Category Archives: History

Honoring and understanding your history

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.

Desmond Tutu turns 82

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Forgiving is not forgetting; it’s actually remembering – remembering and not using your right to hit back. It’s a second chance for a new beginning. And the remembering part is particularly important. Especially if you don’t want to repeat what happened.
– Desmond Tutu, South African social rights activist, apartheid opponent, and retired Anglican bishop

Bishop Desmond Tutu (photo by Mark Haddon).

Bishop Desmond Tutu (photo by Mark Haddon).

In May 1985, South African Bishop Desmond Tutu, who had won the 1984 Nobel Peace Prize, came to California to raise funds for human rights activists and meet with students, clergy, and members of the Democratic Party activists. His engagements were to address the California Democratic Council’s 33rd annual convention in Los Angeles and the California Legislature in Sacramento. He was also scheduled to appear in Oakland and San Francisco and UC Berkeley and UC Davis. So in my last month as a student at UC Davis, I had the immense honor to hear him speak on the quad about human rights in South Africa and the vision of dismantling of the Apartheid system.

Those were heady times for college students. I was a quiet social activist before coming to Davis. There wasn’t really a venue for such activity in the Central Valley community where I grew up. In fact, the town of Porterville where I went to high school recently made news in the New York Times for a controversy over the mayor’s proclamation of June as the month to honor gay pride. She was ousted by her fellow conservative city council members, who were supported by many of the equally conservative townspeople. Imagine nearly three decades earlier what the social justice scene looked like – or didn’t look like. And imagine what an eye-opening experience it was to come to a college campus and hear social justice discourse and participate in change wherever you turned, every day you stepped on campus. And imagine standing amidst an overflowing crowd, with speakers lining the grassy quad, listening to one of the most important historical figures in the fight to end Apartheid talk about justice for his people, and really, justice for us all.

This outfit reminds me of vintage Stevie Nicks, late 1970s, into the 1980s.

This outfit reminds me of vintage Stevie Nicks, late 1970s, into the 1980s.

Do I remember specifically what he said? No. Apartheid was alive and well at that time, but changes – albeit violent changes – were taking place. Surely he appealed for support in America, which he certainly got from his welcome at Davis. A little less than five years later, in February 1990, then President FW de Klerk announced the release of Nelson Mandela from prison and the dismantling of the Apartheid system slowly began. On April 27, 1994, the first democratic elections were held, with all people given the right to vote. Twenty-two million South Africans voted in the election, which resulted in a Government of National Unity being formed, with Mandela as president and de Klerk and Thabo Mbeki as deputy presidents.

How UC Davis was lucky enough to snag Tutu to speak, I’ll never know. But I’m grateful that I had the opportunity to see him in person and to hear him speak. One of the greatest gifts of a college education – outside of the wondrous learning and knowledge, the life-long friendships formed, and the mentoring by sage professors – is the vast experience the university exposes young people to. I remembered leaving Davis thinking how much bigger the university experience had made my world and realizing as I stepped into the next phase of my life how much bigger it would become still – and yet my time at Davis had prepared me for the coming expansion.

Retro yet modern: Sheer crinkled black jacket, patterned camisole, deep gray velveteen skirt, ruffled leather booties, and delicate and subversive jewelry.

Retro yet modern: Sheer crinkled black jacket, patterned camisole, deep gray velveteen skirt, ruffled leather booties, and delicate and subversive jewelry.

While Tutu, who survived a bout of prostate cancer in 1997, had begun entering retirement when he turned 79, eschewing all speaking engagements, he came out of retirement and gave the commencement speech in May 2012 to graduates at Gonzaga University in Spokane, Washington. Can you imagine telling people that Desmond Tutu gave your commencement address? He still, of course, supports a number of social issues, including gay rights, women’s rights, climate justice, and other humanitarian initiatives, such as the Soldiers of Peace project, which advocates for global peace. Tutu once famously said, “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.”

Desmond Tutu turns 82 years old today. I wish him a happy birthday and peace on this day forward. I thank him for his service to his country and to the world, and for allowing me to hear hope in his voice 28 years ago to give me hope in the goodness of humanity and allowing me to feel the power in his voice that whatever evil and hatred exists in this world, we shall indeed overcome.

Vintage vibe: Carmela Rose bracelets, earrings, and two delicate necklaces; Elizabeth Ng antique Edwardian button ring (Abacus, Portland, ME); and reclaimed vintage rosary necklace (Feathers, Austin, TX).

Vintage vibe: Carmela Rose bracelets, earrings, and two delicate necklaces; Elizabeth Ng antique Edwardian button ring (Abacus, Portland, ME); Sundance stack of rings; and reclaimed vintage rosary and bone necklace (Feathers, Austin, TX).

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

Cleveland: rock and roll and vintage love in 24 hours

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In designing this building it was my intention to echo the energy of rock and roll. I have consciously used an architectural vocabulary that is bold and new, and I hope the building will become a dramatic landmark for the city of Cleveland and for fans of rock and roll around the world.
– I.M. Pei, architect of The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum

Rock and roll in Cleveland
When I found out I was going to Cleveland for a business trip, I asked myself, “What is in Cleveland?” I was too busy to do any research before I left, but once I landed, my cab drivers and the concierge at my downtown hotel were quick to point out The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum (1100 Rock and Roll Boulevard, Cleveland, OH, 44114, 216.781.7625), which wasn’t very far from where I was staying. I scratched my head. In Cleveland? How did that come to be?

Outside the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum.

Outside the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum.

The museum is chockfull of detailed displays, by era, location, artist, and more.

The museum is chockfull of detailed displays, by era, location, artist, and more.

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Foundation was founded in April 1983 by Atlanta Records founder and chairman Ahmet Ertegun. Ertegun and his assembled team began inducting artists in 1986 but the hall of fame did not have a permanent venue. Various cities lobbied to be the new home, including Detroit, Memphis, Cincinnati, and New York City, all of which had famous record studios and obvious ties to rock and roll music. Cleveland’s claims were legitimate ones – WJW disc jockey Alan Freed coined the term “rock and roll” and heavily promoted the emerging genre and the first major rock and roll concert – Freed’s Moondog Coronation Ball – was held in Cleveland. Furthermore, its radio station WMMS helped bolster the early careers of several artists in the U.S. in the 1970s and 1980s, including Bruce Springsteen and David Bowie, who began his first U.S. tour in Cleveland. The city pledged $65 million in public funds to build it, 600,000 fans signed a petition to locate it in Cleveland, and in a 1986 USA Today poll, respondents overwhelmingly chose Cleveland. Who knew?

One of Stevie Nicks' many signature outfits.

One of Stevie Nicks’ many signature outfits.

Entering the Rolling Stones exhibit!

Entering the Rolling Stones exhibit!

So there you have it. The pyramid-shaped building is quite striking, designed by architect I.M. Pei, and sits on the shore of Lake Erie, facing the downtown skyline, in the city’s nicely redeveloped North Coast Harbor. Six levels house tons of memorabilia. Given my time constraint, I whizzed through, but you could literally spend a day there, reading all the signs and admiring the instruments, music sheets, costumes, and more. A couple of theaters show this year’s inductees to the Hall of Fame, as well as a permanent exhibit called the Mystery Train, which chronicles the history of rock and roll. If you’re a Rolling Stones fan, you can fully appreciate a very packed, as in artifacts and information, exhibit, “Rolling Stones: 50 Years of Satisfaction.” It’s a fun place and worth a visit, but plan for at least half a day if not longer. Expect to be overwhelmed and dizzy by the end of your time there.

The impressive inside of the museum.

The impressive inside of the museum.

The Cleveland Shop's quaint storefront window.

The Cleveland Shop’s quaint storefront window.

Vintage love in Cleveland
The Cleveland Shop (6511 Detroit Avenue, Cleveland, 44102, 216.228.9725), a quality vintage, period costume rental, and consignment shop is the city’s oldest vintage shop. It opened its doors in 1979, but recently moved to its current location, in the west side of the city in Gordon Square. Voted Cleveland’s “best vintage,” the shop is well curated and nicely organized. The racks are divided by type of clothing and more importantly by decade. One half of the shop is vintage and the other half is the rental department where you can find your costume for Halloween or a themed party. They carry a big selection, for instance, of white vinyl go-go boots for those wanting to channel Nancy Sinatra from the 1960s and “walk all over” someone! Vintage to the Cleveland Shop is at least 25 years old, and they look for items from 1900 through 1970s, dipping occasionally into the 1980s. It’s definitely a great vintage shop to spend time in at a leisurely pace.

Racks of vintage clothing.

Racks and racks of vintage clothing.

Display case oozing with vintage costume jewelry.

Display case oozing with vintage costume jewelry.

All's quiet on an off-night Monday at the Cleveland Indians' baseball field.

All’s quiet on an off-night Monday at the Cleveland Indians’ baseball field.

Baseball, good food, buildings with character
If I had fully thought out my trip, I would have stayed an extra night and flown to Raleigh, N.C., my next business destination on Wednesday. Why? The Cleveland Indians were playing tonight and they are in the thick of the American League Wild Card race. They play in a beautiful downtown stadium, Progressive Field – insurance anyone? – that I zipped by about four times in my cab rides in the 27 hours I was in Cleveland. The ballpark, which holds more than 43,000, began construction in 1992. Now that would have been a fun game to watch, especially given that the Indians won, 5-4, and are tied for the two Wild Card slots. I also wish I had time to walk around the downtown area and take artsy photographs of the old buildings and historic statues.

An impressive fairly new stadium for baseball. Oakland, take note!

An impressive fairly new stadium for Cleveland baseball. Oakland, take note!

As for culinary experiences, I attended a business dinner at Table 45 Restaurant and Bar at the InterContinental Hotel (9801 Carnegie Avenue, Cleveland, 44106, 216.707.4045). For a hotel restaurant (the hotel is owned by the Cleveland Clinic and is on their campus), the food was very flavorful. Our party of nine shared appetizers – homemade tandoori naan with three dipping sauces, vegetable spring rolls, and an assortment of sushi. For my entrée, I ordered wild caught sockeye salmon and steamed coconut sticky rice wrapped in a banana leaf with Chinese broccoli and Thai glaze. The salmon was a touch dry, but otherwise a nice combination of flavors. I didn’t get a chance to finish my fresh blueberry crisp topped with sweet oatmeal crumb and lemon gelato because by that time everyone was leaving, which was just as well since I was quite satisfied with everything that had come before.

My room with a view from the downtown Marriott - a beautiful old church and old buildings with lots of character.

My room with a view from the downtown Marriott – a beautiful old church and old buildings with lots of character.

Twenty-seven hours later and I’ve already left Cleveland. Will I ever return? I actually hope so.

Just beyond the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum is Lake Erie.

Just beyond the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum is Lake Erie.

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.

A Village in the Fields: Excerpt 2

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There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you. – Maya Angelou, American poet, memoirist, and American Civil Rights Movement leader

Getting ready for our family anniversary dinner tonight!

Getting ready for our family anniversary dinner tonight!

As I continue to work on the revision of my novel, I have absolutely no words for my blog. Hence, another excerpt from my novel, A Village in the Fields, for my blog post. Since today is my 15th wedding anniversary – yes, we have to endure the occasional Friday the 13th years – I chose this particular excerpt. To set up the scene, my protagonist, Fausto Empleo, is a young man working in a hotel in Los Angeles in the early 1930s. He lives with his five other cousins in a cramped apartment in Los Angeles, which was a common experience for many Filipino immigrants in America during this time. One of his cousins is suffering from tuberculosis and he and his cousins are enduring bigotry in and outside of their workplaces. But during this trying period in his life, Fausto meets a young Filipina immigrant who also works at the hotel and who, more importantly, reminds him of why he came to America in the first place:

They stood in the same position, eyes locked, even when the record ended and the needle jerked back and forth across its black glossy surface, making loud scratching sounds. She sighed. “My father played the guitar as part of our town’s rondalla. It was the best string band in the region.” She looked at Fausto, her smile fading. “Do you not like to listen to music?” She pulled away from him and replaced the records in a neat pile.

“I do not have time,” he said. “Where and when would I listen to music?”

“Right here!” she said. “We can listen every time they go to the doctor. You should make time, Fausto. You look too serious. It worries me. I should invite you to the theater to watch a movie with me so you can grow laugh lines here.” She ran her finger around the corners of his mouth, and added, “And remove your worry lines here.” She brushed her fingertips across his forehead.

Did she feel how hot his face had become? He stepped back. “I cannot afford to go to the movies. My cousin Cary says it is cheaper to hang around Hollywood and see the movie stars come out of their big cars and go into fancy restaurants to eat.”

“Oh, I do not care about movie stars. I like the people they pretend to be. I like the stories, the different worlds.” Her gaze drifted to the wall where the Italian plates from Mr. Calabria’s hometown of Palermo hung in a row. “When I am tired from studying and volunteering and working, I go to the movies. It makes me forget how hard things are here. When one of my patients died, I saw Charlie Chaplin’s City Lights. I was able to laugh again.” She laughed brightly now, as if remembering a scene from the movie, and adjusted the apron over her skirt. “Next time, come with me. It is only five cents. I know a place nearby where they serve a pork-chop dinner for thirty-five cents. We can have dinner and then walk to the movie theater.”

“I take care of my sickly cousin. I send money to my family. I cannot . . . .”

She pressed her lips together, petals folding, closing as if dusk had descended. “You are a good cousin and son, Fausto.” She offered him a smile. “When I come back from the movie theater, I will tell you what the story is about.”

After their shift on Mondays, she gave him her version of the movies she’d seen. Platinum Blonde pitted hardworking folks against corrupted wealthy people. In Tarzan, the Ape Man, civilized people were crueler than the brute Tarzan. She felt sorry for the monster in Frankenstein because the ignorant villagers misunderstood him. Listening to her was better than going to the movies, he told her; here, he could stare at her as she told the story, instead of sit in a dark theater. She laughed as if he had said something silly, but she was blushing. She always seemed cheerful, although there were times when he spied her near the broom closet brooding and looking sad for a moment.

One morning, he ran into her by the closet, her face shining like a full moon.

“What are you thinking about?” he whispered boldly in her ear in the shadows.

“Salabat and basi.”

Fausto was puzzled. Why was she thinking about beverages?

“I used to make my father salabat and basi, using sugar from our fields and herbs from our garden,” she explained. “My father loved to drink salabat, and I liked making it because the scent of fresh ginger root stayed on my fingers for days.” She stared at her white shoes. “I have not made salabat for a long time, even when I was home. My father lost his craving for anything sweet, anything with sugar in it.”

“That can happen,” he said. “I used to love bagoong, and now the fish smell upsets my stomach. I do not know why, but it does.”

“Yes.” She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron and turned away. “We do not know why things like that happen.” She left him there, clutching mops to her chest.

***

One spring day, a few months later, she came looking for him as he was changing sheets. Her hair flowed down her shoulders, the ends curling at her waist, as luxurious as the mink stoles some of the female guests wore. She asked him to see a movie with her.

“Why? I always listen to you.” He pulled the dirty sheets off the bed with one strong, graceful tug, which he learned from her, and rolled them into a ball.

“I would like to see a comedy,” she announced, as tears gathered in her eyes.

“What is wrong?” He dropped the sheets to the floor and rushed to her side.

She withdrew an envelope from her apron pocket. “My father passed away.”

Fausto sat her on the bed. Two years ago her father had lost ownership of the land where his family had lived and grown sugarcane for generations. To remain on the property, he leased the land and shared half of his harvest. The landlord charged for the use of tools and animals, reducing their profit, and the agents cheated him when weighing the sugarcane. Even the Catholic priests, whom her father had asked to intervene on his behalf, turned him away, favoring the landlord’s bribes. The final blow was this year’s drought, which diminished his crops and prevented him from paying rent, fees, and taxes. Her family was evicted from their home and forced to live in the landlord’s hacienda, where her father and brothers earned less than ten centavos a day. Within a month of being forced off their land, her brothers pulled her father’s body out of Pampanga Bay.

“He was not a strong swimmer, yet he swam towards the sea,” she said in a flat voice. “My mother said he had lost his land, so there was nowhere else to go but the sea. My mother is scared, but she said she must be strong for our family. She and my sisters will find factory work in Manila, and my brothers will stay in the hacienda.”

“I am sorry,” Fausto whispered, taking her hand.

“They sent me here after we lost the land so I could help them. But I have been living foolishly here. I do not send enough money. I should not have gone to the movies or the restaurants. But it is so difficult here in the States. I am so homesick. I should go back, should I not?” She gently shook her hand and their fingers unraveled. She wiped her tears with the crumpled envelope, smearing her cheek with traces of black ink.

Fausto stroked her head, the crown of her glossy soft hair. She closed her eyes, her head tilting back. He combed out the tangles in her mane, his fingers touching her shoulder, the curve of her back. The ends of her hair fanned out across the bare mattress. “You are almost finished with your studies. If you go back now, without your degree, what good would that do? Do not waste what you have already done. I know it is hard, but you should finish your schooling and then go back. That is the best way.”

“And you? When are you going back?”

He thought of the letters his sisters had written on behalf of their mother, asking for more money. It was a way to show his father that he had made the right decision, his mother said. The money was also needed to help them through a meager harvest, pay for hired help in the fields so his sisters could attend school to become teachers, and send Cipriano to Manila to learn a trade. Could he not send more money? Fausto was happy to help his brother and sisters escape the fields. The news of their ambition eased his guilt. He doubled his monthly contribution, but it was getting harder trying to help pay for food and rent, and help sponsor his siblings’ education, let alone save for his education.

“I am still saving money for school. My American teacher back home told me a long time ago how important school is. When I finish college and work some more, then I will go back home,” he said, although his declaration felt like an outright lie. He hadn’t thought about school since the moment he stepped into the apartment on Hope Street.

“You are right. I should stay. We will both stay and be strong for one other. Maybe I will take more time to finish nursing school so I can work more hours here. We will both work hard and send more money.” Her voice grew stronger as she smoothed out the envelope. More ink rubbed off on her fingers, the addresses no longer legible. “When you send money to your family, I am sure you write nice letters to them. Will you help me write a letter to my family? Will you help me explain why I must stay here longer?”

He nodded. As he closed his eyes, he imagined rubbing the ink off her cheek. Their breathing became one. They remained seated on the edge of the bed, joined at the hip, until Mr. Calabria called them by name, breaking them apart. When Fausto opened his eyes, the room had gone dusky. Connie had dried her eyes. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Her lips—the texture of rose petals—lingered on his skin. Then she kissed him on the lips, as fleeting as a memory. She stood up and walked out of the room, stepping with care over the crumpled sheets on the floor.

Transitional dressing for our Indian summer. Throw on a light jacket over a summer maxi.

Transitional dressing for our Indian summer. Throw on a light jacket over a summer maxi.

Ocean patterns with gold and horn accessories.

Ocean patterns with gold and horn accessories.

Birdhouse Jewelry earrings (NYC), Sundance cuff, and reclaimed vintage matchbox necklace from Uncommon Objects (Austin, Texas).

Birdhouse Jewelry earrings (NYC), Sundance cuff, and reclaimed vintage matchbox necklace from Uncommon Objects (Austin, Texas).