Memories
Last Saturday I took a day off from studying to give my mom a break and work for her at my Ate Carol’s beauty parlor. Last year, Ate Carol (“Ate” is pronounced like “Auntie” if you drop the “un” and is used as a title of respect to any female older than you) slipped and fell at a store near her home in California. She got a little insurance money and used it to build a beauty parlor here in Cagayan. I don’t think she got enough money – her back is still very painful – but the parlor is wonderful! We all work to keep it perfectly neat and clean, and business is picking up after a slow summer when people were all staying home due to the flu.
Back in California last summer, Ate collected outgrown clothes from her kids and friends, bought more from the goodwill store, and shipped them here. Two weeks ago, we started selling them from a booth outside the parlor. Business is good, and the selling of the clothes is what I was doing.
As in most Asian countries, here in the Philippines there is a strong tradition of individuals having their own “stores,” often no more than a pushcart or a stall at a local market or a booth along a street or road. When she was only in her teens, younger than I am now, Ate had her own little store, selling soda and cigarettes and gasoline in old soda bottles. Her dream is for our store to provide a living for us.
Tending her store reminded me of a wonderful time of my youth, when I would help my mom sell vegetables from her booth in the public market of Malaybalay, in Bukidnon. We would sleep at night under the table which held our vegetables. The heat was torrid, and we would hope it wouldn’t rain. Early in the morning, the farmers would come down from the mountains to sell their produce to the vendors, then they would buy what they needed and head back to their farms.
The local people would shop during the day, and I would always look out for “Americans” (every non-Asian was an “American”) and I would chase them down and practice my English on them. The few years my mom had that store were some of the most memorable of my life. There was joy in my heart that I cannot express! Good memories!
A lot of my childhood was memorable, but not in a good way. My parents were always poor. About the time I was born, my mom was a maid. She cleaned, did the laundry and ironed, cooked, and cleaned the dishes. Her boss wouldn’t let her eat the leftover food; there was “special” food for the maid! When I was born, the boss let my parents clean out the goat-pen and live there. Later, when my mom was having some success with her store, that lady would often come to my mom and ask for “loans!”
My mom was smart and had a six-grade education – pretty good for the central highlands of Mindanao – but she was always hindered and in pain from her bent spine, which we now know was the result of Marfan’s Syndrome. My father had no formal education, no real skills other than catching cobras and other snakes for resale, and he was afflicted with a condition far, far worse than Marfan’s – alcoholism. Whenever he had any money, or whenever he could get drinks from his friends, he would get drunk – vicious, mean drunk. Then he’d grab a bolo and everyone would get out of his way. My Ate in California and her husband, my Uncle Joe, helped us financially and also sent us boxes of gifts – wonderful gifts! Books, clothes, tools – eventually, my father would sell or pawn everything and buy alcohol.
Almost every holiday or fiesta I can remember, my dad would get drunk, and my mom and I would end up running into the trees to spend the night. The last time he attacked me was the summer after my first year at college. He ran at me with his bolo raised, screaming that if he killed me, Ate wouldn’t waste her money on me and my education but would just give it to him. My cousin saw the attack and pushed me out of the way but knocked out my breath. I never went back to our house.
Back in California last summer, Ate collected outgrown clothes from her kids and friends, bought more from the goodwill store, and shipped them here. Two weeks ago, we started selling them from a booth outside the parlor. Business is good, and the selling of the clothes is what I was doing.
As in most Asian countries, here in the Philippines there is a strong tradition of individuals having their own “stores,” often no more than a pushcart or a stall at a local market or a booth along a street or road. When she was only in her teens, younger than I am now, Ate had her own little store, selling soda and cigarettes and gasoline in old soda bottles. Her dream is for our store to provide a living for us.
Tending her store reminded me of a wonderful time of my youth, when I would help my mom sell vegetables from her booth in the public market of Malaybalay, in Bukidnon. We would sleep at night under the table which held our vegetables. The heat was torrid, and we would hope it wouldn’t rain. Early in the morning, the farmers would come down from the mountains to sell their produce to the vendors, then they would buy what they needed and head back to their farms.
The local people would shop during the day, and I would always look out for “Americans” (every non-Asian was an “American”) and I would chase them down and practice my English on them. The few years my mom had that store were some of the most memorable of my life. There was joy in my heart that I cannot express! Good memories!
A lot of my childhood was memorable, but not in a good way. My parents were always poor. About the time I was born, my mom was a maid. She cleaned, did the laundry and ironed, cooked, and cleaned the dishes. Her boss wouldn’t let her eat the leftover food; there was “special” food for the maid! When I was born, the boss let my parents clean out the goat-pen and live there. Later, when my mom was having some success with her store, that lady would often come to my mom and ask for “loans!”
My mom was smart and had a six-grade education – pretty good for the central highlands of Mindanao – but she was always hindered and in pain from her bent spine, which we now know was the result of Marfan’s Syndrome. My father had no formal education, no real skills other than catching cobras and other snakes for resale, and he was afflicted with a condition far, far worse than Marfan’s – alcoholism. Whenever he had any money, or whenever he could get drinks from his friends, he would get drunk – vicious, mean drunk. Then he’d grab a bolo and everyone would get out of his way. My Ate in California and her husband, my Uncle Joe, helped us financially and also sent us boxes of gifts – wonderful gifts! Books, clothes, tools – eventually, my father would sell or pawn everything and buy alcohol.
Almost every holiday or fiesta I can remember, my dad would get drunk, and my mom and I would end up running into the trees to spend the night. The last time he attacked me was the summer after my first year at college. He ran at me with his bolo raised, screaming that if he killed me, Ate wouldn’t waste her money on me and my education but would just give it to him. My cousin saw the attack and pushed me out of the way but knocked out my breath. I never went back to our house.
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