Happy Father's Day Dad

It's been almost two years since my dad was diagnosed with dementia. I suspected something was amiss, when we were trying to solve a plumbing leak in the old house in Anderson. Dad, an engineer and avid home improvement guy, looked at the water puddling up on the basement floor as it dripped down a wall that led all the way to the 2nd floor. He shrugged and cast his eyes aside. "Leave it alone," he concluded, "It will be fine."

Surely, the leak would not be fine, and of course, my father would never be fine again. The psychologist told us this could be the onset of Alzheimer's Disease. He warned us that we'd need to make sure he was under close watch from now on. I was shocked beyond belief, and depressed for my dad. I've never been that close to him. No one has in fact. My father's always been quiet, and to himself. There was no use trying to dialogue with him about anything. And now it would be even more futile to talk directly with him about this debilitating disease. He insisted that he was perfectly healthy and sane. Denial is always a sign.

My parents soon moved into a condo close to our house. I was scared that dad would lose all that was familiar to him and quickly slide into a slippery descent of solitude. The winter of '08-09 was a tough one for dad. Since he could still drive, he'd sometimes go visit the old house, which was up for sale, just to sit there by himself. I really wish I could hear what was going on his head. Soon, we had to take away the keys after he was getting into trouble loitering in his favorite stores. I cried when we took away his car for good, and he sulked quietly all to himself in his room for a few days.

When he learned late last spring that his eldest sister passed away, he disappeared for a day, leaving us frantically searching all around Mason. We found him in the county jail having been picked up for opening a can of beer at the local Wal-Mart, grieving in his own subtle way. Wal-Mart dropped the charges when they learned he was a dementia patient. My mom has been in a constant state of worry ever since.

Then we caught our break. The community they moved into, though it's not a retirement community, has a lot of seniors living there. They look out for each other, and everyday, a group of folks gather together at the clubhouse for celebrations, football games, bingo, and mah jong (yeah mah jong). Dad started to tell me about his new friends. I'd stop by during the week to check in on them, and he'd rather hang out with his buddies Norm & Noel to have a beer on the porch. Dad and his friends like to cruise down the Field-Ertel strip like a bunch of teenagers. Now, they call each other "dawg" like they live in the hood or something. Yeah, it's a little weird sometimes, but I've never seen my dad so social... so open... so happy!

Sure, things aren't the same as they used to be. Dad's habits are a bit different, he eats sweets now, when he never used to touch candy. Now we have to hide the chocolate. He prefers to be out with his friends rather than loafing around the house watching TV. My dad's a lot more relaxed these days, that's for sure. And we're all sighing in relief, because now I know dad will be just fine!

Happy Father's Day Dad!

Love, your son,
Marvin

Dallas on a Saturday

Some fun (and cheap) things to do in Dallas on a Saturday:

1. Take the M-Line trolley, a turn of the century (i.e. 19th century) rail car into downtown. It's free, donations accepted
2. Get lost in the Dallas Museum of Art. The architecture is unique and maze like. Not to mention the Asian art collection is fabulous. Very nice, if you go on a free family day too.
3. El Fenix Restaurant - established in early 1918. It's a Tex Mex diner at it's best.
4. House of Blues - Walk through the music hall, enjoy the art and musical history.
5. Immigration Rally - Join 25,000 people protesting Arizona laws.

Total cost for the day: $24

Mother's Day

My mother has always been an inspiration to me. Full of generosity yet humble in spirit. Ever resourceful and selfless in nature, she let's her actions speak more than her words.

Mom used to tell me this story about a little girl she knew back in the Philippines. This girl was extremely social, and popular amongst her many friends. Of course, many of her friends came from underprivileged families, lacked basic needs, proper clothes, and sometimes went hungry at school. Meanwhile, this little girl came from a loving family who cared for all her needs, ensuring she was fed and clothed.

Her family happened to own a small rice field, which at harvest time her family would pick the rice stalks to sell at the rice mill. During harvest season, the girl would come after school to glean the fields for left over rice stalks. She'd collect as many stalks of rice and proceed to laboriously remove the rice grains into a 5 gallon bucket, which she brought to rice mills where she could sell a bucket for 50 some odd pesos.

Proud of her small collection, she was eager for school the next day, where she then shared her spoils with her friends to ensure they didn't go hungry. That little girl was my mother!

And now many years later, I still see that love and sense of purpose in mom's life. She's always talking about ways to help others no matter how far we go in life. She's always taught me the importance of having good character. I hope I can make you proud.

So on this day, I simply say... Thank you Mom!

Happy Mother's Day!

The Old Property of Dia-nay

Here's some footage of the "old property" that my father's family lived on some 50 years ago. My uncle, aunt, and dad (with the average age of 70+) hiked more than a mile in +90 degree weather that day. In the video, my uncle gives us a lay of the land.



-Marvin

East Fork Lake

Here's a quick video of me & my buddies at East Fork Lake last weekend.

Admittedly, I showed up in the morning after they experienced a cold night in the wilderness.

Road Trip Philippines

A friend of mine asked me what driving in the Philippines is like. Don't get me started. If you like putting yourself in dangerous situations, and seeing your life flash before your eyes, then you should definitely do a Philippines road trip sometime.

The concept of a road trip is nothing like what we're used to back in the States. You just can't hop into a car, go through a drive-thru, get onto the highway, and then stop for frappucinos when you're tired. It took us six hours to drive the equivalent of 160 miles.

Driving in the Philippines (as it is in many 3rd world countries), is a nerve wracking tangled maze of pockmarked roads & hazardous obstacles. Manila is in a perpetual state of grid lock. Mom says, “It’s so tropic.” (Translation: traffick). In the province villages, you're stuck on a two lane road choked with deisel trucks, and tricycles along an endless line of fruit stands & shanties. Navigating is an exercise in futility, since the streets lack proper signage. Traffic lights are mere suggestions, and drivers seem to follow one simple rule: Move your ass over!

If you need to use the bathroom in a rural area, you go Filipino style... on the side of the road. If you're lucky to chance upon a gas station expect to BYOT (bring your own toilet paper), or be ready to pay a few pesos to the attendant whose job is to protect the bathroom supplies from being stolen.

Aggressive driving is a pre-requisite, and you must have nerves of steel. I was given the honor of riding shotgun. I soon learned that it was more of a relegation. Our driver accelerated past the slower Jeepneys only to play chicken with a tricycle full of kids. All the while, I'm pressing my imaginary brake pedal as my knuckles turn white holding onto the "oh S@!t" handle. We barely miss the tricycle.

When I wasn't fearing for my life, I enjoyed the luscious mountain landscapes that scrolled past my window like a video game backdrop. We'd roll through impoverished shanty towns peering at colorful posters featuring boxing hero Manny Pacquiao endorsing Tanduay rum, Coca-cola, and San Miguel beer. Unfortunately, it happens to be political season so signs litter the streets and trees with smiling Filipino faces urging your vote.

Every now & then, I'd spot a Tide sign painted on a small storefront (a sari sari store). It's kind of nice to see a little bit of P&G out here too. It’s a far cry from the pristine shelves of your local Target store.

When we got hungry, the road side vendors flagged us down urging us to stop for fresh mangoes, bananas, lonzanes, and watermelons. In one stretch, I thought I saw a line of hitch hikers with outstretched arms, but upon closer inspection I realized they were more vendors holding up giant shrimp strung up from their fingertips. My advice, stick with the fruit.

In the end it was 6 hours, but we seemed to have made good time for Filipino standards.

- Marvin

My Father John (aka Taquio)

How do you go your whole life without telling your family your real first name?

Last summer, my cousin Guido was in town visiting when he called my dad by the name of Taquio. "Huh?!" I exclaimed I turned to him surprisedly, "What did you call him?"

"Eustaquio." he replied, "Our family back in the Philippines always knew him as Tito Taquio."

It was the best kept secret ever.



So the story goes that Dad left the barrio as a young man to study in Manila. I always knew that he altered his last name by changing the "e" in Abrenica to an "i" in it's current form of Abrinica. He always gave me this lame excuse about a wanted man who shared the same last name. What he failed to tell me was that he also changed his first name to John. Since this happened after he left Negros, all our relatives back on the island always remember him only as Taquio: The uncle who went to America.

As we roamed around the barrio village, people called out to Taquio as if he were a prodigal son. It was uncomfortable for me, because I've always known my dad as John, or even "Johnny" (something all his friends in the states have endearingly called him for years). I asked my uncle Toto why he never told me this, and he said he just forgot to tell me. After all, it was 50 years ago when my father reinvented himself with this new moniker. I suppose time is a great ally of forgetfulness.

I have to admit, Eustaquio (you-stock-e-o) doesn't have the same ring as John. My middle name is John. I like the sound of Marvin John. It has a stage name quality, don't you think? Like those guys with last names that sound like first names, so they end up with two first names. Marvin Eustaquio just wouldn't be the same. I don't think I could pursue an acting career with that name.

I can see why my dad changed it now.

-Marvin

Karaoke Anyone

As a Filipino American I never realized how American I was until I immersed myself in the Filipino culture. I always try to "do as the Roman's do" when I travel, but it's always easier said than done. For instance, we had a merienda (snack) at a restaurant where the bathroom sink did not function, leaving me to wonder how the employees washed their hands. I did ask the busboy if I could wash my hands in the sink in the kitchen, and he cocked his head slightly with a puzzled look that begged, "What sink?" ... Shoot, I left my hand sanitizer at home that day... The food was rather good ... just don't think about it.

Speaking of food, I ate a variety of delicacies: pig knuckles, ox tail curry, beef tongue, and some pig organs cooked in it's own bile... yeah! The chicken inasal was masarap (delicious) despite learning after-the-fact that it was the unfortunate loser of a cockfight (a national past time). You'll be happy to know that there are some things that were just too much to stomach, such as the spicy chicken feet, ostrich saliva soup, day old chicks, and balut (partially developed duck embryos).

And then there's this respect-for-elders ritual. It's customary to greet an elder (i.e. one in your parent's generation) by taking a hold of their hand, palm down, and raising it to your forehead to seek their blessing. I clumsily attempted a few times, and used my dumb American ignorance as an excuse. Once, I tried it with an uncle, who then grabbed my hand and lifted it to his own forehead. Somehow, I think he was trying signal to me that the times are changing. I walked away even more confused than ever.

Finally, there are the obvious language differences. I'm certainly not fluent in Tagalog (something many Filipinos scold me for being such a disgrace), meanwhile most Filipinos speak fluent English. But even if I could speak Tagalog, I still have trouble with the fact that Asians (including Filipinos) are indirect when communicating needs, because it's considered rude to be too forthcoming. For example, if I want to try out the local beer, I might indirectly say, "I've never had San Miguel beer," which my companion would infer, "You must want a beer. Let's go buy a drink."

This indirect communication process is not only maddening, but it's ripe for misunderstanding and communication breakdowns. I learned this one evening as we drove through the seedy red-light district of downtown Manila. I happened to notice a long row of karaoke bars, which were obviously a front for brothels. I made a curious observation, "There sure are a lot of these karaoke bars here, huh?"

From which my cousin responds, "So you want to go to the 'karaoke' bar tonight!"

"No, No! Not at all!" I quickly clarified.

"Are you sure? I can arrange it."

"No, seriously. I was asking a question out of curiosity."

"So you do want to go? Let's go!"

"No, really! It was just an observation."

"Oh? ok!"

I guess I should be careful what I say. I can see why Americans get into trouble overseas. So the next time you hear me brag about a night of karaoke, I'll be sure to clarify what kind of karaoke I'm talking about.

- Marvin

Jomabo Island, Escalante City, Philippines - I'm on a Boat

I spent a day on this incredible Island off the coast of Escalante City, Philippines. The water was of crystal, sands of white, and the ocean water salty as it blew through the air.



This was a welcome respite from the barrio!

A Contrast of Worlds - Life in the Barrio

My parents couldn’t have come from more different backgrounds. My mother grew up in the city and was the daughter of a lawyer. Several of her cousins carried on this family tradition to create a good life for themselves. My father was raised on a farm, one of ten kids harvesting sugar cane and coconuts in one of the poorest regions of the Philippines.

In a span of 24 hours, I found myself touching the farthest ends of this socio-economic spectrum. The first night I’m attending a posh dinner with my mother’s family in a private restaurant atop a downtown Manila high rise. The next day, I’m roaming around a rural barrio with my father’s family who lives in a shanty home without electricity or running water, and where they still cook on a wood fired stove. It was a violent shift from donning a sports jacket one night to sporting an old shirt the next.

Barrio life is simple, full of hardship, and unbearable to witness. I’m clearly out of my comfort zone as I watch my cousin climb a tree to cut down a coconut for us to share. He offers me a coconut liquor that they’ve brewed and fermented in an upside bottle that hangs from the trees. My other cousin proudly shows off a pair of her one year-old twins giggling playfully as they run around barefoot and without pants. The term, “running around in diapers” is foreign since diapers are a luxury for these sugar cane farmers who earn <$3 USD a day. I’m alarmed to see one of them with a raised red lesion the size of a golf ball on her face.

I meet my father’s brother Tito Brocoy (78), for the first time. He possesses a distant stare that desperately grasps at years long gone. His sister, my Tita Eding, seems fragile & weary at 4-foot-6, yet her eyes light up as she speaks in broken Taglish (Tagalog/English). My father’s peculiar behaviors which include a penchant for spitting, clearing his throat, and roaming around aimlessly seems normal in these parts. Yet I could tell, in his exhaustion, he was not at ease and seemed out of place after spending so many years away from here.

Honestly, I'm overwhelmed with emotions of fear, compassion, disgust, and awe as I try to comprehend my father’s journey away from this laborious existence. My uncle tells me that dad ran away from home as a young boy to avoid working in the fields. My grandparents found him in nearby Mindanao being harbored by distant relatives. Somehow, they managed to bring him back. My dad then studied his ass off to finish high school and escape to Manila for college. It was clear, he wanted no part of working in the blistering sun cutting down sugar cane, so he ventured to the US to earn money to send back home. Call it an escape if you want, but deep down inside, I believe my dad cared about his family, and he knew that the only way to help was to leave. Even up to the day dad retired, I know he sent money back home. I don’t know if it was out of guilt for leaving or if it was love. Either way, it’s the Filipino way.

-Marvin

Subic Bay with Cousins

I awoke to the sound of a rooster, as the sun peered brightly through the window. The remote chatter of a few old ladies I call my aunts (you call every peer of your parent’s whether they’re remotely related to you or not, a tita or tito) awaited me. Mom was a school teacher before she moved to the states in ’68, and I sat quietly as the four reminisced their days, desperately grasping at whatever memories they could muster.

In an overstuffed van, we traveled to Subic Bay on the western shores overlooking the South China Sea. We passed through decaying remnants of the old US military base near Subic Bay. We descended down steep ravines where the crystalline blue waters, sandy beaches and waving palms ushered us in.

My kuya Al & kuya Sandy (kuya is a sign of respect for your elder peers – yet another Filipino convention) welcomed me. Their faces were all too familiar, mostly from the old roughed edged pictures accompanied by the letters Tita Auring sent mom on onion-skin paper narrating the stages of their lives. I vaguely recalled mom telling me about Al the aspiring priest turned business man for San Miguel brewing. Sandy, he was always a numbers guy mom told me. I wish I paid closer attention, because keeping in touch with people vicariously is hard work.



Al & Sandy shared their half of our parent’s correspondence, as we tried to fill in the 28 year gap as the sun set over the sea. We’re all much older now, eyes wrinkled & tired. Now, we all have families of our own. My nieces and nephews all looked at me curiously and with child-like shyness as the tito from the US. My kids would have loved being here to play, and perhaps my Isabel would be trying to take it all in as I did so long ago.

- Marvin

Philippines by Night

After a 24 hour Japanese detour, I finally arrived in the Philippines. I was greeted by my aunt & uncle, (i.e. Tita Auring & Tito Andy, whom I remember fondly through the lens of my mother’s sentimental stories and late night calls that sent ear piercing laughter into the air. Tita Auring was mom’s best friend, the same age and a kindred spirit. I look at Tita Auring and I see my mother, and vice versa. It’s hard to distinguish the two when they start talking.

There was something oddly familiar about Tita & Tito’s home. Walking in is like walking into my parent’s home growing up: the same Filipino wooden crafts, the same hand carved relief depicting the last supper, and the same antique furniture with bone in-lay designs & wicker seats. I hated those chairs. They made your ass go numb if you sat on them for too long, but mom insisted that they were one-of-a-kind and refused to go with more modern comfort until I was a teen. Importing this stuff was one of mom’s many entrepreneurial efforts. Auring & Andy were the source.

I fell asleep that night gazing at the shadowy figures in the gauzelike window treatments. I recalled a faded memory from 28 years ago, where my cousin Sandy told me stories about the mau-maus with sharp teeth (i.e. mythical Filipino creatures) who liked to eat little children. Ahh, a warm welcoming thought.

-Marvin

Tokyo Diversion

I had no plan to stop in Japan, but it seems like a stop in Tokyo was inevitable after a delayed flight & missed connection. With a full day ahead of me, I figured I'd connect with my good friend (and cousin-in-law) Brian, who's lived in Tokyo for the better part of a year. Problem is, I had no easy way to get a hold of him, but I figured there's one place we all go these days when we need to reach someone... facebook! So, I dropped a line on his page and... BINGO ...a response. (So for those of you who've decided that FB has no real utilitarian use in your life, here's one anecdote I hope that will change your mind).

When I arrived at Tokyo station, I tried to heed his advice, "Look for the tall white guy, you can't miss me." But it was like Where's Waldo in a Japanese train station at rush hour. A chaotic mad rush of humanity, stereotypical Japanese business men in black suits, and packs of Tokyo school girls were all navigating their way through the labyrinth of endless corridors. Ironically, he spotted me first, perhaps because I looked like the only one lost.

With Japanese efficiency, Brian traversed the city's elaborate web of trains with me on the coattails. Through the architectural wonders of Roppongi Hills and on to Shibuya square where the neon-lit shopping arcades assaulted our eyes. But the best part was the simplicity of our lunch conversation discussing the family, the hardships of life overseas, and my father's fragile mental condition over ramen noodles. And just like that as if we were gangsters in the back of a Japanese restaurant, we devised a plan to reunite the clan back home. I knew I could always count on Brian's candor & practical sensibilities.

Off to Manila by nightfall, and a trip due north by the break of day.

-Marvin

The Philippines - Life List

On March 16, I will mark two items off of my life list: Trace my roots in the Philippines, and take my parents back to their home towns. I've got all these swirling emotions of excitement, fear, anxiety, anticipation, welling joy, and fitful doubts. When I booked the trip, I was unsure of why, although I knew it was right. Something was telling me it was time.

It's been 28 years since I made the long journey with my mother. I was a child then of a tender 5 years, visiting a place I never knew for a bittersweet visit for mom, who came to bury her father.

I have flashes of memories from that trip: a sleepover with my cousins, playing coffin, falling asleep on mausoleum stone during the funeral. I was too young to understand my mother's grief, and she was too hurt to explain to me. I haven't asked her how she felt that day, and so now I have the chance to ask her again. I met my grandmother for the first and last time, I still remember her glasses, and her dark complexion. I'm sure she kissed my fat cheeks, and she knew that this was hello and goodbye. It was all a blur then, and it is now, and I seek to remember and perhaps feel something real from that point in my life.

As for dad, he's always been a mystery. A quiet man of peculiar eccentricities, the way he spits, and clears his throat in an obscene way. His thoughts he reserves only for himself, and have only ever been revealed in stories of lost years growing up on a plantation harvesting sugar cane and coconuts. I never met his side of the family. I'll only have the chance to see an aunt or uncle or two of which 4 of the 13 still remain. Dad left the hard life of the farm to find an education, he broke the mold, and role he was supposed to take as a laborer. I hope dad will let me in one more time again and help me see a glimpse into what drove him to leave, and change his name to hide in the city.

Marvin