Category Archives: Books and Writing

Recommended books and the writing life

Sofia DeMay: Giving back to kids in Haiti and on a global level

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You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.
– Kahlil Gibran, Lebanese-American artist, poet, and writer

Selling Girl Scout cookies, at age 11.

Selling Girl Scout cookies, at age 11.

Throughout her young life, Sofia DeMay, 17, has always been involved in community service. Guided by her desire to give back to the community, through her years as a Girl Scout, Sofia has packed and delivered groceries for the elderly, cooked for the Harrison House at Children’s Hospital in Oakland, and gone Christmas caroling, among other activities. I’ve known Sofia since David and I became good friends with her parents, Raissa and Mike, about five years ago. Sofia babysat our kids when they were younger, and I’ve watched her grow up to be an articulate, conscientious, intelligent, and beautiful person inside and out. When Raissa told me about her impending trip to Haiti back in February, I knew I wanted to hear about her experiences when she got back.

Opening hearts, opening doors
As a senior this past year at St. Mary’s College High School in Berkeley, Sofia was drawn to a program affiliated with her school and founded by parent alumna Margaret Trost. In January 2000, Trost went to Haiti on a service trip, volunteering at an orphanage and hospice founded by Mother Teresa. She met Father Gerard Jean-Juste, a Haitian priest who wanted to establish a food program to serve the children of Port-au-Prince. Inspired, Trost returned to the U.S. and began raising money for his cause. As the fundraising took off, she founded the What If Foundation (616 The Alameda, Berkeley, CA 94707, 510.528.1100), which helps support Father Jean-Juste’s food, after-school, and summer education programs. As one of St. Mary’s students who helped put together care packages for Haitian kids under the What If Foundation, Sofia was curious about Haiti. “I had heard about it, but I had never actually learned about it,” she said.

Sofia with a new Haitian friend.

Sofia with a new Haitian friend.

Every year, a group of St. Mary’s students raise funds to go to Haiti for a week and work in Father Jean-Juste’s programs. Sofia knew that Haiti had staged a successful slave rebellion, but her perception of the small island nation was largely informed by negative media coverage – poverty, diseases such as AIDS, political unrest, and violence. On the list of countries that the U.S. State Department has issued a travel warning, Haiti was a place Sofia never considered a destination. “I didn’t know it [visiting the country] was something you could do, but I was interested in traveling to a place like that to figure things out for myself,” she said. More importantly, she added, “I was really into building a relationship with kids in another country; that’s what really drew me to it.”

As part of their orientation on cultural awareness, Sofia and nine of her fellow classmates read numerous articles and two books – former Haitian President Jean-Bertrand Aristide’s Eyes of the Heart: Seeking a Path for the Poor in the Age of Globalization and Trost’s On That Day, Everybody Ate: One Woman’s Story of Hope and Possibility in Haiti. After four months of preparation, Sofia and her classmates arrived in Haiti in early March. The philosophy and world religion teachers who chaperone the student groups were accompanied by a translator and a driver. Armed guards watched over them at the places in which they stayed.

A typical street in Haiti (photo by Sofia).

A typical street in Haiti (photo by Sofia DeMay).

Real-world education
On the second day of their trip, Sofia and her classmates met with a local historian who presented the history of her country to them, which included its one-sided relationships within the international community. Sofia was “shocked” upon learning about, for instance, the U.S. embargo and intervention in Haiti. “I realized that what everyone said about Haiti was really wrong and so skewed by the media,” she said. History, she came to see, was written by people in power. “It didn’t hit home until that moment,” she added.

Later in the week, Sofia and her classmates participated in a Q&A with a group of Haitian students and their translator, which exposed the differences between the two countries’ school systems. In the U.S., especially for seniors applying for college – which Sofia and her classmates were in the midst of at the time – students are very competitive and always trying to get head. Haitian students, however, consider education a great privilege because the majority of kids don’t have the financial means to go to school. Students interact within a “brotherhood” or “sisterhood,” helping one another to ensure success for all.

Sofia getting a Haitian drum lesson.

Sofia getting a Haitian drum lesson.

“It was such a moving moment because I would never have thought of that or would have imagined kids back home doing that,” Sofia said. “It was as if they were bound together somehow; they owed it to one another to share the little that they had.” Sofia also noted that the students understood that the enemy isn’t each other; it’s the system and the exam itself. In addition to the prohibitive expense of going to school, the university examination is so difficult that only 1 percent of the population goes on to higher education. With the current government favoring the elite and the gap widening between rich and poor, school, not surprisingly, is not encouraged for the masses.

Life-altering moments
After participating in the after-school program, Sofia and her classmates helped serve meals for the food program, which is run in a huge tent. As the children congregated, the tent filled with their laughter. When it was time to serve, however, Sofia noted that the entire atmosphere changed. The kids ate just as quickly as the food was being served, with many returning to the line, still hungry. The older kids were making sure their younger siblings had enough to eat. Despite the program’s best efforts, there is never enough food to feed all of the kids. “Four of us broke down crying,” Sofia related. “We’ve never experienced that kind of desperation before. At home I can walk into my house and get as much food as I want, whereas these little kids here can’t even get one meal. It put my life into perspective.”

Closing prayer with the kids at Sakala - solidarity.

Closing prayer with the kids at Sakala – solidarity.

Toward the end of their week, Sofia and her classmates visited another after-school program, Sakala, located in Cité Soleil, an impoverished and crowded commune located in the Port-au-Prince metropolitan area. The school, which is walled in, was a different world altogether and a safe haven for the kids, who were happily playing basketball, soccer, and ping-pong in the courtyard. After helping set up a water filter for the school, Sofia and her classmates joined in the sports activities. At the end of the day, despite the language barrier, they banded together and created a mural with handprints. When they ran out of paint, the kids pressed their palms together with the other kids and, smiling, said to one another: “Now you have color! Now you have color!”

Sharing paint for a mural.

Sharing paint for a mural.

“It was such a moving moment because I would never have thought of that or would have imagined kids back home doing that,” Sofia said. “I wrote in my journal that night that I finally felt a purpose in my life. I felt like I was actually making a difference.” Daniel Tileas, who runs Sakala, explained to Sofia and her classmates that the kids don’t care about money; rather, they value knowing that people care about them. “That moment just made me realize that there’s actually something you can do with your life that will fulfill you and that you can truly make a difference,” she said.

A Changing world view
Her experience in Haiti made Sofia question her life and wonder how we as a global society can allow hunger in fourth-world countries to exist. “Coming home, I was so much more aware of things,” she said. Sofia made “little changes” to her lifestyle: She scaled back going out to eat and driving a car, and instead of spending money she had earned, she donated it to the What If Foundation. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, she talked about her trip, with the goal of enlightening her classmates and friends about “cultural consciousness.” At her grandfather’s birthday party in late March, she told one of her grandmother’s friends about Haiti. This friend, who had recently inherited a large sum of money, was so moved by Sofia’s experiences that she donated the entire inheritance to the What If Foundation to help build a school in Haiti.

Sofia and her mother, Raissa, and her grandparents.

Sofia and her mother, Raissa, and her maternal grandparents.

The moment Sofia came home, she knew she would return to Haiti, where she felt she could create more of an impact there than she thought she could at home. She made good on her vow to herself, going back with another group of students – including four returning classmates from her March trip – the last week in July, and further enriching her Haitian experience.

Sofia at her high school graduation, with her parents and brother, Nic.

Sofia at her high school graduation, with her parents and brother, Nic.

Sofia always knew that her career path would involve being able to give back. “I never realized that I could do it on a global scale,” she said, with wonder in her voice, until her trip to Haiti. Sofia, now a freshman at the University of California, Los Angeles, is majoring in Global Studies. “After going to Haiti, I realized there’s so much I don’t know and that we’re either not taught or dictated by the people who write the history books,” she said. As a result, she plans on traveling to other parts of the world and conducting her own research. When I asked what she might do with her career, she brought up a program that builds sanitation systems in the poor areas of Haiti, which combines her love for Haiti, giving back, and biology and ecology, her favorite school subjects. She imagines spearheading a similar type of program after graduation.

Telling Haiti’s story
Sofia talks about Haiti with emotions and descriptions at once vivid and immediate, as if she has just come back. At the end of her first trip, Tileas told Sofia and her classmates that if there is one thing they could do to give back it would be to “tell Haiti’s story.” For Sofia, it has become second nature because, as she said, “Haiti has become such a big part of me.”

Sofia and her family in India, December 2012.

Sofia and her family in India, December 2012.

Blog change: from thrice to twice weekly posts

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We should strive to welcome change and challenges, because they are what help us grow. Without them we grow weak like the Eloi in comfort and security. We need to constantly be challenging ourselves in order to strengthen our character and increase our intelligence.
– H.G. Well, writer and journalist, from The Time Machine

It was bound to happen, though I fought it internally with great might. I am a schedule person, a list person, a person who doesn’t like to deviate from any plan because such a trait is in my DNA. But as work piled up and I wrapped myself with my novel, the juggling act, the balancing act, had to shift. And what got the short shrift was my blog, as much as I hate to admit it.

Right before the weather changed to true fall, we had a glorious warm October.

Right before the weather changed to true fall, we had a glorious warm October.

So in a nod to energy conservation and sanity checks – plus, I’ve been wearing sweats for the last several weeks because I don’t have the time, energy, or imagination to put anything else on – I’m scaling back from three blog posts a week to two, on Tuesdays and Fridays. Once my workload returns to normal, my novel is completed, and rest and relaxation restore my vitality, I’ll reassess whether to keep to the new schedule or go back to the old.

Against a backdrop of a sheer, crinkly jacket and Pendleton-like graphic print dress, I accessorized with an Anthropologie clear cuff, Lava 9 earrings (Berkeley, CA), BCBG MaxAzria faceted ring, and Sundance stack of rings.

Against a backdrop of a sheer, crinkly jacket and Pendleton-like graphic print dress, I accessorized with an Anthropologie clear cuff, End of Century reclaimed vintage chandelier necklace (NYC),  Lava 9 earrings (Berkeley, CA), BCBG MaxAzria faceted ring, and Sundance stack of rings.

I’m hoping that in January I will return to conducting more interviews of amazing and inspiring women. I’m also hoping to find engaging topics that inspire me to blog freely, easily, and joyfully. In the meantime, a new schedule is on the books starting next week. Enjoy Hump Day today!

The last wearing of this dress until late spring.

The last wearing of this dress until late spring.

Deep yellow clutch adds pop to the graphic black-and-white ensemble.

Deep yellow clutch adds a pop of color to the graphic black-and-white ensemble.

Book spine haiku, volume 6

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No one travels
Along this way but I,
This autumn evening.
– Matsuo Basho, Japanese poet

It’s time for another edition of book spine haiku. For volume 6, I present three haikus, the first one from my poet friend Laurel Kallenbach and the following two from me. Enjoy your literary Monday!

Laurel's book spine haiku.

Laurel’s book spine haiku.

My book spine haiku offering.

My book spine haiku offering.

My second book spine haiku.

My second book spine haiku.

A retro dress with a vintage electric blue handbag from the Brooklyn Flea Market. Normally a sundress, but in the fall, throw on a thick cardigan and boots, and you've transitioned from summer to fall.

A retro dress with a vintage electric blue handbag from the Brooklyn Flea Market. Normally a sundress, but in the fall, throw on a thick cardigan and boots, and you’ve transitioned from summer to fall.

In God We Trust band (NYC) and Sundance rings.

In God We Trust band (NYC) and Sundance rings.

Against a bright retro print, Votl Designs earrings (Jenny K, El Cerrito, CA), Sundance cuff, and vintage traveling sewing kit in the shape of a walnut (Treasury, Washington, DC).

Against a bright retro print, Votl Designs earrings (Jenny K, El Cerrito, CA), Sundance cuff, and vintage traveling sewing kit in the shape of a walnut (Treasury, Washington, DC).

Celebrating Larry Itliong’s 100th birthday, with an excerpt

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I don’t see why I should bow my head when I could hold it high, or place it in the hands of my enemies when I can defeat them.
– Jose Rizal, Filipino nationalist, writer, and revolutionary

Larry Itliong, circa 1960s.

Larry Itliong, circa 1960s.

In honor of Filipino American labor leader Larry Itliong, who was born today, 100 years ago, in San Nicolas, Pangasinan, the Philippines, I present another excerpt from my novel-in-progress, A Village in the Fields, which is about the Great Delano Grape Strikes, in which Itliong was the leader for the Filipino farm workers. Following my last excerpt, we find our protagonist, Fausto Empleo, as a boy, with his first experience of America on his home soil, in his hometown of San Esteban, Ilocos Sur, the Philippines:

Although his father worked him hard, Fausto never missed school. When Miss Arnold presented him with a map of the world for his geography lesson, he was stunned to see how small the islands were compared to other countries, how vast the oceans were, and how big the world was. He learned about American history, and George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. By the end of his first year, before he turned eight, he could read and write a little in English, and add and subtract. He was looking forward to mastering English and learning the industrial skills she was teaching the older boys.

But one Sunday after mass when he came home, Miss Arnold was at the door, talking to his mother, who had stayed home sick. He wondered why she was not at church. She rested her hand on his shoulder, and then withdrew it, her touch so fleeting he thought he had dreamed it up.

“I’ve come to say goodbye, Fausto,” she said.

“Miss Arnold is needed at home,” his mother said. “Her father is very ill.”

Miss Arnold patted a handkerchief across her moist upper lip. “Your father was right about one thing: In the end, our families need us and we need them.”

Fausto wanted to strike the door. He didn’t want his father to be right. He didn’t want Miss Arnold to admit it. But he held his arms down, digging his fists into his thighs. “Are you coming back?”

“I’ll miss the planting season. It’s almost here, isn’t it?” she said, as if she didn’t hear him. “It’s my favorite time—accordians and guitars, singing, dancing in the mud. Such a lovely tradition, such a lovely people.” She fastened her gaze on Fausto. “I’m going home for good, but I hope to see you again. Perhaps you can come visit me in Kansas City when you’re all grown up.”

Fausto’s father emerged from the shadows and stood in the doorway. “There is no reason for him to leave San Esteban,” he said.

Miss Arnold’s eyes did not waver from Fausto. “With an education, you can do anything. I grew up on a farm, and look where I’ve been in my life! Remember Lincoln, where he came from and what he became. You can become anything you want.”

His mother coughed into the sleeve of her kamisa. “We can never imagine sending Fausto to the States, Miss Arnold. It is too dear a price for us,” she murmured.

Miss Arnold’s cheeks reddened. “Please excuse me for my indiscretion. I should leave now and pack. I’ve accumulated so many things in my eighteen years here!”

“Have you not seen your father in eighteen years?” His father’s voice was sharp.

Miss Arnold stood still for a moment. “No,” she whispered, blinking hard.

His father bowed his head. “Miss Arnold, we are sorry for your loss.”

“Pa, her father is not lost yet,” Fausto said. It was bad luck to talk about someone as if he or she had already passed away.

“It is a loss,” Miss Arnold said. She stuffed her handkerchief beneath her sleeve and tugged on the stiff cuff of her suit jacket. “Thank you all for your kindness.”

Fausto stood in her way. “What will become of our lessons?”

“Fausto!” His mother pinched his arm.

“Let Miss Arnold go,” his father said.

“Josefa Zamora will be taking my place,” Miss Arnold said. “She told me she will try to open up the schoolhouse on Sunday afternoons for you.”

Fausto didn’t know what else to say. Time would not stop. He stepped aside.

“I have fond memories of my stay here,” Miss Arnold said to Fausto’s mother and father. She knelt in front of him and gathered him in her arms. He smelled lavender in her hair. It made him think of the bars of soap at the schoolhouse for her students to wash their hands. She touched his cheek. “I shall miss you the most, my little spark of light—so full of promise. Remember, you can do more. You have it in you.”

She stood up, sucking the air around him, and hurried away. Fausto ran after her, but he stopped at the gate. He watched her leave, watched her arms swing by her side, her feet, in their brown, button-up boots, march—as they always did—across the dirt road. Then she was gone, swallowed by the bagbagotot bushes, the bend in the road.

“No more,” his father said in Ilocano. He clamped his hand on Fausto’s shoulder. “School made you worthless in the fields. I was going to stop it, but she did it for me.”

Fausto locked his knees, dug his feet in the earth. “If I finish seventh grade, I can teach school, too,” he insisted. “Just like Josefa Zamora.”

His father snorted. “Teaching is for teachers.”

Fausto wanted to bolt after Miss Arnold. She was still somewhere down that road. He imagined him next to her, ignoring the blisters on his feet from his shoes, wanting to keep pace with her boots. “I can become a teacher,” he said.

His father spun him around and turned his hands over. “See?” With his leathery finger he pushed the calluses in Fausto’s skin. “You are meant to work the land.”

He let go and strode into the house. His mother followed, trudging up the stairs. His lelang, quiet as a house lizard, emerged from behind the door.

Fausto turned to her. “Lelang Purificacion, are you with Pa?”

Her face was full of hard lines and sorrow. “Your father has his reasons, Fausto. You are too young to understand. There is so much you must learn.”

“I was learning!” he said. “You are all against me. Now I am alone.”

“Alone?” She stared at him as if he’d spoken in a foreign tongue. “You will never be alone, Fausto. You will always be with us.”

He shook his head and ran out of the yard, covering several hundred meters before realizing he’d gone in the opposite direction of Miss Arnold. Each breath scalded his lungs. His legs were giving out, his toes wet with popped blisters. He fell to the side of the road, crashing into a thatch of cogon grass. Its sharp-pointed leaves pricked his face. He rolled over and pawed at his ears, his lelang‘s words burrowing like a tick.

Author pose.

Author pose.

October is Filipino American History Month, and another excerpt

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A person who does not look back to where he came from would not be able to reach his destination (English translation of Ang hindi lumingon sa pinanggalingan ay hindi makarating sa paroroonan.)
– Dr. Jose P. Rizal, Filipino revolutionary and national hero

Larry Itliong, circa 1960s.

Larry Itliong, circa 1960s.

This year’s theme of Filipino American History Month is “Hands That Built America: Filipino Americans in the Labor Movement.” It’s appropriate that October was the chosen month for this designation, as October 25th is Larry Itliong’s birthday, and this year is special because it is Itliong’s 100th birthday. Itliong was a Filipino American labor organizer who led the Filipino grape pickers out of the vineyards on September 8, 1965, in what was the beginning of the Great Delano Grape Strikes, which lasted into the 1970s.

My literary uniform: t-shirt, fitted jacket, jeans, and pumps.

My literary uniform: t-shirt, fitted jacket, jeans, and pumps.

In doing light research on Filipino American History Month, I came across the phrase, “No history, no self. Know history, know self,” which, according to a few sources I traced, is a very loose interpretation of Dr. Rizal’s quote from above. The phrase is particularly poignant for The Philippines, given its centuries of colonial status under Spain and then the United States. It’s a reminder of the importance of understanding all aspects of our heritage – the true culture, bondage, revolution, and finding oneself all over again, as painful as that is.

In terms of Filipino American history in this country, in the last century-plus, more people need to know about the contributions of Filipino labor leaders and the many workers who brought food to America’s tables. Tying in both aspects of Filipino American History, I present another excerpt from my novel-in-progress, from Chapter 2. My protagonist, Fausto Empleo, is a boy in his hometown of San Esteban who dreams beyond the ricefields of his family’s legacy:

Grayling earrings (Jenny K, El Cerrito, CA), Wyler's necklace (Portland, ME), and Sundance rings and In God We Trust band (NYC).

Grayling earrings (Jenny K, El Cerrito, CA), Wyler’s necklace (Portland, ME), and Sundance rings and In God We Trust band (NYC).

Ever since Fausto’s father, Emiliano, began taking him to the ricefields to plant and harvest at the age of five—the same age his father and grandfather had begun to work—Fausto knew he would not follow in their footsteps. He would not get up before the sun rose and ride the carabao to the ricefields for the rest of his life. He would not harvest maguey and strip, wash, cure, and braid its fibers into rope and then haggle with agents over how many pesos could be paid for several kilos of maguey. Somehow, he would find a way to attend the American school in San Esteban. His uncles had allowed his older cousins, Macario, Caridad, Serapio, and Domingo, to go to school but only when they weren’t needed in the fields. They fell back a few grades until Uncle Johnny, Macario’s father, forced his son to quit for good, and Fausto’s other cousins quit soon after. Fausto would not quit. But first he had to find a way to get into school.

He couldn’t hang around the schoolhouse after classes to catch the American teacher’s attention because he came home from the fields after sundown, long after Miss Arnold had closed up the wooden building. He knew one student’s mother cleaned the schoolhouse on Saturdays. Fausto convinced his grandmother, his lelang, to stop by the schoolhouse on their way to the marketplace one Saturday morning and talked his way into cleaning the floors for five centavos. The musty odor gave him a coughing fit, but he rubbed the floors with petroleum-soaked banana leaves until the wood gleamed like the bow on Miss Arnold’s hat. His lelang agreed to keep his job a secret; Fausto told her he wanted to replace their sickly farm animals with the money he was making. He secretly hoped Miss Arnold would show up while he was working, but she never came.

No matter. When he finished polishing the floor, he opened up books stuffed on shelves that spanned the length of the room. He cut his fingertips along the edge of the pages, but he minded them less than the calluses on his palms. He copied the curves and lines from the books across the slate board, and stood back to admire his work for a few moments before quickly erasing it clean, all trace of chalk gone. He stared at the colorful pictures tacked on the walls, until his lelang returned, scolding him that his secret would be found out. The following week, he asked one of the girls from town who was attending school to help him write a sign. The next Saturday, he left it at the entrance of the schoolhouse: “Floor cleaned by Fausto Empleo.”

By the third Saturday, when nothing had happened, he realized he would have to introduce himself to Miss Arnold, without his mother and his lelang‘s knowledge, at St. Stephen’s, where the teacher and his family both worshipped. After mass he spied Miss Arnold greeting members of the congregation. The men craned their necks—she towered above them with a head piled high with brown hair—and saluted. “Good morning, Miss Arnold!” they said in lively voices. The women bowed and addressed her as la maestra. She strode across the gravel walkway, her big feet marching in dusty brown boots. It was a warm day and yet she wore a brown wool suit with a white blouse that covered her neck, a long-sleeved jacket, and a stiff skirt that puffed out. As she came closer, he saw the wrinkles in her sun-burnt face. Gray hairs poked out along her hairline like fine wire.

She would have walked by him if he hadn’t stepped into her path. “Miss Arnold, are your floors clean enough?” He shifted his feet, his toes curled in shoes that didn’t fit.

She studied his face for a moment before saying in a bright voice, “You must be Fausto Empleo! I see you leave your signature, like an artist.” She took Fausto’s hand and shook it vigorously. She didn’t seem to notice his calluses. Her own hands, as big as a man’s, were covered with brown blotches.

“You look to be about seven years old, ready for school. Why are you cleaning my floor and not attending my class?” She bent down, her eyes level with his. She slid her glasses to the tip of her long nose. Her eyes were as clear as the sea off of San Esteban on a cloudless day.

He couldn’t stop staring. How could eyes that blue not see clearly? How could they not be dulled with age?

“I have to help my pa with our land.” He stole a glance past Miss Arnold. Father Miguel, in his starched white cassock, was greeting his mother and lelang. “My pa says I’m a good worker in the fields.”

“Oh, dear.” Miss Arnold held her cheek as if she had a toothache. “I’m sure you are a good worker, but you need to go to school! We teach industrial skills, not just reading and writing. The whole world is changing. You must realize we are living in a time of great progress. You can’t be left behind. School is for everybody.”

Fausto’s head swam. While even the laborers were teaching themselves English—American and English-speaking businessmen flooded the islands since the Spaniards had been driven out—what he knew was not enough. “I know about school,” he said, looking past the yellow-flowered gumamela bushes and acacia trees, in the direction of the schoolhouse. “After I clean the floors, I look at the books and the pictures on the walls,” he said, then cocked his head to one side. “But if you want to teach reading in English, you need books that have more words than pictures. We like to work hard.”

Miss Arnold pursed her lips, holding back a smile. Tiny wrinkles branched out around her mouth. “I will consider your practical suggestion, Fausto. Your work ethic will serve you well in school, and you would be a big help to me in the classroom. I strongly suggest you come to my class.” She sat on her haunches before him, her blue skirt billowing out and sweeping the ground. “A poet wrote about the difficult journey we Philippine teachers have had to undertake. The end of the poem says: ‘And let no petty doubts becloud your brain;/Remember, while you try to do your parts,/That, if one single spark of light you leave/Behind, your work will not have been in vain.'” She broke out grinning. “Fausto Empleo, you already exhibit a spark of light, but you can be more if you come to school. How exciting and rewarding that would be for you, your parents, and me—to be more!”

She promised to come to his house to request permission for him to join her classroom. After she left, he caught sight of his mother walking homeward, his baby brother joined at her hip, his sisters skipping behind her, his lelang trailing, eyeing him. Nearby, the town presidente‘s daughters greeted their American teacher with curtsies. The two girls, dressed in striped pandilings and kamisas as pale as their faces, were waiting for their calesa, which had pulled into the courtyard. The driver, a dark-skinned man, hoisted the girls to their seats. He sat in front and snapped his whip against the white horse’s flank. Fausto’s sisters called after him, and he ran to catch up, wincing in his shoes. He looked back as the glazed yellow wheels spun in circles and the red-painted calesa lurched forward, dipping in and out of the ruts beyond the arched entryway. It soon passed him and his family on the road, although he broke out into a lively gait, imagining he could outrun the horse.

Stripes and flames, tan and black.

Stripes and flames, tan and black.

100213 Filipino 4

A Village in the Fields: Excerpt 3

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Yes, I will be a writer and make all of you live again in my words.
– Carlos Bulosan, Filipino American novelist and poet, from America Is in the Heart: A Personal History

As I look ahead to the last two chapters, 13 and 14, of the final revision of my novel-in-progress, A Village in the Fields, I offer one scene from Chapter 3 in which my protagonist Fausto Empleo relates to his nurse and friend, Arturo Esperanza, his memories of coming to America:

No sleeves and shorts for the last gasp of our Indian summer in September.

No sleeves and shorts for the last gasp of our Indian summer in September.

Fausto shrugged, trying to think of something. Before they could get on the ship headed for America, he and Benny had to take many tests in Manila. The blank-faced doctors poked Fausto’s and Benny’s testicles and penises with cold metal rods, and scribbled notes in silence. For a thick wad of pesos, the doctors handed over papers that declared Fausto and Benny “bacterially negative.” The two paid a handsome fee for the document that proclaimed them citizens of the Philippine Islands who could travel freely to America by way of the S.S. President Jackson.

He hadn’t spoken the ship’s name in decades. Son-of-a-gun, Fausto laughed, how the ship’s propeller rumbled the entire trip! It sat below the stern side of the third-class passenger section, but to Fausto it was lodged in his head like a great mechanical heartbeat gone mad. His bunk bed vibrated. In the dining saloon, cold bean-paste soup spilled out of their bowls. Knives and forks rattled menacingly against steel tables.

He didn’t know other Filipinos could travel outside of third class until he saw a group of them on deck one evening. The men, their hair slicked back and shiny with pomade, wore suits and bow ties. The women wore high-heeled shoes and hats that hugged their heads and sprouted feathers. Fausto asked one of the men where they were staying when they walked by. He hadn’t seen them, or any well-dressed Filipinos for that matter, in third class. The men and women exchanged glances.

“We speak Tagalog,” one of them said in English. “We are students— pensionados—not laborers. Can you not see by the way we are dressed, boy?”

Carmela Rose vintage earrings and Sundance ring and bracelet.

Carmela Rose vintage earrings and Sundance ring and bracelet.

The women laughed behind their gloved fingers. Benny grabbed Fausto’s arm so the two of them could leave, but Fausto stood his ground. The pensionados were trying to get into one of the social rooms, but the steward, who was Ilocano and as dark as cured tobacco leaves, shook his head. The man who had spoken to Fausto poked his finger at the steward. He spoke loudly enough in English for Fausto to hear. They were staying in second class and had the right to enter the smoking room. It was the third time they had been denied access. The pensionado removed his spectacles, as if to show off his fair skin or the lack of pinch marks on the bridge of his nose because his nose was narrow and delicate, not fleshy. The steward folded his arms, replying in Ilocano that only first-class guests could use the smoking room. Besides, he added, no matter how well they dressed or behaved, the white passengers would not welcome them.

“Speak Tagalog!” the pensionado barked to the steward, and turned on his heel.

The group retreated, approaching Fausto and Benny again. The pensionado brushed shoulders with Fausto. As they disappeared below deck, Fausto thought to go after the man, but Benny pulled him toward the nearest stairwell and pointed at the deck above where the first-class passengers had gathered.

As the S.S. President Jackson chugged away from the port of Hong Kong, the passengers gawked at the Chinese families whose sampans were being tossed about in the white water that churned beneath the propellers. Using their oars, mothers and fathers, elderly men and women, clashed with other sampans for position. The children reached out to the passengers, who waved and leaned over the rail, laughing. The families called out in their native dialect. One man torpedoed fruit into the water. A red apple struck a girl’s jaw. Only after she had eaten it whole did she massage the side of her face and lick the blood from the corner of her mouth.

Other passengers threw coins that disappeared in the froth, but it didn’t stop the men and boys from diving in. A fistful of coins came raining down, and Fausto and Benny gasped as a tiny boy kicked off the edge of the boat with frog-like legs. The rope knotted around his waist and attached to the sampan uncoiled in the air with a snap and was pulled tight. After a few moments, an older sibling yanked at the rope and the boy’s head popped up from the sea. Water flowed from his clothes and hair as he was pulled in. His arms and legs hung limp as seaweed over the side of the sampan. But he held up his hand. Silvery disks flashed between his fingers, and his brothers and sisters piled on top of him, hugging him and patting his head. The passengers clapped. The men whistled their approval. And then they all dispersed. Fausto lost sight of the boy. Soon, the S.S. President Jackson outran the sampans, although the mothers and fathers continued to row, refusing to return to shore, even as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Grape and maroon colors for September.

Grape and maroon colors for September, with belt featuring two tugging elephants.