mailbox lid, and the clatter of the lid shutting after he put in the mail.
“Hi,” he said after the lid clattered down.
“Hi,” I replied from the doorway and watched him go crunch, crunch, crunch down the driveway to his postal jeep. I opened the screen door, shooing away the flies, and lifted up the creaking black lid. Three letters today. One from my cousin Cora in San Diego, one from my Uncle John in the Philippines, and one from my pa from a port near Hong Kong. All three addressed to “Martinez Family, 2227-B McMillan Drive, Lockwood Terrace, Naval Station, Guam, FPO San Francisco, CA 96630.” I’d always wondered why “San Francisco, CA” was there, since California was on one end of the ocean and Guam was on the other.
“Mom, mail!” I said, but Mom was already in the kitchen, settling herself into a folding chair next to the card table, which we used as the kitchen table and where we had set our newly purchased stationary. I handed Mom the letters, and she opened Cora’s letter first since we rarely got anything stateside.
I saw Mom’s dark eyes go from left to right, left to right, as I stood on the cool linoleum floor, leaning on the kitchen counter as I heard Tony and Shell babble in the playpen. After a few minutes, she shrugged and handed me the letter, muttering something.
“What?”
“They’re more Filipino than those in the Philippines,” she said. She ripped open Uncle John’s letter, shaking her head. “Never mind. Cora seems to be doing fine.”
I looked at the letter, handwritten in swirling ink on heavy, cream-colored paper, and thought of how expensive it was to have sent it.
Dear Uncle, Auntie, Ellen, and Shelley,
Hi, how are all of you? I know that it has been forever since I’ve written to any of you. But now that I’m finally on vacation, I wanted to update all of you on how we’re all doing.
John-John is back living at home with my Mom and Dad and has a job working in the Biology Department at UC San Diego. He’s 23 years old and is doing great! My Mom is Assistant Director of Nursing at a nearby nursing home. My Dad’s still working on base, but he’s planning to retire after 25 years of service! He’s planning on getting a federal job on base, God willing! As for myself, I just got back from Berkeley after my first year in college! I thought that I’d be lost up there in the Bay Area, but I met some new friends, and there’s even a Filipino-American organization at school, just like there is at UC San Diego, where John-John is. We meet every other week to eat Filipino food and practice Tagalog. Kumusta? I can understand a little of what someone says to me, but I’m not so good at answering! We had a semi-formal last month, and enclosed isa picture of me at the dance.
While I’m down here, I’m participating in my Mom and Dad’s Filipino-American prayer group. Every Wednesday we say rosary at my parents’ house and then eat. Sometimes we sing karaoke after we eat, which is funny but fun! At the end of the month, we have a big Filipino mass with lots of guitar and singing. We usually take up a collection for this big fund which the prayer group sends to the Philippines. Last month it was a school in the Ilocos. This month it’ll be a clinic in Cebu.
My Mom talked with Uncle Rex, and he says that he and Auntie Nita will be going to the Philippines this summer. When Uncle Rex and Auntie Nita went to the Philippines last year, did they stop by to see all of you in Guam? After all, Guam is only 1,500 miles east of the Philippines while we’re 6,000 miles away from you! I wish that my Mom, my Dad, John-John, and I could visit the family in the Philippines every year like Uncle Rex and Auntie Nita, but my Mom says the air fare is too expensive.
I better stop here before I babble on. I wish you could all come and visit us, eight years is too long! My Dad says that when you get transferred again, you might be able to visit. I hope so! Again, thanks for always writing to us, and I hope to hear from you all soon!
Your niece.,
Cora
“How come we don’t belong to any Filipino groups like Cora, John-John, and Auntie and Uncle?” I asked, setting down the letter.
“Because we don’t have to belong to a Filipino group to be Filipino,” my mom curtly replied. “We live in Guam -- it’s small and there are a lot of Filipinos here.” She was brooding over Uncle John’s letter.
“But aren’t there lots of Filipinos in California?”
“Yes, but there are even more whites, Hispanics, blacks, and other Asians. You join a group so you don’t get lost.”
“Get lost?” I frowned, not understanding.
“Get lost. Forget who you are. Where you came from. Where your home is.”
“But wasn’t I born in San Diego? Isn’t my home --” I began, but my mom rose from the table and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Uncle John’s letter next to Cora’s letter and matching envelope. I fished out Cora’s picture from the envelope, and I saw my eighteen-year old cousin, dressed in a blue lacy gown with gold embroidery, white beading , and sleeves which poofed up and out at the shoulders. The expensive-looking, opulent dress made me itch just looking at it. Cora’s long, dark hair was pulled back into a loose pony-tail, showing off her creamy, golden skin, like lightly toasted bread, a throwback to some Spanish ancestor. In contrast, her surprisingly large date was nut-brown, like most Filipino men I knew, which easily showed underneath the diaphanous, untucked-yet-buttoned-to-the-kneck barong shirt he wore. I easily saw his undershirt, which a Filipino needed to wear if he wore a barong, and to complete the ensemble, he wore black slacks. A see-through, untucked shirt, undershirt, black pants. Every Filipino man I knew had the same goofy outfit -- even my pa had his own inexpensive set, to be worn on special occasions, like weddings and Christenings.
But Cora and her date wore these fancy Filipino clothes for, well, for a prom, and it looked it: Cora and her date standing before a camera, hands held together with plastic smiles and wilting corsages. I couldn’t see my parents in a similar event, probably because they couldn’t afford such expensive Filipino clothes, and the Filipinos my family knew nowadays probably couldn’t afford them either because they were military families, experiencing that practical brand of poverty which called for simplicity in wants, cottage industries, and military dependency, which, in the civilian sector, was sometimes called “welfare.”
I set down Cora’s picture and looked at Uncle John’s letter, printed in cheap ball-point ink on rice paper so thin that it looked like tissue paper.
Dearest Manang Grace,
Warmest regards to you, Manong Ray, and the kids.
All are well here, and even Tatay talks a little now, a month after the stroke. Little Mira helps out Nanay after school with Tatay since Nanay isn’t so young anymore, di ba? We thank you, Rex, and Elena for the money you sent to help with Tatay’s medical care. The hospital doesn’t have much medicine. What medicine remains is very expensive, and we thank you for the help. The doctor says Tatay needs rehabilitation, but they have no one to do this. So we brought him back home and Nanay feeds him because the hospital food is not good, she says. Tatay has gained some weight -- God willing, he will continue to get better. Still, pray for us, Grace.
Rex and Nita will be here next month, and little Mira, Erming, and Carlos are excited to see their Uncle and Auntie from the States. We wish you, Ray, and the kids could visit us, but I know that the bases will be closing soon so you may not be able to go through the military for a free flight on Army transport, and civilian airline flights are expensive, even from Guam. Still, we will see each other someday soon, God willing.
Your brother,
John
I looked up to see my mom walking back to the kitchen, her hands smearing her black purse with baby powder -- she just changed Shell’s and Tony’s diapers. She ppulled from her purse a blank airmail sheet and envelope, a pen, and her checkbook. She sat before the table, glanced at Uncle John’s letter, and wrote in her checkbook. I glimpsed at the check -- it was for $100. She saw me look, and she quickly put the check in the envelope.
“Mom, who are Tatay and Nanay?”
“He means your grandparents. ‘Tatay’ means ‘father’ and ‘nanay’ means ‘mother,’” Mom replied as she began writing her letter to Uncle John.
“Are they very old?” I had never seen my grandparents before.
“They’re in their sixties.”
“Who are Mira, Erming, and Carlos?”
“They’re your cousins, the children of my older brother John.”
“I thought Uncle Rex was your older brother.”
“He’s my eldest brother.”
I glanced at Mom’s letter and saw that she was writing in that odd mixture of English, Tagalog, and Ilocano, which was the dialect of the Ilocos, the region where my mom came from in the Philippines. “Are we ever going to the Philippines?”
Mom looked up from her writing and sighed. “Ellen, go read Pa’s letter.” Then she returned to her writing.
Pa’s letter. I opened the big white envelope and saw that Pa sent a tourist card, like one of those goofy, touristy postcards but in greeting card form. The front cover was a glossy, aerial shot of Hong Kong, all busy and small and crowded with an air-brushed sea, air-brushed sky, and even air-brushed junks, bobbing on the air-brushed waves, while a white hexagonal resort tower dominated the view. Inside was a quick note from Pa, written in Pa’s small, efficient cursive, which I could imagine being on some military requisition form, authorizing the procurement of freeze-dried potato flakes and a dozen missiles’ laser sights.
Dear Grace and Kids,
As you can see, the photographer did a really good job on the picture of Hong Kong, where my ship is docked for a few hours for re-supply. Hong Kong is loud and dirty and expensive, and there’s a young seaman here who is excited because he said he ate expensive dog. Hey, this is Hong Kong, not Thailand! Just like Filipino vendors, I bet the only exotic meat this Chinese cook gave him was cheap pork.
Ellen, I hear from your mom that you are doing well in your piano studies. Remember -- you play a song for me when I get back, okay? As it is now, I should be home in a month, maybe sooner. Until then, you be a help to your mom, okay? I depend on you, and your mom works so hard. In return, I’ll have a gift for everybody!
Time to ship off now -- I’ll write more soon!
Love,
Pa
I imagined my father, dressed in his pressed, khaki Chief Petty Officer uniform, including his thin slip of a cap and his spit-shined black shoes, walking quickly through the grey metal, claustrophobic tunnels called the passageways of a naval supply ship, involuntarily skipping through the elongated, lipped rat-holes called the hatchways, going from one tiny room to another, rubbing shoulders with enlisted and officer, seaman and commander-in-chief. I imagined my father, seeing the sights of different earths, smelling the odors of different peoples, and, always, living with the sea, the large and blue Pacific Ocean, which wasn’t always so peaceful (we had all been through typhoons). I couldn’t see my father in any other way, divorced from the peripatetic life of a navy man, just like I couldn’t see myself in any other way than a military brat, neither caught up in the complicated, settled bustle of my stateside cousins, who had to join this or that group or else lose themselves in the rush that is California, nor the resigned, here-I-was-born-and-here-shall-I-die life of my grandparents, my apu bakut and apu lakai, in the Philippines, who had to rely on their faraway children to send money in order to live.
“How’s your pa?” Mom asked after enclosing the letter with her check and sealing the envelope.
I gave her Pa’s card, saying, “He says that he’ll be home in a month. What does he mean by Filipino vendors?”
My mom’s face looked solemn due to Uncle John’s letter. “Just something about smart Filipinos and American tourists who want to try something foreign, like eat dog.”
“But why?” I made a face.
“Because Filipinos used to hunt and eat dogs, just like pigs.”
I made an even worse face. “Ugh! Have you and Pa ever eaten a dog?”
She grinned and shrugged but didn’t answer my question. “How does adobo pork sound for lunch?”
“Better than dog!”
Mom laughed and checked on the rice to see if its was done. “Go write to your pa. And do it in the living room so you can check on Shelley and Tony, okay?”
I brought my Hello Kitty stuff with me to the dining table and saw Tony asleep in this automatic, lullaby swing chair we had and saw Shell bouncing happily in another baby-sitter-saving device, a suspended baby-bungee chair, in which one end of the bungee cords were attached to the top of the door jamb and the other end, terminating to a seat, dangled just high enough for baby legs to kick up and down.
Seated before the dining table, I looked at the two babies. Would they remember Guam, their birthplace? No, they probably wouldn’t, like I didn’t remember San Diego because we moved. Moving moving, always moving, from one base to another, and yet each different location seemed like part of one big base because there was a sameness at each location -- the military duplex, the Navy Exchange, the commissary, the military kids all speaking English in that flat, non-regional American accent, vaguely Midwest but not Midwest. And I spoke that kind of English and barely knew Tagalog at all, even though, at times, I wished I did know, so I could understand the lives of my extended family, one half in California, the other half in the Philippines, not because I felt that they were home but because I felt curious, maybe like that seaman in Pa’s card, who had wanted to eat dog. Or was it more than curiosity?
I looked at Shell bouncing away in her bungee chair and at Tony asleep in the rocker -- American babies both, like me. I smelled the vinegary-pepperness of adobo pork beginning to waft from the kitchen -- a Filipino dish for a Filipino family. And the two, the Filipino and the American, were linked because my father was in the U.S. Navy, which gained him U.S. citizenship and a career opportunity, and in return he gave his life and his family to the military, and I knew no other life, no other home. At least for now.
I uncapped a pen and began my letter from home.
© 1996 Rufel F. Ramos