My mother had not been home to her native Philippines for almost 18 years, so when the chance came this year I gladly joined her.
She arrived two weeks prior, and then met me at the airport when my plane landed in Manila. From the airport, we took an 11 hour bus to Candon, which is the next-to-last stop till mom’s town, and arrived at 2am. Momma didn’t expect us to make such good time, so we were momentarily stranded at the small, open air, dirty bus stop.
I hadn’t slept since I left Los Angelees so mom laid my luggage on the ground and set up a make-shift bed. It was lumpy, and mosquitos were buzzing around my head, and the humidity made my skin shiny and sticky, and 20 feet away there were kids pulling an all-night playtime at the city park.
Mom sat on the bus stop bench, and she pet my hair while apologizing for these conditions and the uncomfortable ride from Manila. She added, “Don’t tell your friends about this, okay? Only tell them the beautiful things about the Philippines.”
She didn’t want me to tell my friends that I slept at a bus stop.
3 Halloweens ago
I guess I never told her about my US Navy years and all the bathroom floors I’ve slept on, or how I fell asleep in Kristy’s tub a few Halloweens ago, or the time I blacked out and woke up in a baby crib (don’t worry–the kid was at a sitter’s). There’s also that time I backed into a male urinal and peed in it when no other restrooms were open.
Don’t sweat it, mom. You didn’t raise a priss.
The next day, my Aunt Mina (a mid-wife and nurse) arrived early and brought us through the mountains to Tangaoan, the little town where my mother spent her childhood and where my Aunt still lived in the same house my Grandfather built. That night, I met all of my Filipino cousins for the very first time. They spoke English, but could not understand me–they were used to hearing English through a Filipino accent. One detail of my life clearly needed no translation: I was 32 years old and I was single.
My cousin Margarett (she just finished college and is a cadet in the Philippines National Forces) was the first to inquire if I had a boyfriend. She seemed truly heartbroken when I told her I was single. She touched my arm and asked, “But why, cousin?”
“I just haven’t met anyone I really like.”
She considered this and replied, “Hmm…You have dated?”
“Yes.”
“Are you only wanting a certain kind of race?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know what to tell her. I looked down at the photo album in her lap because I was too exhausted to hold eye contact while trying to form thoughts. I had just arrived after a long flight and drive, great excuse, right? But the truth is, I’m always lost for words when asked why I’m single; I said, “I just haven’t found what I’m looking for?”
Her reply: “I think being an Old Maid runs in our family. It’s okay. Auntie Mitzie is 42, you know? She is still not married. Our cousin Giselle, she is also single. I think it’s a curse.”
Might sound like a slap in the face, but it wasn’t. It was an honest answer from a girl whose female population is generally married by 25.
Margarett chatted with another cousin in Ilocano, and I wondered if she was passing the word: “Ladies, this one’s bearing the mark. Steer clear.”
A few days later we were in Baguio City, visiting my Aunt Goria, and I got to meet my young 25-year-old cousin, Ivy (she teaches English to Korean students). Ivy and I are single so I mentioned the curse to her. I was shocked when she said she was cursed too, and laughed when she gave me a the verbal shopping list of the women in my Filipino family who are educated… and single.
I couldn’t believe that this young and beautiful girl believed she was truly cursed at the age of 25. I shook my head at her and said, “No! In my country we are not old maids at this age, 30 is the new 20.”
A few days later, Mom and I were back in Tangaoan. All across the country, they were celebrating Fiesta, and at Fiesta, the different communities gather at the Baranguay center, children perform traditional Filipino dances, and the adults eat and talk.
I tried to understand conversations with the bits of Ilocano and Tagalog I currently understand, but when translation exhausted me, I began hunting for stuff to photograph. I was a forced tourist.
My uncle Amante found me in the crowd and said, “I’ve been looking for you! I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. The Chief of Police.”
Uncle took my hand and I knew he was up to something. I felt like a little girl being led to her foster parents. When we reached the top of the hill, Uncle said something in Ilocano, stood aside, and I was in front of a Filipino man who looked exactly like Enrique Inglesias, but in uniform.
I’m not attracted to Filipino men, but o sea, el hombre era caliente.
Very obviously a set-up.
“Hi,” I said.
My new friend said “hello” and introduced himself as Augosto, and my uncle Amante slowly backed away. He closed his hands together, as though he wanted us to come together. He said, “Okay… talk…”
And he was gone.
Awkward. I looked at Augosto and smiled.
“Hello…” I said again.
He began to ask questions about the United States, about my childhood, my family, and I answered each question, returning with questions of my own. He smiled gently and admitted his own nervousness at this sudden meeting. He told me he didn’t know that Uncle Amante was going to do this. I could only smile and agree that I, too, was a victim of the flash-flood date.
After about 5 minutes, we said goodbye and went our separate ways. I quickly found my mom and told her what happened. She asked me to locate this cop so that she could check him out.
I pointed up toward the top of the hill and there, with 3 other officers, stood Augosto. He smiled and waved down at me. I waved back. Mom said, “Just be friends! He lives too far, ha?”
I was like, “Mom, we didn’t go carve our names into a tree–we just talked for a few minutes. I think you can relax.”
A few hours later we had to leave. My Aunt Mina, the midwife, had to return to Tangaoan to deliver a baby.
When we arrived at the house, Aunt Mina crossed the street to begin prepping for the newborn while the rest of us started preparing dinner; Mom and I were on the porch, shaving vegetables for the stew. I heard yelling and saw my aunt running toward us through the rain from the house across the street. She ran inside our house for a few seconds, then she was back out again–running and yelling as she crossed the street.
“What was she saying?” I asked.
Mom laughed and said, “She said the baby’s head is coming.”
My Aunt Mitzie came out of the house next, followed by Gladys, my cousin’s wife. Gladys yelled to me, “Want to see? I want to see!”
I scrambled to get the bowl of vegetables from my lap, and slipped my flip flops over my feet. My mom yelled, “Hey! No! Don’t watch! It’s too private!”
I ran after Gladys, the three of us giggling as my mom was still yelling, “Hey! No!”
Being a visitor to the Philippines, having watched men urinate openly, showering with my mom standing in the same room, I have learned that nothing is too private in this country, and almost everything is shared. Everyone is so close, and I don’t mean spatially. There’s plenty of land, but they’re so emotionally close. They struggle together, they endure floods and droughts and famine together, and they pull each other along. It’s called Bayanihan–helping one another without asking for payment.
So when she said to stop because it was too private, I hit the gas.
We arrived at the house and hustled inside. I felt like part of a football team that’s getting ready to huddle for the big play as we bunched up around a bedroom door. I peeked over their heads but was unable to get my real-live-birth fix. I glanced at the slatted windows and saw little eyes peeking in, then heard one of the women shout something at the kids and slam the slats shut.
My Aunt Mitzie, the 42 year old fellow “old maid” in my family, turned and saw me rubber-necking. She reached through the girls and tugged my arm, pulling me forward through the gaggle of women who had all personally experienced this moment.
I felt sudden stage fright. I had my hands up in protest and my feet were dragging.
“You’ve never seen this?” one of the young girls asked.
“No..” I said.
“She’s single, and she doesn’t have babies,” Gladys said.
I felt hands at my back.
“It’s okay! It’s okay!” they said, nodding, pulling me.
I was pushed forward and placed in a chair that was aimed at the open doorway. I had a front row seat and saw a girl lying on the floor, on a bed made of clean sheets and cardboard–preparing for incoming life. My mid-wife Aunt, Mina, was sitting between the girl’s legs. The father was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his wife’s hand.
I braced myself in that chair. I was only 10 feet away from the door of life (if you want to call it that). I watched, not understanding all that was said, but I imagine it was:
“Hold my hand,” the wife said.
“Okay,” her husand replied.
My Aunt Mina said, “PUSH!”
“Okay…!”
“Here’s the head…”
And from the girls who surrounded me: “There’s the baby!”
I, myself, I was too stunned to react with them. I watched the girl’s vagina split open like Steven Tyler’s lips, and then a little blue head emerged. My Aunt gripped the baby’s head very gently as the rest of the body squirted out. I’ve seen puppies and kittens born, but never a human baby–it all happens at the same speed. As soon as that head is out, the body pours out like water. Kinda gross, but kind of cool at the same time. The afterbirth flowed next, followed by a sack of placenta.
I slapped my hands over my gaping mouth and my eyes started to water.
“Oh my God…” I whispered through my hands that reeked of vegetable stew.
The new grandmother came over to where I sat and, in English, said, “Wow.. It’s been some trip for you, hah?!”
And the women all laughed while I shook my head in amazement.
For the two weeks I was there, a day didn’t pass without someone mentioning my single hood and then seeming shocked or saddened by the curse of being an Old Maid. I returned home to Ventura where singleness at my age is as common as blue skies, and I haven’t really talked about my experience of being single in the Philippines, nor thought about it.
I was gently reminded when, on the phone with my mom last week, I asked how the family was. She replied, “They’re good. Your Uncle Amante wants to know when you’re going to write that cop. I think it would be nice if you wrote him, you know? As a Friend.”
I intend on sending a postcard to my Aunts and cousins, but I don’t know about Augosto and the whole long-distance thing. I can barely stand to date a guy who lives in Los Angeles.
“Bahala na,” is also what they say. It means, “Whatever will be will be.”
Published by permission. Visit Mari's blog at http://www.mari-go-round.com/
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