Travel Travesties and Cultural Crossroads

Although I have been driving my own car ever since I was a junior in High School, the asphalt jungle of Manila is but a thread of roads compared to the wide and intimidating highways of the American Suburbia. A missed exit can make you find yourself miles away from where you really want to go. If ever you slow down, watch out for monstrous trucks rear ending you with their loud horns. Speed up above the limit and be prepared to see twinkling red lights from your rear view mirror. And to top this, Illinois is so peppered with toll booths that long before the advent of I-Pass, my piggy bank financed both my laundry and my unwanted trips through the “free” way.
Before the dawn of the GPS, I either used a map or asked for directions. Back in Manila, I was accustomed to “left”, “right”, and “all straight ahead” directions. The only places where I used the four directions of the North, South, West and East was when I drove through unpaved mountain roads with a compass in my hand. But then again, how many of us completely understand the references of the North from the South, the East from the West? With the sun shining, it might help. But in the middle of an icy night without familiar posts or signs, the road is like a haven for foreign bats, blind without a sense of reference.
So if in parties and events, many Filipino Americans (or maybe other Asians) are not punctual, don’t ask. They might just be so embarrassed to admit going towards Wisconsin as opposed to driving through Indiana, or heading towards Iowa when they needed to drive towards Lake Shore Drive. Being lost is a humiliating reality. The first time I had a long drive to visit a friend in New Jersey, I thought the sign by 90/94 with the big word that says exit to Ohio will actually lead me to the State of Ohio. I got lost in the one way mesh of downtown Chicago instead. When I left the maze, I then searched for road names when all I saw were Rural Route Numbers. So instead of having a not so long trip towards New Jersey, I wandered around the borders of Canada and Michigan.
Minimize chatting too much with your passenger or risk driving a long stretch of road without rest. Illinois 290 deviates into I-88 towards the west either brings you to the Northwestern Suburbs if you stayed on the right or will lead you all the way to Moline on the far west near Iowa if you insist on staying on the left. When we miss the spot, ignore the signs, pay the tolls without caring where we are, we lose our sense of time until a long stretch of farm lands takes over. There are no rest areas in sight when we miss exits in a rural area. So the first time a Filipina driver past her 60’s, together with a friend, took a brand new car for a “joy” ride with an intended 30 minute drive from River Forest to Hyde park towards the southeast, not knowing the point of reference for east or west, the 30 minute ride became a 7 hour agony – not for them (because they were so busy chatting), but for their respective families who were at the point of calling the cops and reporting them “missing”.
“Where is the C.R.?” a Filipino will ask while he jiggles up and down, holding his bladder. “The Comfort Room, you know”, he clarifies. “Oh, you mean the John”, the white man replies. “I don’t need John” (ukininam…), the Pinoy whispers. “Bathroom….where is the ban-yo?” “Here, take the key…go to the left of this Gas Station. It is right by the corner.” And so the Pinoy goes wondering as to why the bathroom needs to be locked and what does “John” have to do with the comfort room. Too bad there are not so many trees around. Back home, it is a man’s perk to have the ability of doing “it” behind a tree or a hidden area. Not here guys, not here. Do so and risk going to court for public exposure or indecency.
Those doors with automatic sensors are fun. Walk slowly towards the exit, they open by themselves and we are out in a jiffy. Not all stores have them though. Some stores have squeaky clean glass doors that slide, but without automatic sensors. No matter how long we stand and wait for them to open, they will never open. True story – once I walked so fast that I smashed against a glass door (that did not want to open for me). So when I got to the next store, I stood up and waited (and still the door did not open). I felt like the one of the guys in the “Three Stooges”.
“Bagong Salta” (newbie) is the term we attach to new comers. Many of us passed through that phase when we got here. “Anak, do not forget to hang your clothes out of your house to dry, especially when it is sunny”, said a lady over the phone. “Opo Inay (yes mom)”, responded the good son. So after their conversation, he took his newly laundered clothes from the sink to hang out. After all, the sun was bright. He left for work, hoping to gather his dried clothes when he comes back. The wind chill factor was more than 20 degrees zero. The temperature was less than 5 degrees. Snowflakes were still on his doorway. When he came back and took his clothes in, they were all frozen; pants as tough as a board and shirts that would not fold. He will now have to experience thawing an underwear.
Three male physical therapists shared a one bathroom apartment when they first arrived to save up for their own. One of them always spent long hours in the bathroom with a tin can at hand. The two friends wandered what he did. There was not much noise. The shower did not vibrate with water, but he always came out drying his hair, apparently done with cleaning himself. “Pare (man), what the heck do you spend an hour in the bathroom for? Turn the hot shower, throw some soap, rinse yourself and you’re done”, commented a friend. “No, I am not used to what you say”, responded the guy. “I prefer the “Tabo” (a tin can) when I wash myself. Since I do not have a “Batya” (pail), I had to put this “tabo” under the faucet and pour water on myself…. (LOL).
The sun was up. The night is over. More than five, ten, fifteen, or twenty years passed since we first arrived at the O’Hare Airport and passed through the rigors of an obtrusive customs inspector. We had to throw away our “bagoong” and had to get rid of our “dilis”. We survived those years, despite going around in circles when we wanted to go to the City, despite waiting for hours for a taxi to arrive, despite being hit with glass doors and not knowing where the “John” is.
Do not allow your tales to fade in oblivion and deprive your children of their right to know about the stories of our plight as immigrants. There is much to hear. There is much to say. There is much we can learn. There is much we need to listen to. Have a nice trip!