Lotis Key's Blog

She leaned towards me and said loudly,“I bet you’re an AMAZING gardener!”Muriel was a leading member of our suburban congregation, so at this pronouncement everyone silenced and turned to look at the object of her attention. Me. Momentarily stunned, I searched her face and mistaking my hesitation for modesty she continued,“Growing up in a tropical PARADISE like that, surrounded by JUNGLES, vines, orchids, MONKEYS falling out of trees … why of course you’re a natural with nature! Gardening is in your DNA!”A recent transplant to the Midwest, I was still unfamiliar with the cultural mores. Was she being sarcastic? Demeaning? Was this a side wink at the other ladies of the tea social, a subtle elbow in the ribs as she condescendingly put me in my immigrant place? Was it … a joke?Gardening? Did she mean buying plants—okay, I’d done that a couple of times—or was she accusing me of actually digging holes and burying things in them? Like a dog? With my hands? On my knees? Squatted next to a pile of rotting manure?Manila hadn’t been a “tropical paradise” for a long time and like most city girls my interaction with wild vegetation was limited. Not that I didn’t love flowers, but I’d certainly never organized any outside a vase and definitely not in the manner implied by the verb “gardening”. Quickly flipping through my mental database, I searched for something relevant on the subject.My grandmother had a lovely garden with a wading pool. In one corner, surrounded by flowering bushes, was an alcove with a statue of the Virgen Mary. Walking past it once I saw, what turned out to be an enormous rat crouching behind Mary. I’d actually thought it was a cat and had approached in the hope of petting it. The brazen thing stared at me never moving a muscle and when I was just reaching out my hand I suddenly realized … that is not a cat. I ran to tell my grandmother and was scolded.“La madre que te pario! You didn’t touch it did you, tonta?”“No! Of course not!”“Gracias a Dios! Don’t scare it! Es mascota de la Santisima y protegido!”(Spanish parts: “The !@# mother who gave you birth! Stupid! That’s the Virgen’s mascot!)My second gardening experience again involved a cat. I had moved into a new house and the landscaping was ongoing. Two days later one of my kittens, who had last been seen playing among the new plants, was in a coma. I mourned over his motionless body for three days until he miraculously recovered. He was never allowed into the garden again but did eventually travel with me overseas, have many adventures, and live to age sixteen.Anyway, my point is that poking around in the dirt was a vague concept for me. I knew it happened … but somewhere in the distance. Very much like knowing that a steak comes from a cow and having the informational line drawn right there. It was clear to me if no one else, that I had no insights concerning shrubbery. Yet when Muriel insisted I visit her, and went on excitedly about how we’d do some gardening together and make magnificent gardens, I answered with a bright, “Absolutely!”Why? I don’t know. I’m just that way.A week before the big day I went to the library, pulled out numerous tomes with colorful pictures of flowers, and spent every minute memorizing their names. I’d never been as nervous, even on opening night of a new play. Would I remember my lines? Be relaxed on the set? Hear the cues? To further enhance my role, I bought a costume: straw hat, gloves, and a spongy thing to kneel on.Muriel had an amazing home (one of several, I later discovered), with extended gardens wrapped around it. The first day we walked them was early spring, and it soon became obvious I needn’t have worried about my own ignorance.First of all, there was nothing to recognize. Everything was dead. Bushes dried, withered and flattened. An expanse of collapsed decorative arches, bare trellises, and huge pots of Christmas fir tops gone brown. Brown, brown, brown. My most unfavorite color. There were no flowers at all.Secondly, Muriel appeared to know even less than I did, referring to everything outdoors as, “that thing there” or the “whatchamacallit”.Walking the empty gardens, she did reveal herself to be a woman of wonderful positivity. She’d had BAD news. Her long time gardener had abruptly retired and moved to Florida. But … this bad news had been almost immediately offset by much, much BETTER news. She had a new friend from a TROPICAL PARADISE, and with her help she was going to have better gardens than ever before! They would be amazing! There was nothing we couldn’t do! She had the resources! I had the “DNA”! We’d be a team! We’d make it happen! How could we not succeed? We would create our own tropical paradise right here in Minnesota! She knew in her bones that I was the right person for this vision. She was sketchy on the details but her confidence inflated me like helium into a balloon, so much so, that when she looked at me for affirmation and confirmation, I of course said, “Absolutely!”My dismay at a commitment made solely out of personal weakness, was exacerbated by the quick discovery that “we” meant “me”. After leading me to a shed occupied by a tangle of rusty tools, she said she needed to make an important phone call and disappeared for the next ten years.That first week I raked, turned, cut and pulled. All with one hand mind you, because the other one was holding a book of instructions. Cursing a cultural upbringing that discouraged speaking out frankly, I plotted continually in my mind, looking for a way out of this crisis, exploring desperate scenarios in which I contracted a disease, a relative died, my cat was kidnapped. It simply could not be that my life story would end in mud.Then … a miracle. One cold drizzly morning, bending to scoop up another handful of dead brown leaves, something caught my eye. Kneeling and brushing aside debris, I uncovered a delicate wisp of greenness. Smiling sleepily up at me, it reached out a tiny finger, as if seeking to rise from winter’s bed. With too much to get done, I paused and then moved on, but the image stayed and haunted. The next day I hurried back to see if I’d imagined it. No, it was still there. A bit taller. A bit greener. Looking around, I found others beginning to join it. How had I not seen them before? In scattered spots, colorful little faces were peeking out like stars in a dark sky. My inner world exploded. This was not mud. This was mystery. This was not barren. This was alive. This was the earth awakening, pregnant with jewels.It was the beginning of obsession; of countless hours in greenhouses walking slowly up and down the aisles, bending to read tags, examine leaves, smell fragrances.… I’d started with gloves, but as my lust grew I could no longer bear to have anything between us, and one day tore them off forever. I bought books, sent away for catalogs, minutely examined pictures of famous gardens. I made notes, drew diagrams and ordered plants from far places. That first year of discovery I bought anything and everything that caught my fancy. Much of it died because there were things I didn’t yet understand. Zones. Annuals. Perennials. Soil type. Whatever lived, I repeated and augmented, while always setting aside a portion of the garden for “hopefuls”.A note here: I have never accepted the designation “weed”. Who makes that call? I refuse to define any plant as useless and ugly. Certainly if it is born there is a place and a reason for its existence. I was told buckthorn scrub bush should be cleared, but emotionally unable to destroy healthy bushes, I secretly trimmed and shaped them instead. Today in my own gardens, people always ask where I bought those charming hedge trees. I have covered difficult areas, steep embankments and sunless patches, with Dandelions, Lambs Quarter, Purslane, Chickweed, Creeping Charlie, Sweet Yellow Clover, Black Medic…. To me these are not undesirable, just misplaced. I think that perhaps finding your place in life, defines the change from ugly to beautiful. The painfully sharp thistle is, in the right setting, a glorious flower.My letters to Manila, accompanied by grinning photos of me leaning on a shovel, sunburnt and sweaty, produced a surprise visit from my mother-in-law, Estrella. Exciting! Her own home in Antipolo, is surrounded by extensive gardens to which she is constantly adding new varieties of exotica. We could create together! Be a team!When she arrived, I immediately put my new talents on display. I demonstrated the best ways to trim, tie back, splice, graft, pick out slugs, dead-head pinch and lay mulch. I showed off the organized shed in which I could name every tool. I dragged her to specialty nurseries to examine seedlings and buy sheep manure. I sought her advice on mites, molds, aphids and leaf cutters. I proudly showed her my designs for a decorative retaining wall. I explained the precious layers of garbage in my compost. Gesturing with dirty hands, I stomped around in work boots and flexed my muscular upper arms. When she finally burst into tears, I was convinced I had thoroughly impressed her.While squatting on an overturned bucket and gently scattering my recent purchase of 10,000 earthworms, I heard her whisper in a fractured voice, “Anak, do you need money?”Turning around to stare at her in astonishment, I replied “What? No! Why?”She broke into choking sobs. “Is it my son’s fault? What has that gago (idiot) done? Just tell me! Sin verguenza! (Shameless! (him not me)).It took me a moment to understand. Oh my ignorance! My thoughtless pride! I had forced a collision of planets, and the airborne debris had smacked my sweet, soft mother-in-law in the head. Estrella liked good food … but she would never dream of cooking it herself. It was not in her upbringing, her culture, her blood.Dropping the worms and reaching out over my wheelbarrow, I took one of her dainty hands in mine and murmured the only consolation I could think of.“It’s no one’s fault mommy. No one’s at all. It’s in my DNA.”

Once upon a time lived a young girl who was light-hearted and glamorous. She could dance until dawn in rhinestone-studded heels. Over candle-lit dinners at the Champagne Room she peppered her conversation with bon mots. She rubbed shoulders with millionaires, movie stars and mobsters, and had mastered the slide out of a low-slung sports car.Without flashing her undies.In her tiny purse nestledle mustde Cartier … a gold pen, a sapphire studded compact, a monogrammed lighter.It was an exciting, if somewhat artificial personal era, for someone like me. I didn’t smoke. Or drink. I cut my nails down to the quick. I was shy, overly serious and only comfortable in mud boots, riding pants, and cat hair decorated sweaters.“Pinay Perfection” had eluded me and it’s probable I would have stayed unperfected forever, had not fate intervened. When Roxanne Lapus, Artistic Director of the premier dinner-theater group SRO, invited me to join her company, it was the royal kiss that would turn this little frog into a princess.Standing Room Only, based at the Intercontinental Hotel, was purveyor of the supremely elegant theatrical evening. In the hotel’s largest, most lavishly mirrored and carpeted, chandelier-hung ballroom, expensive food and wine followed by light British comedy, were served up to Manila’s glitterati. It was an evening of hedonistic, yet innocent fun. Okay, the word “sexy” was worked into the ads, but in those days it didn’t carry the present day connotation. There was no nudity or raw language, no sweaty grappling, no embarrassing displays of acrobatic amour-osity.SRO specialized in droll innuendo, side glances, rolled eyes, mistaken identities and forgotten gloves. The sets were fabulous, no cheap imitations allowed. Genuine crystal, damask, silk, leather bound books, antique lamps, painted tiles, carved wood. And the actors and production staff … well they were like the sets … only better. They were beau monde sophisticates, creative geniuses, witty and waggish, graceful and tasteful, both in and out of sin. You could fall into safe love with them. Everyone came to rehearsals freshly manicured and pedicured, with minty breath, washed hair and pressed clothing. Not for Foxy Roxy, the “I’m grungy, unhealthy, and sullen, to prove I’m a serious actor”, somebody-wannabe. She demanded a world of youth, beauty, energy and smooth accomplishment. If a few of the less than perfect did slip through, it was because they had elevated common charm to a deadly art.We did not serve up political opinions, terrifying dramas, weepy enactments of anguish, loss, or the overall ugliness of human nature. We made no attempt to educate, tell the truth or argue the lie. Manileῆos already got that from their TVs, newspapers and government. Instead, we gave them a night to forget the real world around them.When our audiences filled the Intercontinental ballroom (and every performance was packed), you could float a raft on the scent of expensive perfume. The rustle of designer gowns provided backdrop to the clinking of wine glasses and vibrato of highly pitched, animated greetings. Beneath the crystal (never glass darling!) chandeliers, surged a jewel decorated ocean sparkling with laughter, gossip and the adrenaline of fantasies invented and flirtations begun.I’d been a steadily employed, professional actress since my early teens, but none of the movies or live theater I’d worked, had been anything like this. The theater art I’d known, had been heavily vested in the dark side … you know, “reality”.  And the movies I worked in, hahahahahaa … well, enough said. SRO paid almost nothing, but so what? Who thinks of money when they’re dancing?For reasons incomprehensible, Roxanne made me leading lady. At the same time, she got promptly to work on my stunning failures in urbanity. In restaurants, she’d suggest that it might be polite to ask for the chef’s recommendation and not immediately order my favorite food (french fries) as soon as my rear hit the seat. She brought it to my attention that ladies do not carry their hairbrush (my only grooming tool) in a plastic grocery bag. She coaxed me toward the miracles of make-up, hair rollers, nail polish and silk stockings. It was her arm that formally ushered me into the world of haute couture evening gowns; these, designed by her famous mother, the society couturier Nena Lapus.Roxy was a bottomless fount of information. She knew good jewelry from costume, the correct length of a hemline, the look and feel of quality in everything. Her collection of handbags merited a gallery exhibition of their own. She knew how to talk to men and get what she wanted. Entering a store, sales people surged forward to serve her. She knew what was going on, where and when, and why we should be there. Even her actors listened seriously to her instructions (NOT something actors generally do for anyone). Never a beauty in the traditional sense, she had something more.… She had sophistication. While the rest of us were still experimenting with the cutlery, she had already mastered the art of savoir faire.Of course much of our time was spent producing and rehearsing nifty little pot boilers, but those hilarious hours seemed merely to bookend our active social lives. We ate at all the in places, attended gallery openings, fashion shows and plays. We discussed the contents of glossy magazines, and indulged in night long debates on the merits of American movie stars and British rock bands. We took out of town trips to resorts. We patronized the avant-garde boutiques of friends. Sometimes after a night of dancing, we’d troop to the beach and float in the warm Pacific while watching the sun rise. We fell in and out of love and hate regularly, endlessly discussing the pain and pleasure of misadventure.We didn’t discuss poverty, inequality, war and general misery. We didn’t worry about the planet or anticipate the end of the world. We were young, healthy, and excited to be alive. The fascinating rhythm of life in the fast lane was as endless as it seemed our youth would be.In my later incarnation as a socially aware, justice demanding, mission focused, corruption denouncing rebel, I was sometimes criticized for this happily unfocused period of my life. Shake a finger if you will, but I have never looked back on those years with even an ounce of regret.We were young, and the young live in the moment. Because that process is by nature blurry, perhaps it is best understood in hindsight.Youth is a small room in the edifice of time. It’s a standing room only place, packed with noisy people carousing and testing the new dance styles. In this raucous rec room, you can finger paint on the walls, make experiments that explode, and eat all the chocolate you want. The days are marked by dress fittings and picnics. The endless evenings are filled with games, costume parties and passionate love affairs.You must enjoy every moment in this room because it is a temporary place. Soon enough, the rough hands of time will push you on into other rooms marked “adulthood”, “accountability”, “awareness”. You will wear sensible shoes, read good books, eat healthy foods. You will join “discussion” groups and never stay up too late. These rooms work to expand your being and make you wiser … yet they also, have the potential somehow, to make you sadder.I have been to, and through, most of the rooms now, and sometimes here in the quiet corners of maturity, I will suddenly snort out a laugh. Decent people turn and raise their eyebrows. I note the disapproval but cannot stop grinning at my friends, over there, in thestanding room onlyplace. They are flushed and giddy, and even the ones who have passed on, have come back for the moment, just to hear the new jokes. The room is hot, the music loud, the laughter full-throated, and the crystal (never glass darling!) chandeliers sparkle outrageously. Over there we are still light-hearted and glamorous, there, in a time and place where life was exciting, and the unknowns of tomorrow were thrilling, not disheartening.

My husband has invited three Filipino coworkers and their wives to dinner. That means we will be eight people total. I have been prepping and cooking for two days.Butternut squash bisque. Grilled salmon. Baby bok choy. Sesame honey chicken wings. Roasted eggplant and tomatoes. Steamed rice. Chocolate cake. Mango bars. Tea and coffee.The guests will be here any minute now.Husband. Are you sure you made enough?Wife. Are you kidding? There’s more than enough!Husband. But you’re sure?Wife. Yes. I’m sure.Husband. Well as long as you’re sure.Wife. Look … why don’t you go get some ice or something?Husband. Okay.Last minute touches to the table. Last minute touches to the guest bathroom. Last minute touches to my face. Return to kitchen where husband is returned and there are two foil bags on the counter. My last minute busyness immediately screeches to a halt.Wife. What is that?Husband. Two roasted chickens.Wife. What? Why?Husband. You know … just in case….Glaring at him, I move towards the bags, fully intending to slam both to the floor and smash them to flatness … but the doorbell rings.Okay. I accept that it’s my fault. When we were newly married, well over two decades ago, my husband asked if he could bring his teammates home after a big game. Even though I’d never entertained a pro-basketball team, and Manang Loisa (family cook and fall back person for all things culinary) was on vacation, I have always been a woman of enormous confidence. Confidence, that is sometimes ill-placed.The night of the event, our dining room, populated by a forest of hungry, sweaty, seven foot giants, looked as though Birnam Wood had come to Dunsinane. With the same devastating effect. We were ransacked.A miscalculation/misunderstanding/miswhatever, had prompted me to produce fruit kabobs, quiche, lemon merengue pie, iced tea and lemonade. Tiny bouquets of ribbon-tied flowers lay next to tiny bowls of pastel mints. Each place setting was complimented by a floral place card and a matching napkin.The trees stood around looking confused, their enormous roots shifting uncertainly, until as one, arms like great branches swept out and swallowed the entire table in one gulp. It was an awkward evening.I can’t say why I didn’t know better. Like most Filipinos I grew up around noisy, laughing people who ate piles of pretty much everything, pretty much around the clock. It’s a part of the culture I adore, and growing up I laughed and made noise along with everyone else. As I look back, I see that my problem stemmed from a possible genetic defect:I had no plans to cook my own food one day.My understanding of food was limited to chocolate.I know! I know! What’s wrong with me? I’m an Island Girl for heaven’s sake! Born and bred into a nation of food worshippers. Where is my God Given Strand of Filipino DNA, that vital chromosome that links heart, mind and soul, to the joys of proper and substantial nourishment?It’s not as though no attention was given to my education. I could bake. Somewhat. At school I took home economics. It included cooking. And when Lola was angry, she sent me to the kitchen to absorb from Manang Loisa, who never allowed me to talk when her soap operas were on. I’d absorb silently, while she chopped and diced, her radio characters arguing and crying up a storm in the background. When she started talking back to them, I knew I wouldn’t be missed if I slipped out. So I did.In my defense, I had frequent invitations to dine at the most expensive restaurants in Manila. I rather prided myself on being an amazingly popular girl. That is, until a rival told me that I was a favorite date for expensive places, because I didn’t drink, and even better, never ordered anything but dessert. Still, since it obviously worked out for everyone, why mess with it?In the same way the ignorant don’t worry about ignorance, I saw “happily ever after” written in my stars, my refrigerator continuing to be, throughout most of my young life, a treasure chest stuffed with imported chocolates and perfumes. What? Warning signs flashing and blinking? Marriage!!! Moving!!! Maid-less-ness!!! Assuming they weren’t for me, I ignored them.Little children, it is best in life to listen to your Lola. God hears her prayers and those who have offended receive their due reward.Of course, I married a Filipino. That’s a man who thinks there should be at least five options on the table. At every meal.Of course, we moved to the U.S. Midwest. That’s a place where if you’re a “real good” woman, you cook “real good” (hot / hearty / humungous).The maid? Oh yeah. She looked back at me from the mirror, shaking a stern finger and saying, “Honey, get up and rattle those pots and pans. Now!”Prior to marriage, my future husband and I attended the preparatory counseling provided by our church. They thoroughly investigated our lifestyle choices, hobbies, views on money, child-rearing and religious affiliations. Were our educational attainments compatible? Were our financial goals realistic? If I put on fifty pounds would he still love me? If he was paralyzed in an accident, would I still love him? How did we feel about divorce? How did we get along with our in-laws?Friends, I am sure we were more thoroughly vetted than applicants to the CIA, yet never once, did anyone ask me if I could cook, or even suggest that maybe I should learn.Whatever. What’s done is done. Married. And he wants to eat. A lot. All the time. Wow.Thus began my years of financing the long distance telephone company.“Hi Mom? How are you? Can I talk to Loisa?”“Ay … ma’m Rica. Kumusta po si ser? (How is sir?)”“He’s fine Manang. How much water does rice need to get fluffy but not sticky?”“Nabalitaan mo ba ma’am? Kakasal na si Carding at Luisa! Salamat sa Diyos! Nakakaiyak talaga!!” (Ma’am did you hear that Carding and Luisa are getting married? Thank God! It will make you cry!)I am lost for a moment. Neighbors? Children? Relatives? Then … I remember. Gulong Ng Palad. Manang Loisa’s soap opera. Since the 1950’s she’d never missed an episode. In the 1970’s it moved from radio to television and she was so distraught, we had to put a set in the kitchen. Aha. I got it. Two of the characters had married.“Oh, okay, that’s nice.”“Alam mo na, ilang taon na, ayaw na ayaw yun mama ni Carding. Buwisit yan babaeng yan! Masyadong ambisiosa para sa sarili! Bruha! Sino naman ang magagalit sa paghahanap ng true love? SELOSA!!!”  (You know how many years that terrible mother of Carding stood in their way? A bad woman! Too ambitious for herself! A witch! Who stands in the way of true love??? JEALOUS!!!)“Loisa, how much water do I need for the rice?”But she was on a roll, and for twenty long distance minutes, dissected the disagreeable character of this disagreeable character. When I felt she might be winding down, I tried to get my foot in the door.“Manang … tubig … para sa bigas…?” (Manang … water … rice ….?)But now she’d exhausted herself.“Gamiting mo ang daliri ma’m, ang daliri.” (Ma’am just use your finger, use your finger.)And she hung up.It was frustrating, but I needed Manang Loisa, and if that meant I had to listen to a weekly dissertation on the tribulations of love, treachery and meddlesome neighbors, so be it. I told myself to humor her. After all, soap operas were the refuge of the masses. They were an inexpensive and vicarious thrill for lives lived on the sidelines. I, of course, was above this sob-story nonsense, but with a deep breath I summoned up all the patience I am so not known for.Manang had been in my life for a long time, but always as part of the establishment, like a permanent fixture you stop noticing. Now, if I committed to calling her regularly to have my cooking confusions sorted out, I understood that this would require we spend time walking arm in arm through the great mysteries of life. She not only religiously followed every turn of the screw on Gulong ng Palad, she eventually added to it the misfortunes of Flor de Luna, and Annalisa. Ultimately, as well acquainted as any psychiatrist, with the angst of mankind, she began to monitor Tia Dely and Kuya Cesar, making sure the free advice they gave away on the radio, was solid.Initially, my cooperation was both mercenary and condescending. I was desperate. Even with the purchase of a Nora Daza book, nothing I cooked came out right. The steps were well listed, but the steps between the steps … the ones Nora figured you knew because you’d paid attention to your Lola, well, naturally she’d left those out.As weeks turned into months, the slow process of transformation took hold and birthed a miracle. My mind began to open like a flower. Chop, squeeze, braise, steep, shape into logs and roll. Phone receiver, pinched into place between ear and scrunched up shoulder, I moved to instructions sporadically inserted between Manang’s chapter by chapter recounting, of the latest developments in the world of television trauma.Ten thousand miles away, Manang Loisa suddenly became more real to me than when we’d slept in the same house. Her observations on life, love and the whole of human experience could cut to the bone. When I’d occasionally offer my own opinion, she’d harangue me on the smallness and hardness of my soul. We’d argue over what a woman should do when her man cheats (Her vote = love him back. My vote = shoot him in the back.) We’d laugh together over idiotic plot twists. A few times she actually made me cry (someone lost their baby / dog / husband). Mostly I listened. And learned.The characters in her soaps took her to school; took her abroad; took her into their bedrooms and confessionals. They were members of her personal entourage, living for her benefit, all the lives she was not going to have time for. They presented her with conundrums to work her brain around, and challenges to enlarge her heart. Why do women persist in believing a man who lies? Why do men break everything they touch? Is there such a thing as true love? Does the prodigal child ever really come home? Does God intervene in the affairs of men?One day I am in my kitchen, stuffing a turkey, and chatting with a neighbor about our upcoming State Fair. In this Northern European culture, the long winters pull people deep into their caves. When the sun comes out, they emerge from hibernation with an explosion of energy. Every August, over a ten day run, two million people turn out for the State Fair. I love it and go every year. She has never been.“I hear it’s pricey.” she says.“Yeah. It is.”“I hear all the food is fried.”“Yeah. It is.”“I hear it’s noisy, dusty and hot as hell.”“Yeah. It is.”She continues to press, wondering why anyone in their right mind would pay an entry fee, and then pay again and again, for unhealthy food, dangerous rides and tacky souvenirs. Finally, I’ve had enough and blurt out,“Hey, I go for the same reason everyone else does! To people watch! Teenagers flirting. Young men fighting. Lovers breaking up / making up. Old people revving up. Young children high on candy. Immigrants and new-comers. Humanity drunk on the casual largess of an American party. Fashion, sex, money. People vibrating to the lights, the music, the food, the rides, the fireworks. People. That’s why everyone goes. To watch the people!”A week later I am thinking on that exchange. Crushing peanuts for fresh lumpia, slicing the garlic paper thin, suddenly it comes to me. Suddenly I understand. It’s soap opera.And if that is true, then in fact, we’re all soap opera fans. People sipping coffee at sidewalk cafés, passing drivers slowing at accidents, the crowd that gathers to watch two men argue. In airports, shopping malls, churches and dance halls, we watch each other, analyzing facial expression, body language, vocal tone. We absorb and process emotional information. To what purpose? Perhaps to the end of enriching our own personal soap opera.I mean … maybe this is how we survive. How we figure things out. We plug into other humans and draw energy from them. We study their circumstances and problems. We consider their responses and reactions. We imagine walking in their shoes, so we can compare their walk to ours. Why do they do this, and not that? What should I do? Why do they want this, and not that? What should I want? What is right? What is wrong?This consuming desire, this need for entanglement, a feasting together even momentarily, with other souls, other heartbeats, other stumblers and seekers, is a glorious thing. It’s a hunger that feeds on our mutual humanity, satisfying and fattening our hearts, with the deep, rich taste of love.Manang Loisa, thank you. These thanks I also extend, to all the others out there who have, knowingly and unknowingly, let me watch you, absorb you, gain insight and direction. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your story, and in the resulting synergy ---- write my own.

My insight on the subject of personal destiny is that we do not make it, but rather, come into this world to receive it.A thoughtful child, I knew early on who I was and what I would do in life. I would find a small corner of the world and nestle down. Now, which of my three career picks would best serve this goal?Chocolate makerVeterinarianNun. (This last came into play at age seven because my mother took me to see Fellini’s, La Strada. Giulietta Masina could have saved herself if she’d joined a convent. Instead she followed a man and died. Lesson learned.)I tried to stand firm, but life being a comedy, instead of becoming a chocolate-stuffed, multi-pet-owning, cloistered nun, I surrendered to destiny and became a traveling fool.It started with a childhood dunking into the sink or swim river of various cultures, continents and languages. My restless parents explored old and new worlds, deeply fascinated with life outside the “box”. It wasn’t uninteresting, but everything being relative, living outside the “box” meant to me, settling down and getting a parrot. Naively entering the movies to finance that dream, I learned that parrots live forever and like you to be with them while they do that. Movie star life is not lived at home. Goodbye parrot.Eventually wearied by the life-eating demands of the limelight, I retired to work with horses. For reasons too complicated to explain in under 8,000 words, this had the startling effect of putting me on planes to places like Brunei, Kuching Sarawak, Kota Kinabalu….Overwhelmed, I took a stance, stared down destiny and defiantly married a homebody-type of guy, who assured me he had no desire to visit places unknown.In our second year of marriage, he took employment with an international airline.Finally, just as Mr. Homebody says it’s time we stay put so I can have more than two cats, we informally adopt a boy who plays chess. Everywhere. More to the point, he does not like to be everywhere,alone.The Boy and I are on the road in no uncertain terms. People ask me how he copes with so much travel. The truth is, as long as someone else does the packing and handles every single bit of the complex logistics, he doesn’t care if we arrive, return, or even depart. My husband is sure he is a genius. I am only sure he is a male.Whatever cattle pen (waiting area) we are in, his antennae quickly zone in on the best length of seat. Once ensconced, feet on the armrest at one end, head on my coat at the other, this world disappears. On his stomach balances a chess board with armies arranged in what appear from his glazed eyes, to be satisfying patterns. His life is perfect.Meanwhile, I am impatiently monitoring a clock which I swear must be broken. We are of course delayed—choose any one of a thousand reasons why—and my hope of getting out of transit and into hotel and hot shower appears well in the distant future.Annoyed, I sulk and silently bet that if he had snacks he would be happy to stay here, wherever it is we are, forever. I glance over but he doesn’t register my irritation, so I remark testily that I’m going for a walk. He nods absently and calls to my departing back, “Get snacks”.This is my destiny. To stand sighing throughout eternity beneath the automatic, shuffling travel schedules of airport, bus and train stations. Neck cranked up, I watch as the names of towns endlessly slip, slide, flip, rotate and turn. It’s, The Twilight Zone.Silently I mouth names, experimenting with pronunciation. Hunghada Gassim Kahore Sharm El Sheik Tbui Sulemaniyah Djibouti Riyadh Erbil Tabriz Yekaterinburg Kathmandu Ashgabad Borg El Arab Soci Astrakhan Kermanshah Medina Tehranika Gassim…. Our flight appears but still has no departure time. Okay. Get snacks.Catching my reflection in a window, I note my dishevelment.  Considering how much I travel, I can’t understand why I don’t present a more sophisticated front. It’s not that I haven’t acquired skills…. I can quickly find the cleanest toilets, best seating, shops that give away food samples and those that let you test perfume. I also have an eagle’s eye for the location of electrical outlets. To the average traveler this may not sound like much, but in Istanbul for example, only an expert can find the two outlets awarded per concourse. And only a genius is carrying the peculiar connectors needed to use them.Yet talented as I am, it’s clear I lack poise. My most common travel sensation is one of stickiness, and while others, upon arrival at exotic destination, seek out a bar or an art gallery, I head for the hamam to have my skin scrapped off.Wandering, I burn calories tripping, while trying to sidestep, bodies. Despite catering to the nations, this airport lacks seating. Or perhaps the nations just have too many people. With every chair taken, they squat along the walls, lie prone on the floor, pace the corridors, or perch precariously on their mountains of carry-on luggage.The bodies are interesting. Robed and capped tribal men sit cross-legged drinking tea. Saudi women pass in the usual black shrouds but these (special for travel?) are heavily hung with sparkling jewels. Thousands of Hajji are on pilgrimage, their traditional white cotton swaddling, without visible pins or buttons, often falling open most indelicately. There are Moroccan Berbers with dangling coin headscarves, village Turks in baggy trousers, ebony-skinned Nubians, colorful as exotic birds. The disciplined Japanese appear, obediently marching behind ramrod straight, flag bearing leaders. Russian women turn heads with their huge breasts, short skirts and high fashion boots. These carry shopping bags filled with Vodka bottles and regularly plunking these down on the cement floors, provoke some dangerously merry clinking.Dotting the flow of exotic humanity are freckle faced white Western kids with huge backpacks and self-conscious expressions of worldliness. Many are barefoot, designer ragged and purposefully careless of their belongings. Observing these innocent attempts at with-it-ness, I cannot help but wonder if the next time I see these faces will be on Banged Up Abroad.Suddenly startled by the vicious swearing directly behind me, I pull to a corner and watch two groups of tiny, sweet-faced Filipinos greeting each other. Their salutations are punctuated with a volley of horrific curses lead by the ever popular; “You son of a whore, how are you my brother?”Their conversation in Tagalog is loudly and freely spoken, as most Filipinos imagine that outside the Philippines proper, no one can understand them. Compatriots. Please. Dare to be Aware.I am surprised to see a bathroom without a line curling out of it, so I quickly enter. Wrong. There is a compact line inside and now I’m stuck because several women have followed in close behind. Resigned to waiting in the unpleasant odor, I idly watch a French girl fixing her hair.She is wearing low slung sweat pants with a very short cropped top. The two combine to reveal an expanse of fatty stomach. As she raises her arms, we also get glimpses of territory above and below. In the mirror I note that the other women clearly do not appreciate this view. This is after all a predominantly conservative culture. Personally, although she is still in my eye line, my mind has left her as it drifts to a memory of my Aunt Monina, singing along with Bing Crosby. “Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive, eliminate the neg-ah-tive …” It is a fond memory and I laugh lightly. Oops.The girl whirls around and curses me in French. The other women hiss at her and as she leaves she viciously kicks the bag on the floor next to me. This makes me laugh again as the bag is not mine. It belongs to the massive prison guard waiting in line behind me, who now verbally assaults the girl in a torrent of harsh Russian. I duck into a vacated stall and lock the door.Rambling through the duty free stores I drench myself with expensive perfumes (several of them) and nibble on the pieces of free lokum piled on platters everywhere. Turkish delight with pomegranate, coconut, pistachio, chocolate, lemon, almond, orange blossom, walnuts, fig hazelnuts, saffron…. Wanting to be fair, I spend enough time testing them to make myself dizzy. I do not buy any though because The Boy and I have a handshake “deal”, that as serious addicts we will avoid sweets unless there is cause to celebrate. I pocket a secret few for myself and buy him a small bag of carrots.Returning to our seats, I put on my martyr mask, sit down with an air of deep exhaustion, and triumphantly hand him the vegetables.“I walked across the entire airport to find these for you. They cost a fortune.”He glances at me, then back to his now decimated armies.“Turkish delight!” he proclaims boldly to his remaining soldiers.I am startled. How … what … who…? Is he really … a genius?Trying not to flush, I call his bluff. “What Turkish delight?”“Aha! Aha!” And he stretches out a long arm tipped with accusing finger and stabs it repeatedly at my black dress.“Powdered sugar! Yes!” he shouts triumphantly. The entire room turns to look at the Chinese Sherlock.Sighing, I dig into my pocket and hand them over.Noisily and happily he quickly stuffs all the pieces into his mouth at once. Black eyes twinkling, cheeks dimpling, he smiles up at me ingratiatingly and mumbles through the sticky wad,“You sthmell gut.”

I was fourteen, when given my first glimpse of God.It was Christmas Eve, St. Paul’s College of Manila.In the balcony of the Chapel of the Crucified Christ, I was sullenly awaiting the start of midnight mass. Earlier, when mother had informed me we would be attending this event, I pled my case.“Noooo … the cousins are having a party … with a live band.”“How nice for them,” she responded.So there we were. I sat stiffly on the wooden pew, legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded, obedient, resentful, plotting revenge.The lights had been switched off.  Broad-bladed tropical fans stilled. Perspiring in the heat, outwardly composed, inwardly entertained by images of wild rebellion, I was startled into consciousness by the faint sound of a-capella singing. Floating on the air like the scent of tropical flowers, was an ethereal, Gloria in Excelsis Deo.Below me, white veiled nuns raising high, sweet, unearthly voices, filed slowly into the darkened Chapel. Each carried a glowing candle which she lovingly placed on the completely bare altar.I leaned forward, mesmerized, drawn into the increasing light.Slowly I became the softening wax, interior spilling over exterior. My eyes followed the smoke; diaphanous, ethereal, entwined with heaven song, it spiraled upwards, upwards…. Shivering and curling, it drifted towards the vaulted ceiling, gossamer arms reaching, reaching, for the heavens. There, up high amid the ancient shadows, heated particles of carbon gathered, strengthened, and reformed, revealing the wing-ed shapes of seraphim.Neck arched, lips slightly parted, I closed my eyes as soul pulled out of self and passed into, a land of strange and alien Joy.His presence passed and for a moment paused.I did not know then What or Who, this was.I only know that He,turned His head,to lookat me.

“Ang taba mo, Lotis! Kumusta si Dolphy? Mag pepelikula ka?”This is the cheerful greeting reserved specifically for me, every time I pass through immigrations at NAIA. I’ve come to view it philosophically. It’s a metaphor, isn’t it? For the next ten days, two thirds of my experiences here will be surreal. Understand, I haven’t made a movie in thirty years, Dolphy’s passing was noted by the entire nation, but yes, okay, I’m fat.So I smile regretfully and say, “Yes. He’s dead. No.” Commiserating, they smile sadly back at me, slam down the stamp, and I am allowed entry into the planet of poetic topsy-turvy.As a wanderer with more than one cultural heritage, a person who calls more than one place “home”, twice a year, I make the ten thousand mile trek to Manila. It’s a long trip, but … there’s simply no other place in the galaxy, where my highly developed sense of the ridiculous, can be so perfectly exercised. No other place, where if I die, it will be from laughing.I have arrived with a single piece of luggage. Customs is perturbed. One bag? Ano? Ito lang? They say it jokingly, but the wrinkle between their eyes reveals concern. The normal is eight to ten boxes, not including your actual suitcases. Who comes home with only one bag? A poor person that’s who! Has the girl they loved in high school, the girl who smiled at them in dark movie theaters, has she fallen upon hard times? They look sorrowfully at me, and I feel bad for disappointing them with my poor display.Conscious that I’ve just landed and already I’m letting people down, I head out into the torrid night air. I don’t like to be picked up, “fetched” as they say here, because my flights always get in around midnight and it embarrasses me to disturb either relatives or household help, for something as elementary as a ride. Anyway, I prefer the freedom of showing up or not. I drag my bag over to the airport taxi stand where I’m greeted with, “Si Lotis Key? Looking car and driver? Downstair bottom level ma’am.” They can’t imagine that somewhere there isn’t a Benz with a uniformed chauffeur waiting for my command.The booker shouts at them that I indeed, hired a taxi from inside the airport. There is a momentary, stunned silence before I’m swamped with five men fighting to cram my one bag into a taxi. Jet lagged, flushed scarlet by the heat, embarrassed by my quickly frizzing hair, I try to defend my honor (No! I am NOT poverty-stricken), by over-tipping each of them. Before closing the door they sing to me, “You are da sunshine of my lipe…. Lotis, faborito ka namin!” Looking at them, I realize they had to have been toddlers when I was in the movies. Ah. Re-runs. Well if they still recognize me, I can’t be all that fat. The giggles grab hold, and for the next two weeks I’m their slave.During the drive home, I peer out into the darkness, trying to pinpoint landmarks that share space with specific memories. It’s not easy. As poor as this country is there never fail to be newer roads and higher buildings, each time I return.We’re passing Ayala Ave. In the 1970’s when I was a young girl, I’d walk Bergerac my dachshund, down its wide, clean avenue. There were lush green trees full of twittering birds, pots filled with flowers and elegantly dressed doormen along the whole length of it. There was no traffic. You could cross practically wherever, and whenever, you wanted. Children played soccer on the field at one end. Of course I know it’s not like that anymore and remembering how it was, makes me feel old, like my lola who used to bore us by going on and on about Escolta.Somewhere in the darkness on my left is a pretty little church I attended for a season. The American priest, Father Vincent, loved his Filipino flock so much he studied for a year, memorizing the mass in the native tongue. On the day of this grand debut, a group of adoring girls sat attentively in a row. It all went perfectly. Almost. Tagalog is an expressive language and the exchange of one single vowel, well....  Loving Father Vincent, we focused with all our might on the bloody crucifix as he went through the entire liturgy, making frequent reference to Ang Sagrado Pusa ni Jesus. The Sacred Cat of Jesus.Farther along, we enter another part of town, and I press my face against the glass trying to peer down a side street. There used to be a small eatery there. The Chatterbox Café - a nice place to have a friendly chatter. Once, compelled by this name and sub-name, I couldn’t resist checking it out. Entering, I took a seat and a young boy approached with a menu. Instead of looking at it, I tried to engage him by asking what he recommended, what kind of food they served, etc. He was struck shy and stared at me dumbly. Several variations of my question produced no response. Finally I tried, “Boy, anong specialty mo dito?” He stammered, “Wala kaming specialty ma’am, only Lipton.”The next morning I am squatting in our driveway, watching Mang Pablo, repair a wheel that has detached from my suitcase. The head housemaid, Ernestina, also known as Dona Ting-Ting, comes out to shout and shake her walis at me.“Loti, what you doing dere? Back to house now!”I try to explain, “I’m learning how the wheel goes back….”“No! You come! Pabling will do! Baka ma kita ka ng mga neigbors! Pasok Na!” She smacks the broom down hard on the patio steps, frustrated by the possibility that the entire household will be exposed to disgrace by my indiscreet interest in manual labor. Taking a deep breath, I rise and return obediently to my room, throw myself on the bed and stuff the corner of a pillow into my mouth to smother my screams. I can rewire a faulty socket, repair leaky plumbing, hang wallpaper … but that is in the U.S. Here, to be respectable, a woman must be attractively incompetent. I might as well go get my feet bound.It is Holy Week and we must have the traditional dried fish. I tell mommy I’ll take her out to eat it but she insists she has to do it herself, because no one soaks it properly anymore. She sends Terit, the new maid from Ilocos, to go to the market and buy dried bacalao. It is two hours before Terit returns with this solemn message: “Ma’m, inikot ko yun buong palenke, pero ang sabi nila sa akin, hindi sila nagbebenta ang baculao, at kailan pa may, hindi sila magbebenta ng baculao.”I smile, sigh and nod at the same time, grab my handbag, call the driver and go sit in the car with the door open, pointedly waiting for mommy to get in.I’m not a shopper, but walking around the incredible malls is the best show in this town. Staying away from the “classier” ones that are imitations of sterile American shops, (I don’t travel ten thousand miles to pretend I’m right back where I started) I gravitate to the noisy, messy ones, filled with thousands of people. Here are hundreds upon hundreds, of small, unique store fronts, along with restaurants that feature every edible known to man. The pace in them is frenetic crazy, the noise level akin to that of multitudes of rollercoasters all thundering past at the same time. The hawkers call out to me that I am pretty, but I’ll be bee-oo-ti-ful, if I buy their T-shirts, bags, necklaces, make-up, placemats, woven slippers, Dvd’s….  Ignoring hawkers seems to raise concern that I may be deaf, so they pull on my sleeves and ring little bells in my face. It’s okay. I always bring money to buy stuff I don’t want. It makes me proud to be the first customer of the day and watch those lazy goods get spanked with my bills.I stop to buy from my favorite pizza place. It has a difficult name for this country: Greenwich. When I was a kid, people struggled with the pronunciation of it and you could tell which of your classmates vacationed abroad, and which didn’t, by the way they said the name. When I order, unwilling to appear snooty I ask for the Green-Witch cheese and tomato combo. The order boy pauses for a moment and then says kindly to me, “Ma’am, dat’s Gre-nich.”Abashed, I thank him and leave, eating my slices while wandering aimlessly, immersing myself in the game of watcher and watched. At the center of the frenzy is a Catholic chapel filled with penitents on lunch break. I stop to listen to the call and response, bowing my head as the host is lifted up in the midst of the market place.I hear music and follow the rhythm outside to the huge mall parking lot. An entire section has been taken over by people of all ages, gyrating to Latino dance music. What? Are you kidding me? It’s spontaneous ZUMBA! A free for all that anyone can join! I bolt down my last slice and hurriedly insert myself into one of the lines. It is the middle of the day, hot as a sauna, and I am in a public parking lot, sucking in my stomach, wiggling my hips and sweating with two hundred people I don’t know. A very loud Ricky Martin shouts at me that we’re, “VIVIENDO LA VIDA LOCA!!! I so totally agree.Toward the end of my visit I receive a phone call. A party invitation! I’m excited to be asked, because I adore Filipino parties with their lavish food, live music, dancing and mahjong until dawn. I fully intend to go, but mistaking my polite hesitation for unwillingness, my friend attempts to seal the deal. “Lotis, believe me, you will enjoy! It’s only for the elite, everybody will be somebody!”Before I can process the good intention behind this remark, my mouth says, “You do know, that elitism is a form of racism, which is an attitude associated with the inhabitants of small towns?”My friend bursts into hysterical laughter. “That’s what I LOVE about you Lotis! Hindi ka nagbabago! Suplada ka pa rin!

Eeeyyauugghhhhh! … Ah-Ah-Ahhhh! … Uh-Uh-Uh … No-no-no-nooo!!! Agh! Agh! Moans, imprecations and squeaks, emanate in jerky spurts from my North American business partner. He grimaces, rolls his eyes, arches his back. The knuckles of his clenched fists show so white I can see the bone. Sweat, initially only beading his brow, suddenly breaks free and rolls down to pool in his ears. His lips alternate between dropping open as if to vomit, and then abruptly clamping shut as if to hold his teeth in.I don’t want to embarrass him, but truthfully I’m a bit anxious. We have a multi-million dollar contract riding on our mid-morning presentation. What if he accidentally bites a hole in his tongue?No. We’re not in an emergency room, not held captive by terrorists, not cornered by wild buffalo. We’re in my car making our way through traffic in true Filipino style.My driver, Mr. Penaroyo, is one of the best. He is master of the dodge, the bluff, the sideslip, the insert, the swerve. He can block, U-turn on a dime, do the squeeze, the nudge, the stop and go hustle. He has more moves than a politician. He knows everyone and is on speaking terms with a lot of officials. Mostly policemen.He’s been my driver since high-school and once, newly back from summer vacation, impressed by foreign road manners, I tried to reform him.“Mr. Penaroyo, do you know why there are lines painted on the streets?”Looking at me in the rear view mirror his eyebrows arch their surprise.“Of course, missy.”“So tell me then.”“Decorative effect, missy. Everyone knows that.”I only mention this so that you understand, I tried. What more was there to be said? He was right. I mean look around. Everyone knows that.Closing in on our destination, Mr. North America pulls himself together and taps Mr. Penaroyo on the shoulder. There is a touch of sarcasm in his tone.“Hey bud, how close can you get to another car without scraping the paint off?”I inwardly cringe at the “hey bud” address, but Mr. Penaroyo ever civil, thinks for a moment, lowers his extra-dark sunglasses a tad and turns his head to ask,“Wet paint or dry, sir?”As we alight, I am flushed with Filipino pride.I empathize with Mr. North America and sometimes for brief moments, I even feel his pain. He’s a successful, no-nonsense businessman, a born leader who has power-marched his way up the ladder, in true North American style. He’s a hero, a man’s man. A fearless slayer of bulls and bears. Now, ten thousand miles away from home logic cripples him; he is handicapped by his need to understand.“What?” and “Why?” These questions stand poised to launch like arrows in a drawn bow. The target? Any unfamiliar situation. He resists me when I point out what all Filipinos know to be true; not all questions are born with answers.In the previous months we’ve had several meetings at his headquarters in the Midwest. This North American CEO runs six, multi-million dollar companies. He wears workman’s boots, blue jeans and a pullover every day and on every occasion. Sometimes he accessorizes with a knitted cap. It has earflaps.I start by insisting he be measured for two bespoke suits from Anderson & Sheppard. Next, I order hand-made Italian Scarpe di Bianco shoes. Then, I contract with a designer to assemble luggage and various accouterments: shirts, neckties, handkerchiefs, toiletries, etc. Mr. North America, who has promised full cooperation in exchange for my help, treats it all like a huge joke until the bills arrive. He is flabbergasted. Spending money is not funny to millionaires, so all joking immediately ceases.The day after arriving in Manila, instead of proceeding straight to our meeting as requested, we head to a top salon where I’ve booked the deluxe package.“What? No! Why? I’m not doing this! What are we doing anyway? Whatever it is, I’m not doing it! I’ve never been in a poof palace and I’m not starting now!”We are arguing on the sidewalk. I could move our disagreement into the mall and do battle in air-conditioned comfort, but this man is much bigger than I am, so I avail of the help the good Lord provides.Standing in the noon day sun, we continue debating until I recognize the early signs of heat stroke. As he begins to stammer and his refusals take on a drifting quality, I gently pull him by the arm and guide him into the dimly lit, icy coolness of the spa.Four staff members ease him into a recliner, place a cold towel over his eyes and get to work. Styling haircut with color, shave, and scalp conditioning massage. Deep cleansing facial. Nose hair trim. Ear hair trim. Shoulder massage. Manicure and pedicure.When they pull his shoes off, he attempts to regain control.“Why? Why?”—“No! Don’t take my shoes off! No!”—I put my hands on his chest and push him firmly back into the chair. Unflinching, I stare him down.“Do you want to win? Can you win? PROVE you can win!”Skewered by my eyes, he tries a placating tone.“But why? Why do I have to do this?”“To—distance—from—the—ape.”He goes limp and lowers his lids.My Asian Tiger mom would have been proud.The meeting is at a high point. Mr. North America has brought an additional multi-million dollar U.S federal grant: added incentive to his initial offer. Mr. Philippine CEO along with the two government officials present, have only to match it, in this joint effort to manage environmental pollution.Both parties are excited over their common accord. Sticking points melt away and after months of long distance negotiation, signing looks imminent.Suddenly Mr. P.C. yawns, stretches, and requests coffee. The government officials follow suit. Aides jump up, secretaries appear, beverages are ordered and a list of available snacks examined.Mr. N.A. is deeply startled. His eyes dart uncomprehendingly from one face to another. Frozen in a seated, half-hunched position over the contracts, only his fingers continue to move spasmodically, as if guiding imaginary pen over imaginary paper. I can hear him thinking, “What? Why?”Mr. P.C. stands up, rubs his neck and walks to the window. The officials follow. For several minutes they make commentary on the traffic thirty five stories below. Coffee and cakes arrive. Time is spent choosing, tasting, choosing again…. Compliments are addressed to the pretty waitress. The contracts lay flattened and forgotten beneath trays of pastry. Mr. N.A. tries to balance the cup of coffee forced on him.“You have a good tailor,” comments Mr. P.C.“What? Oh … yeah. Thanks,” responds Mr. N.A.I see Mr. P.C.’s glance linger for a split second on the shoes, but of course he won’t ask. He looked. It’s enough.“Have you been to Boracay?”“What? Why?”“It’s an island! Have you seen it?” presses Mr. P.C.“What? An island? Aren’t we on an island? Why?”Mr. P.C. professes astonishment.“Boracay, is the best island in the world! We have to go! Let’s go!”Aides are immediately on the phone ordering up Mr. P.C.’s private plane.Mr. N.A. is drowning, tidal waters disintegrating the now coffee-stained papers that represent months of work. He tries to snatch at driftwood as the sea sucks him down, down, down into a whirlpool called Boracay.“What? Right now? Why? An island? Another one? But … why … what…?”He looks at me helplessly. Will I save him?I understand and even sympathize because after all I’m half-white. The problem is my other half. The Filipino half. That half wants to go to Boracay in a private plane. So I give him my look. He sighs, rises despondently and we follow Mr. P.C. to the elevator.Filipino culture is the epitome of relational art. Every interaction, if it is to lead to a more lasting one, must aspire to certain intimacies. It seemed we had now reached the stage that required the artful recitation of our connectedness: our bloodlines, our acquaintances, our schools, our neighborhoods, our marriages. This is the Asian method of establishing “self” in a social network so vast it is barely comprehensible to the Western mind. Metro Manila alone has some twelve million people living and working in it. Your links are your lifeblood, and how deep those veins run, determines your worth.Sitting at the bar of the best hotel in Boracay having drinks in coconuts, waiting for our specially ordered dinner, I note that Mr. N.A. seems lethargic, morose even. Was he still upset about the plane? (He happened to see the weight and passengers limit stamped on a door frame and because we had people doubled up in seats, with others on the floor, he felt we were over it. I’d explained that it didn’t matter because Filipinos are small. He was unconvinced.)But, if that was it then shouldn’t he be happy we’d landed safely? Hmmm. Was it the outrigger canoe from Caticlan? I’d told him to stop worrying; the Italian shoes would surely dry out eventually. Anyway, thanks to me his bare feet were perfectly presentable. So what was it? I study him over my coconut. Ah. He thinks we’ve lost.When he goes to the restroom, I take the opportunity to excuse myself, head for the ladies’ and then quickly duck into the men’s room right behind him.Locking the door, I whisper fiercely that we are moving into an important part of the negotiations and he must pull himself together. I want him to present a strong, confident, invincible, cheerful front. Tell a joke or something. It is clear Mr. P.C. and his team, need relational reassurance. All we’re doing is taking a moment to check pulses and reaffirm ourselves in relation to who everyone else is. Got it?“Diosdado Domingo Cristobal? Doods? From Santa Ana? The big house by the racetrack? He’s your Tito Doody? No! Ateneo grade school up to college, he and my Tito Manolet, uncle from my mother’s side, were soccer buddies! Tito Manolet introduced your Tito Doody to his sister, my Tita Pixy. They almost married! Kaso, he fell for her cousin my Tita Rosie, and two weeks before the wedding to Tita Pixy, Doody and Tita Rosie eloped. Tito Manolet, and Tita Rosie’s brother, Tito Pinggoy, had a terrible fight about it and Tito Manolet accidentally shot him in the leg. What can you do? Love!”“You grew up in San Juan? So, you remember the MiniMaxiMart across from the Mobil gas station at the back of Wilson? Yes? Hahaha! Did your yaya let you ride the mechanical, Mobil flying pony? It cost five centavos and would go up and down for one minute? It had wings. You remember it? No kidding! You rode it too?  Hahaha! I adored that plastic horse. Begged papa to buy it. He misunderstood and bought a real one. It bit me. Not as much fun at all.”“Lolo Peping, had a cousin who came here from China in the 1940’s. One of Cong Fang’s brothers married a dark-skinned Spanish beauty, Filomena-Notario-Sy. They built a chain of pharmaceutical companies across the islands. Your mother’s second cousin was a Notario? Aha, then you’re related to those beauties, Peachy and Cherry! They opened a restaurant. It was very successful because every boy in Manila ate there at least once a week, just to look at them.”It seems Mr. P.C. is related to everyone and everyone to him. How could he not be? As he proudly tells us, his parents had fourteen children, seventy grandchildren, forty five great-grandchildren and counting.Conversation goes around and about in this vein, for an entire hour. When we feel satisfied that being together is not a mistake, attention turns to Mr. N.A. whose cheerful look is glazing over.Mr. P.C. asks solicitously.“And how many children do you have?”“What? Oh. None. I’m divorced.”“Ah.” Pause. “Remarried?”“Nope.”Another pause. “Extended family?”“What? Oh. No. Only child. Parents gone. Never knew my grandparents.”“So … you … are … alone?”“What? Oh. No. I have a Mexican woman. She comes in twice a week to clean.”There is a long, uncomfortable moment as everyone feigns sudden interest either in the tiled floor, or the distant horizon. The dark sun of despair casts its shadow over me. I hear the bell. Game over. I tried, but there are things that not even I, can foresee.Mr. N.A. senses the moment and to my amazement, rises to the occasion.“Which is WHY, I’m able to focus ALL my time and energy on my WORK! NO distractions! Work with ME, get every BIT of me! Yes, sir! You BETCHA!”I’m stunned. A lightning quick turnaround jump shot effected by none other than Mr. N.A. himself.  Mr. P.C. initially taken aback begins to nod understandingly, a smile slowly lighting up his entire face. The others follow suit, nodding and smiling.Mr. P.C. stands. Mr. N.A. rises to meet him. Together, they stroll side by side into the dining room. Mr. N.A. whispers a joke to Mr. P.C. who bursts out laughing.Trailing behind them I smile at the back of Mr. N.A.’s well-groomed head. I shoot him a blessing.Well done, bud. Bank shot.

Last week, over-hearing my daughter whispering into her cell phone, I suspected she was talking about our latest family adventure. There was raucous laughter, some indistinct, muffled exclamations, and then at the end, a clear “Well, you know mommy … lunatic magnet.”Lunatic magnet? Really??? I’ve been thinking about this for three days now, going into the darker corners of my mind, examining and reexamining my world-wide network of friends, relationships and close encounters. My conclusion is that, if in the interest of truth I have to concede the point, my defense is going to be … I grew up in the Philippines. Yup.While immersed in that culture, I clearly did not realize the influence of excessive heat and humidity upon my aura; however, in the clean, orderly, politely restrained, homogenized atmosphere I now live in, it becomes clear that yes, somehow, I am honey to the wild bees of the human race.Why do I draw crazy people? Why am I in turn, drawn to them? Why is it, that even in the sanctity of a church, the one who wants to stab out the preacher’s eyes with a pencil, the one who applies her deodorant during worship, the one who takes money out of the collection basket … why do these people choose to sit next to me? Worse, why do we wind up doing lunch afterwards?I have been from birth, a very shy and quiet girl. Apart from collecting animals, my hobby is reading. So you see, if the way my life turned out is not due to nature, then clearly it must be nurture. My pollo loco appeal really has to have something to do with those islands. In that hotbed of intrigue, passion, wild imagination and native cunning, you know as well as I do,  it’s difficult if not impossible, to pick out the truly crazy ones from the merely eccentric, or even from those simply having a hot flash. Trained to rein in my opinion, hold my tongue, keep my brow smooth and my voice calm, offering little critique or defense, I am the port in which the bizarre choose to dock their vessels.Pinning the blame on Manila makes sense to me, but there are those who disagree. Contentious family members like to point out, that even as a child I had a propensity for collecting. If there was a homeless, war-torn, diseased dog or cat in our neighborhood, I had to have it. Encountering some potentially rabid street animal, I’d get a string around its neck, drag it back to my house and try to hide it. Never mind that I knew in advance I would be punished, and my many tears mingled with sobbing promises never to do it again.Those promises were forgotten faster than those tears dried. My lola’s house had huge, ornate iron cage windows, and late at night I would stretch my arms through the bars as far as I could, dropping bits of stolen food into the garden below, in the hope of adopting yet another motherless creature. I couldn’t help myself. They called to me: one eyed cats, scabies covered dogs, tailless reptiles, and once even a huge, healthy rat. I didn’t care for soft, fuzzy animals from decent homes or good pet stores. I wanted … the interesting ones.You’d think with the hundreds of people I grew up with, I might have found one solid citizen on whom to model myself, but really, if there were any normal people around during my formative years, I either didn’t know them, wasn’t related to them, or maybe … they were so dull I didn’t notice them….My grandfather was interesting. He was a quiet, thoughtful man who loved the countryside: plants, flowers, small animals and little children. His voice was so quiet you had to bend forward to hear him. He was exceedingly gentle, and generous with everything he had. Then out of the blue, a man casually insulted my grandmother, and grandfather shot him. Dead. I asked my mother about it and she said, “He had it coming”. I never understood if she meant my grandfather, or the man he killed, and I was afraid to ask, because frankly most of my family, are pretty quick on the draw. You just never wanted to get into anything too deeply with them.There was the time my uncle twice removed, got up from dinner and announced he was going outside for a smoke. He never came back. No really. NEVER. He completely disappeared. Because there was always so much going on at the house, it was a full week before anyone really noticed, but when they did, there was a lot of whispering and then they no longer set his place at the table. That was it. Because I was a child with little sensitivity, one night I pointed to the empty place and asked aloud, “Did he run off with another woman?” My mother broke the heavy silence with, “Finish eating because I’m going to cut your tongue out afterwards.”Then there was the friend of the family who fancied himself a magician. He called himself, “The Man of Mystery” and sometimes, “The Man of a Thousand Faces”. He was a very sweet individual and when visiting us, liked to show me pictures featuring his many disguises. The problem to my young but discerning eye, was that in the photos, he always had the same face. Different hats yes, but always the same face. So, I thought he might be more aptly named “The Man of a Thousand Hats”. I was about to suggest this, when I caught my mother staring fixedly at me … the hand on her tea cup was clenching and unclenching itself.As I grew, my friends tended to be also, for the most part, of the monumentally interesting variety. There was the famous scriptwriter/director, who before showing anyone else his work in progress, would act out all the parts for me. This could go on for hours because if you interrupted him with a question, he started again from the beginning and rewrote the story. I learned to assemble my snacks and use the bathroom before he started. Once he was so vigorous in his interpretation of a murder scene, that he stabbed himself with the cheese knife lying next to my crackers. A smallish puncture but it still needed stitches.I know what you’re thinking. It’s because I spent some time in show business. Not true. None of my family did, and actually, my friends came from every sector, segment and social strata Manila afforded. Apart from some basic differences—like quantity of money—they were all similarly unique.A rich Filipino friend bought himself a castle in Europe. The week after his relocation, he called me in Manila.“I hate the food here.”“Oh, that’s too bad.”“Send me carne norte.”“Corned beef?”“Yeah. Purefoods brand. Five hundred.”“Cans? Are you kidding me?”“Yes. Double that.”“Are you insane? Even if I could find a thousand cans of corned beef, the shipping would take months.”“Are YOU insane? Shipping? SHIPPING? You call yourself my friend and you want me to starve to death? Get on a plane and bring it here!”My numerous girlfriends were for the most part deeply immersed in the national pastime of falling in, and out of, flame broiled love. I accompanied them to fortune tellers for advice, and witch doctors for solutions. I anguished with them as they raged through strategies for getting rid of the other woman (or as it turned out in few surprising twists, the other man).None of these drop-dead beauties, ever moved in the love arena with, “the quiet sense of grace and dignity” I’d read about in books. No way.  These were Amazons prepared for battle, armored in designer clothing, unstable as IED’s. Filipino men adore dangerous women.It was exhilarating for an introverted, bookish girl like myself, to be a part of—albeit on the sidelines—the thrilling passion evidenced by screaming confrontations, death threats, the breaking of glass, ripping off of clothes, slapping of faces and throwing of expensive gifts into the Pasig river. It was the very highest of drama that regularly concluded with both parties trying to kill each other, and when overcome with fatigue, falling into hot, passionate embrace. Loved it.As I moved on in life and across the planet, my magnet stayed true. No matter where in the world, I am regularly approached in airports by people I don’t know and will never know, since obviously we are all just passing through. Yet they ask me to watch their kids while they wander, borrow money for a blow-up neck pillow, partake of my fries. Often people read my book over my shoulder. If I show discomfort, they ask if they can use my laptop.Once, after the announcement warning that an excess of carry-on baggage would be confiscated, a woman walked up to me and demanded, “Si Lotis Key ka ba?” (Are you Lotis Key?) When I nodded a slight, surprised assent, she pushed two large bags at me and insisted I carry them for her since I only had a small bag of my own. When I demurred, she marched away complaining very loudly, “Ang yabang mo! Itong mga artista akala nila kung sino sila!” (Stuck up! These actors really think they’re something!)On another occasion, in a fancy airport lounge, I ran into a politician friend on his way to a conference. He was flushed and a bit hyper. Maybe it was the free wine. We indulged in catch up chit-chat and then headed to the security line. With an endless flow of jokes, we stood shoulder to shoulder, laughing and giggling, until he made the one joke you absolutely, can never, ever, ever make in an airport security line.He’d been carrying my bag, so I was taken aside with him. In the end it was all right. They released us both the next day, and he was gentleman enough to buy me a new ticket.I’m telling you the truth. I feel deeply, the debt I owe to the loony tunes of my life. They’ve provided me with consciousness-expanding, exotically colored experiences. Why, just the sudden memory of any one of them, can cause me to burst into spontaneous, hysterical laughter, anywhere anytime. Other, less fortunate people, need prohibited drugs to get release like that, you know what I mean?I worry about my daughter though. I worry she is growing up in an ordinary world. I worry about the paucity of challenge…. She’s doesn’t seem to attract lunacy. She’s always happy and even-tempered. No rebellion, no insecurities, no fears. She’s never had a tantrum, a pimple, or a broken heart. Her friends are well dressed and polite. They get together to discuss the Bible and clean up when they leave.I try to talk to her about it, I tell her of my concern that her personality might not expand properly, that she might not have interesting memories, that lack of angst might limit her emotional range. I apologize for the disturbingly pleasant community we live in. I have tried, but it’s been difficult to get a steady infusion of crazies into her development.She listens patiently, smiles gently and takes my hand.“Mom,” she murmurs soothingly, “Please, please don’t worry. After all, I have you.”

I was twelve when my parents divorced.My father was a 6’4” tall, golden haired, blue eyed American who’d served in the Pacific and returned home to the US, flourishing a delicate souvenir from the Philippine Islands. He was the first American she had ever met.My tiny 4’ 10” tall mother, observing this new world through almond shaped eyes, looked up to see tall, white America, bending down to examine her. They spoke slowly and loudly at her, remarking to each other, “Isn’t she cute?” My mother had her Masters, a PhD in English literature, was fluent in four languages, and did not like to be referred to as cute.After a painful decade and a half of having to buy her shoes in children’s stores, she broke the law and with two, half-white daughters in tow, escaped back to Manila.I was a pre-teen when we stepped off the ocean liner. There was a fierce slap of intense heat, masses of laughing, hugging, kissing people, and as we drove to our new home, a general feeling of having fallen off the planet. There were signs with words that had no vowels. Even in those days everywhere was seriously noisy and crowded. People stared at me. At the welcome meal I thought the brown pudding was chocolate and was proudly informed that it was blood. Blood?  BLOOD? Plus, we were in hiding because my mother was afraid my father would send detectives after us, so within a few weeks, my younger sister and I were installed in a private Catholic girl’s school: St. Paul’s College of Manila.It was unclear. We were barely religious, maybe only very slightly Catholic … at Christmas. Who was St. Paul? We were children, why were we going to a college? Ah, the confusion was only beginning.Both of us came equipped with English, Spanish and casual French. The lingua franca was Tagalog, which we could not read, write, nor understand in the slightest.Both of us were much taller than the Filipina girls our age. My sister was a blonde. I had a tangled forest of curly hair. We were nothing like our classmates.Like a nightmare in slow motion, we were buried alive in a landslide of shimmering, pitch black tresses, flowing from the heads of miniature nymphs. These girls didn’t guffaw their laughter, they giggled demurely. They didn’t argue a point; in disagreement they pursed their lips and lowered their eyes. They didn’t push or shove; they pouted and turned away slowly, lifting high, one perfectly curved eyebrow. We were prairie wildflowers blown into a hothouse of exotic orchids. They wanted to talk about love. They looked us over and asked … did we have a brother? We had no brother. Ohhh, tooooo baaaaad.We also didn’t have the right shoes. The right socks. The right book bags.This was the late 1960’s and we’d been raised by bohemians who’d encouraged us to speak our minds, ignore our appearance, and argue both sides of Fidel’s take-over of Cuba.We were American peasants in bad need of a full spa make over.To make matters worse, we had no father. Not only had my mother married a white man, she’d divorced him, and retuned home with two fatherless girls. This information produced a wave of scandalized shock that washed over everyone around us. Where is your father? Doesn’t he love you? Will he come to get you? Does he have another woman? Other children?My sister, being younger, took it more in stride and prospered, artfully winning friends with her honeyed locks and dimpled smile. I closed and withdrew. My mother had managed to escape imprisonment on the wrong planet and one day, I would do the same. I was an alien who would never, ever, patronize a beauty parlor.Then one morning, sitting alone on the steps of the school chapel, my life was changed by a bona fide miracle. I saw a tall man in a white cassock crossing the quadrant, Sister Nieves and Sister Joanna, hurrying to keep up with him. He was talking in the loud voice of the white male, not hushing his tones for propriety’s sake. He was striding along purposefully, not mincing his step to accommodate the women. The bright sun on his golden hair haloed him, making his approach akin to that of a bright comet. Was I dreaming? Was this a vision? Was I dead, but didn’t know it yet?The vision marched straight towards me and hypnotized by my approaching destiny, I stopped breathing. Looking down at me, a homeless animal crouched on the stone steps of his domain, he smiled and said brusquely, “You must be the fatherless girl”. His eyes were blue, blue, blue. This was the first white man I’d seen since we’d left America. In coloring and shape he looked startlingly like my father, whose memory was steadily evaporating.Sister Joanna said, “Her name is Lotis”.Sister Nieves said, “Lotis, this is Father Reuter”.I was paralyzed, a kitten before a tiger. Father Reuter put his large, white gold hand on my frizzy head and said, “Come on kid, talk to me, I’ll hear your confession”. Confession? What was that? What should I confess? That I felt ugly and stupid? That I hated this place? That I hated myself? Ignorant of the concept of personal sin, unaware of what confession was supposed to consist of, these were the things I told him.I opened my heart to Father Reuter that day, and many, many more days, over the years to come. He heard my “confession” in person, every week or so, and the rest of the time, I talked to him in my heart, in my dreams, in my prayers. In reality he didn’t treat me any differently than any other little girl. I was no special pet or favorite. I don’t know if he even thought of me at all outside the confessional. I am unaware if I ever made any particular impression on him. No. It was him who made the impression on me.Father Reuter, sent to the Philippines by the Jesuits just before WWII, was promptly interned by the Japanese at the start of the war. At wars end, the Jesuits asked him to stay on for a bit and he did … returning to the U.S. for a visit only once in the next 60 years. He was adamant about his love for the Philippines and was never shy in his affirmation of himself as intrinsically more Filipino than the real thing.There was nothing of the effeminate about this priest. Nothing soft, flabby, or repelling. His love was not vague, distant, or carefully guarded. A gruffly practical, quick tempered, get to the point! kind of priest, he could grab you by the back of the neck, give you a shake, stare you down and demand immediate love and obedience in the same instant. He was a steely eyed, unflinching priest, who rarely whispered when he could shout, loved with an iron fist, and was simultaneously feared and adored, by all who knew him.In this day of gross immorality, I don’t know if anyone can understand how, without the slightest hint of sexual impropriety, a little girl can love her priest and find salvation through him. But it is true. James Reuter was more than a man, or a priest. He was a father.Before I knew God in the personal way I do now, I knew Father Reuter in place of Him. Before I could accept God as my Father, Father Reuter was there to model that role for me. I was a lost child who might have been lost forever, if not for this celibate male taking me for one of his children. He encouraged me to communicate my thoughts. He pushed me to develop my voice and believe in my dreams. He made me understand that even if I didn’t fit in, I was valuable.After high school I went on to a life filled with many elaborate diversions. I did foolish things, and was pushed by a wild, curly haired nature, to adventures that sorely tried all around me. I can remember times I would pause for an instant and think, “I should go to Father Reuter for advice”, but pride mixed with shame, would erase the impulse. In my heart nestled a deep fear he might no longer love me. Anyway, I was an adult now, capable of dealing with life.I no longer needed a father of any kind.I finally did go to see Father Reuter, but only recently, some 40 years since I’d last seen him at my graduation. I’m not taller than I was in high school, but bent over with age he was now shorter than me. His trembling hands and feet were misshapen with arthritis. His golden hair was gone. He was wearing his cassock and seated in a wheelchair, yet when I entered he struggled to rise and kiss me.I looked into his eyes and they were blue, blue, blue. I was twelve again and struck dumb with love. I could barely speak, and in his fatherly way he understood and did the talking for me. Nothing important really, just making enough sound to ease the tension and let the ghost years slip away. As time dissolved between us, the feeling of his strength, the powerful force of his love, the intensity and vigor of his fatherhood, coiled and wrapped itself around my heart, pulling me to my knees before God, in the very deepest of gratitude for this man.Dear, dear priest of God, I never said this to you, but I always wanted to:I love you Father Reuter, and I always will.

There are two envelopes. The outer one—white with atomic tangerine detailing—has my name and address. The inner one—persimmon colored foil with speckled cream liner—holds a crisp origami-style, fold-out invitation. Peeling back the layers, I am sprayed with a burst of confetti.Mr. and Mrs. Diosdado Patromento and Mr. and Mrs. Augustino Alancazarrequest the pleasure of your presenceat the wedding ofDiosvivo Oscar Crisante and Raina Mendea LieselStifling giggles makes me snortle. Hearing piglet noises, hubby enters my pen.“What? Funny card?”“No. Gorgeous card.”“So ...?”Snortling more heavily now, I hand it to him.He studies it for a minute, puckers his brow, purses his lips, tilts his head from side to side. Nada. He shrugs and gives up.“Who’s getting married?”“Oso and Ramen.”For traditional Filipino parents, certain traditions are imperative. Among them:1. the debuting of daughters2. the serving of hot chocolate to gentlemen callers3. the assigning of glorious christening names to the consequences of 1. & 2.For nine months, potential names are carefully investigated: syllables rolled around on the tongue; hidden meanings researched; fortunetellers consulted. Parents-to-be must reflect on which ancestors need acknowledging, which godfathers, flattering. Consideration has to be afforded the future of infants not yet conceived. Upon arrival, will they inherit something on which a series or subject can be run? All T’s? All saints? All flowers? Should they consider shortening and conjoining parental names? Estella and Vernal, can become Estevera if it’s a girl, or Vernest if it’s a boy….It’s a curious fact, that despite agonized decision-making, sharp arguments, tortuous hours of picking and rejecting before the winners are announced … the exalted names will rarely, if ever, move off of the paper they’re written on.The reality is, the moment the infant is christened, it’s over. Dame Decorous Duty Done, congratulates herself  and bows out, so that now at last, the fun can begin. A switch is flipped and the true Filipino nature: his goofy, creative, sweetly sentimental, happy-go-lucky, pun crazy, poetic soul … steps boldly into the spotlight.Filipinos, the original free thinkers, are driven to decorate, and naturally that starts with the room they live in. Why not? Life is what you make of it, and life begins with a name. Impulsively inventive, they can’t resist re-imagining, re-configuring and re-identifying themselves. Again, why not? With at least a hundred million of them, the moment they’re born, the battle to be seen, begins.Parents start by calling the baby a nonsensical, two syllable rhyme: Dodo, Binky, Cho-Cho, Tot-Tot, Bang-Bang, Boo-Boo, Rap-Rap. This baby name usually lasts until the child enters school, where at the crux of his social development, he will join his peers in the universal quest for “self.” Nothing strange about that. Across the planet, children from other tribes are doing this exact same thing with tattoos, branding, scarification, piercing, cutting, lion slaying….Danger and sharp pain not being Filipino ideals, these instead focus on their moniker. What should it be? Heroic? Stylish? Sexy? Cute?Let’s see … maybe you want to play for the other team. You’ll need flair to match those rhinestones. Taah Daah! Philemon sashays up to the mike as … Fili! Fermin as … Minime! Pantaleon as … Panti! Exclamation point imperative!Fashionista, Casimiro? Try silky sexy Cashmere.Modernista, antiquated by Liwayway? Square it babe. Way2.Financialista? Now this is absolutely 1000 percent true. The three sons of a banker friend: Millionaire, Billionaire and Trillionaire. And naturally Mill, Bill and Trill went into the family business.Amorista? A popular guy I know had to go completely off grid. Simply unable to work with Hermogenes, he gave up, erased it and was reborn as SugarCane.Sportista? Another friend artfully managed to be on the golf course during the birth of each of his children. His wife nicknamed them: Woody, Eiron, Chippit and Putty. (Revenge?)In the last several decades, with the increasing pressure of Western culture, traditional Filipino names have declined and snappier ones become more fashionable. Alex, Dan, Joe…. (Snicker here) You don’t know Filipinos if you think having a compact name will save it from demolition.Are you plain and simple, Tom? Well, better choose your nickname quick or your friends will do it for you. Hey, in a world full of Toms they need to know which one they’re yuk-yukking about. A casual remark could turn you into: Tommy T-shirt (never changes his), TomTom Pirate Son (dad on pork barrel list), or Thom d’Bhom (flatulence issue).Sometimes it happens that a goo-goo baby name holds on and clings like a burr for the rest of your life. Which is fine. As long as the rest of your life is lived in the Islands.Case one: My husband’s pro-basketball coach. Short man. Shorter temper. When motivated, his tongue could flay flesh off of a player’s eyeballs. His scream was like twenty pieces of chalk simultaneously scraped across a board. Yet … he was known to one and all as “Baby.” The assistant coach, an even less amiable man, was “Honey.” The ex-con point guard was “Boy-Toy.” It confounded all the foreigners we knew and, unable to explain why these names weren’t meant to be funny, I could only plead with white friends to please not snicker when introduced.Case two: My husband himself. Paper name: Ronaldinho Loreto Tolentino. Ronaldinho, being an outstandingly large and handsome baby, brought to the mind of his mother a movie she’d seen, in which the adorable lead character grew up to be a mighty king. Perfect.The problem surfaced when we moved to the U.S. Arriving home from his first day of work, my 6’2” husband was agitated.  Slamming the door behind him, he told me right then and there that I was never ever, on pain of death, EVER, when in public, to use his nickname. My 225-lb. tower of solid muscle had been cruelly mocked by the “guys.” They’d laughed, saying he had a stripper’s name. He was devastated.I exploded in defensive fury. What? Ridiculous! His name is original to the book from which the movie was made, and in both book and movie, the character is unquestionably MALE. Just because his co-workers were literarily challenged, should the rest of the world concede to ignorance? No! It’s a male name! A King’s name! AND we can prove it! Stand firm!I argue to no avail. He will not be moved by appeals to a higher consciousness. From this moment forth, when in public, the family will address him as Ronaldinho.We obey, although it is particularly hard on his mother who often forgets, and blind to all our signals will inevitably pop out with, “my dear, my darling, Bambi….”When asked to explain this cultural idiosyncrasy to a white world, I often fall back upon symbolism dredged up from movies.Me. “You know ‘Dances with Wolves’? John Dunbar was lost in and confused by, his own culture? And then the Sioux named him? Bam! Self-awakening!”Her: “They gave him that name because they didn’t know his real name.”Him: “They couldn’t pronounce his real name because they were Indians.”Me: “Okay, maybe, whatever. That’s not the point. John himself didn’t know who ‘John’ was. The name ‘John’ didn’t have any meaning for him. Then he got a new name, a new     identity, a new life.”Her: “They didn’t know his name was John.”Him: “They couldn’t pronounce it because they were Indians.”Okay, never mind. Finding ourselves wasn’t meant to be easy. If it were, we’d all do it. In the U.S the closest I have come to the exhilaration inherent in the exploration of identity, is among black Americans.I say HURRAY! for the Daevons, Deshons and D’Maryons.I say HURRAY! for the Tamikas, Jarrikkas and Chinikas.I say HURRAY! for Saltine and Peppertine, the dimpled twins next door!I say HURRAY! for people not afraid to decorate the universe!Nota bene. The stories are true ~ but names were changed to protect the guilty.