Sitting by the Edge of a Wall

Charlie Gandula finally decided to tie the knot with Cassidy Villacorta. While he came from the northern highlands of the Mountain Province, she hailed from the Visayan City of Iloilo. Charlie, or Caloy, as known by his kin, is dark complexioned, burly, and with an above average height. Though his dad had a fraction of Caucasian genes from an old generation of Iberian conquistadores, his mom was a royal member of an aboriginal tribe, bred and raised as an Igorot Princess, a clan of a tribal royalty. Cassidy, or Kay-Kay to her friends, is a perennial beauty, an epitome of Asian and European crossroads whose roots are traced from paternal grandparents who were also of Spanish descent while her maternal lineage descended from Chinese merchants. From the far north to the mid-south, the two souls held their hands through a vow and conjoined as one – blended in an amalgam of “Mestizo” and “Indio”, diverse and united. In a land of dreams, they both embarked on starting a family, soon to be blended in a potpourri of races from all corners of the world.
Bertram Aris, Caloy and Kay-Kay’s eldest baby, is now in 8th grade. His sister, Rebecca, is finishing 4th. And their little baby brother, Ludwig, is still romping in the playground of a nearby kindergarten school. With the last name of “Gandula”, they became their classmates’object of guessing games. Bertram is dark skinned like his dad. Rebecca is extremely fair with a dusky brown hair. And Ludwig has a perfect and permanent tan, the exotic color of an Asian skin. Although they were all born in America, converse in perfect English, and expressed themselves like typical American kids, people around them still noticed a peculiar tone from the way they talked, just one of those peculiar traits observed by those who are not like them. When their mom, Kay-Kay, now the Charge nurse of a pediatric ward from a nearby hospital, picks them up from school, other parents with an oriental mien, start conversing with her either in Chinese, Korean or Japanese. When it is Caloy’s turn, the Mexican dads hover around him hoping he could chat in Spanish. And their kids, while growing up, were all exposed to at least four different distinct languages. They were so confused as toddlers listening to different tongues that they simply decided to stick with American English.
Years passed. “We are Americans”. They convincingly responded everytime a schoolmate quizzed them on their ethnic backgrounds. As they grew, although their racial understanding expanded, and they became more acquainted with diversity, the clarity of their Filipino racial identity remained vague. They have not yet visited the land of their forefathers. They have not met any of their cousins and they seem to be the only Filipinos in a Boston suburb at that time. As if to pacify their parents, Bertram and Rebecca now claim that they are Asian Americans, instead of just saying they are Americans as they used to. Ludwig, on the other hand, still says he is a South East Asian. “Filipinos, you are Filipinos”, Caloy insists. But now that they are in their teens, their dad’s sermons waifed like a vapid echo passing through their ears.
Caloy is a Physical Therapist working in the same place where my wife has worked for the past ten years. I had a glimpse of his life when we sat down to discuss about his future retirement strategies. To cut things short, Caloy became my client. Besides expressing his desire to harvest the fruits of his labor in due time, he also wanted to be sure that enough funds are allocated for the college education of Bertram, Rebecca and Ludwig.
“So Caloy”, I asked. “Do you intend to go back to Benguet and retire there with your wife?” “Are you kidding? With our kids completely rooted here, my brothers and sisters in California and my parents in Hawaii, I really do not have any reason to go back there. Kay-Kay is the same. Her whole family is in New York. Who knows? She and I could probably be the first Filipino couple to one day reside in one of those Senior living centers where the old and healthy end up being sick and senile. My kids, man! They are more Americans than the Founding Fathers. I can’t blame them. I try so hard to find something cohesive and attractive from our own culture to be proud of, but all I come up with are conflicting historical data mired in fiction and meshed in confusion. Dadagdagan pa ng kung ano anong kalokohan sa gobiyerno, mahirap ang maging Pinoy, pare. With our Spanish or Chinese last names, our outlandish sounding first names, our multi-faceted physical traits, and our peculiar accents, I think we can easily be relegated as one of those exotic racial mysteries in the world. Ano ba talaga ang Pilipino?” I can only listen. Starbucks was bustling with people. My café grande and his latte vente brewed our moods into a deeper simmer of thoughts slightly deviating from my business goals. “Pero Caloy”, I replied. “With more than 3 million Filipinos in the United States, don’t you think we could do something to teach our children about our culture and help them understand at least what it means to be like us?” He sipped through his cup. Then looking past the store window, gazing at what seems to extend beyond the walls of his memories, he replied. “I don’t know, pare. How do you do that?
“Do you know that October is the month designated to celebrate the Filipino American Heritage? It came. It left. I really have not seen much to commemorate it. No ads, not parades, no nothing. If I did not read it from the Chicago tribune, I will not even know. But honestly, can you name me at least 5 things distinctly and uniquely Filipino that no one else has that we could truly be proud of?” I kept quiet. I tried to think. Minutes passed. Silence was becoming a discomfort.
“Well….to begin with, we are so hardworking as a people that we have dominated the health care service industry, not only of this country, but also in other parts of the world. We care about other people and care for their sick that we are somewhat the Asian Florence Nightingale. Don’t you agree that this is something we can be proud of?” (I wanted to slap myself for not being able to say something more relevant to his question).
“Okay, maybe that is one”, he said. “But don’t you think that the majority of Filipinos do that only because of market demands? You know how we are. We tend to flock where the herd is going, doing what everybody is doing, even if that herd is ear marked for the butcher’s knife. We risk whatever we can because we need to survive. We play with whatever is played, no matter how ethical or unethical sometimes. When confronted with the dangers of extinction, we have to do whatever it takes. If only we had opportunities to go back home and if we only we had a level playing field, and if opportunities were available and equal, don’t you think that the Filipino exodus would cease?”
“Funny you said that, Caloy. Do you know that amongst all the Asian immigrants around the world, Filipinos have the highest rate of people with a desire to go back home. Alam mo na, the Filipino Diaspora is not a permanent reality. All we want is to have a better life; not only for us, but also for our kids. In so doing, we have to do like what the geese do, fly to a land with greener pastures.” Caloy smiled. “Look at us”, he said. “Your kid dances and sings hip-hop like an urban groupie. My kids give the high five’s instead of the “mano”. We mix with this American consumerist crowd falling prey to the same American marketing trap. Yet we talk about what it means to be a Filipino. “So pare, he continued. You only gave me one reason to be proud of our people, of us, of one thing that probably stands out. What else?”
I looked at my watch. Caloy looked at his. He has to get back to his patients in less than thirty minutes while I have to see another client five miles away from where we were. We just started, but our personal deadlines taunt us on our faces. Like the Starbucks crowd, we need to hurry. We need to move. Reflection is a luxury. Probably next time.
“Sorry Caloy, I think we have to meet again. Look at my proposals, talk it out with Kay-Kay, and call me up when the three of us could sit down. Ma-le-late ka na. And late na din ako”. We shook hands and then parted ways. Caloy was gone. I continued with my own reflection. Though I was not able to express the 4 remaining points that could defend my pride as a Filipino, I know I could throw that into the air and feed eavesdroppers with something to twig their behinds with. I inserted my key to the car’s ignition. From the dashboard, I see birds chirping on the edge of a wall, inviting their friends to do the same. They came in hordes, with a number that could probably ding a piece of concrete. Yet it is not on walls that these birds enjoy being birds. They travel. They move. They sing. They are aware of their bird-ness. They fly in formation. And they sit by the edge of a wall.