May 12, 1984
To the Parent-Teacher Association Moms of Alamo Elementary School:
Yes, you may pick your jaws off the squeaky, dusty basketball court hardwood now. Oh, don’t think I didn’t see it all: the eyes flying over to me like a seagull when I opened my mouth to cheer for my lovely daughter singing onstage, the tide of confusion crashing upon your made-up faces, the gulp you had to stifle to paint an expression saltier than San Francisco Bay. Nevertheless, yes, you heard correctly indeed: contrary to what you had pre-conceived of a petite, moon-faced woman born in Southeast Asia, I do speak English, and yes, well enough to pen this letter to you. Ha!
Don’t try to deny what happened backstage at the school’s Spring Student Showcase either. Yes, that incident. You know very well that my Lucy — with eyes scintillating even more than the sequined performance dress she had on — handed your tykes ube*-flavored crinkles, a type of cookie from my homeland of the Philippines, whilst everyone was preparing for the show. (Yep, that’s just how she is. She’d feed an amoeba in our peninsula’s waters if she could.) How impossible it was to miss how your kids leapt over to her, arms extended like a bridge over two shores, to grab a treat…only for you to swipe it off their tiny hands, your eyes narrowing into slits, thin as a cable, while you stared at my sobbing little girl and me, fuming.
Then, just as I was about to let the wildfire in my heart blaze on out of my mouth, I observed it: twenty crying kids looking at each other, nodding, and stretching their limbs to grab the pastries from your raised hands. I could only guffaw as you helplessly watched the very same youngsters you had programmed put the cookies in their cavernous mouths and let their faces melt into a smile as they lost themselves in the fog of satisfaction. Oh well, I guess. At least, I had a good laugh.
I know. None of that matters to all of you. In your eyes, the child I love, that I coded into existence with my lithe body the color of the fertile, rice-growing earth, will always be an “experiment in genetics” (Yes, I heard you gossiping). In your mind, my blackish almond eyes and my slightly bent sienna-jacketed passport with an unfamiliar crest will always be but stains in the pristine, picture-perfect sheets that help you sleep at night. No matter which way the wind from the bay blows, to you, Lucy and I are invaders of your white picket fence world that somehow managed to sneak past the city walls. You other us simply because of our complexion, simply because my birth certificate belongs to a different nation a continent away, because the façade is too dissimilar to yours for you to explore what is inside.
However, it goes without saying that I’m more than just a flesh of bronze skin and a peculiar accent that sometimes stumbles like a baby on which syllable to emphasize in certain words. Yes, it’s true that somewhere in the archives of time, my story was set in Manila, in another metropolis by an inlet, so much like the city we live in. I come from a burgh where residents swoon in restaurants on dates with their partners, where families laugh as children run around a park, where regular Joes live and breathe… just like this slice of California we call home. See, we aren’t poles apart now, are we? Ah, the wonders you discover when you not only make a stopover in someone’s self islands and choose to walk in the streets, so to say.
So now, I extend to you an invitation. Look, I’m not expecting you to be immediate friends with me; I just want you to understand. I’ve heard it said that some towns are great places to visit but you wouldn’t want to live there. Well, I hope you do not apply that little adage to people, to me.
Perhaps, if you paid more than a visit, you’d know that I actually had a blossoming career in advertising before having to nip it in the bud to come to your shores. You’d find out that once upon a time, I donned crisp pantsuits and stilettos for my prestigious desk job, not a uniform for the Holiday Inn. You’d hear that I conceptualized campaigns that would be blasted onto screens in an entire country. Instead of working in a hotel, I stayed in them whenever I went on vacation in some new locale, either in the Philippines or elsewhere in Asia. Yet, I gave it all up for a one-way ticket to California. I said goodbye to that cushy life, to my family and friends, because of a dream that required letting go. I was more than willing to make the sacrifice this land you were born to imposed on me for a new life, for love. If you paid more than a visit, you may find determination in the foundations of who I am.
Perhaps, if you paid more than a visit, you’d know that, unlike what I’d deciphered in your not-so-hushed whispers, all I want to do whenever I see Charlie is to hold him, not his bank card. You’d realize that ours is a typical romance; — guy meets best friend’s cousin on vacation, they develop feelings for each other — it’s just that our places of origin just happen to be on opposite coasts. You’d observe how even as our longing for each other’s touch stretched as wide as the yawning Pacific that once separated us, we endured, exchanged letters and trinkets to have a piece of each other, relished every tear of joy at every airport reunion, made sure our love lasted more than a summer. Then, you’d feel the frustration of constantly having to prove the validity of our affection, — to immigration officers, to check-out lady at the supermarket, and — yes — to you. If you paid more than a visit, you may find that real love is in the air for my husband and me.
Perhaps, if you paid more than a visit, you’d know how delightful our little Lucy is. When she came out of me, Charlie and I stared at this magical being with his hazel eyes and my dark waves and marveled at how she came to be — the best of East and West, the best thing to happen to us. You’d beam as she charms you when she sings made-up melodies to her doll collection, as she curtsies like the princess she is every time she meets someone new, as she gives the most heartwarming hugs. And maybe, just maybe, you’d finally consider the lovely medium brown of her skin as beautiful, as worthy. If you paid more than a visit, you will find that my daughter is not the aberration you think she is but a bright star, much like your own children.
Most of all, perhaps, if you paid more than a visit, you’d know that I’m just like you, that all these borders you think exist between us are only, well, skin deep. You’d notice that I bump into you at Giants games and in line to buy theatre tickets. You’d wave when you spot Charlie and me trying out the latest restaurant in Chinatown. You’d comprehend that just as you do, I laugh, I cry, I worry for my family, I exist. If you paid more than a visit, you may find common ground with me — even if my own.
Yes, it’s true; my tale is that of two cities on opposite ends of an ocean. However, it is also a story of love, of passion, of laughter, of tears —just as valid as yours. I’m as valid as you. All I’m asking is for you to read a bit of it to understand.
Hey, if you’d like, I’d throw in free ube-flavoured crinkles to sweeten the deal. The purple isn’t too lurid, I promise.
Always proud of the story she weaves,
Sandra Dickens
*Note: Ube is a Filipino dessert made out of mashed purple yam, milk, and butter. It is a popular flavour for cakes, pasties, and candies.