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