The People You Meet
The Fourth In A Series of True Stories
When our children were little—the twins were 6-years-old or so, and our youngest was 4—my husband and I took them to Berkeley one Saturday to see a touring performance of Bayanihan, the Philippine National Folk Dance Company. Bayanihan dancers or, more specifically, the idea of Bayanihan dancers, loom semi-large in my own childhood memories. During the halcyon, pre-Internet days of my American coming-of-age, the sole commercial images I saw of Filipino women were those of folk dancers and Philippine Airlines stewardesses.
Farrah Fawcett’s golden, feathered mane and all-American good looks set the beauty standard for the day, so it swelled my little brown girl’s heart to see images like the ones above. Here you are, they seemed to say. You’re here.
We are, all of us, just looking for the place we belong.
The performance was predictably enthralling, and I spent most of it with my head swiveling from my daughters to the stage, and then back again so that I wouldn’t miss the little looks of pleasure and surprise that fluttered over their features. They sat on the edge of their seats, bouncing lightly to the music.
Afterwards we took the train home and then stopped at an In-N-Out, where we let the girls sit at their own table. They were quickly chatted up by three young men, all about twenty years old, and all of whom looked like foot soldiers in the army of Satan. One wore a sweatshirt that read, “Three can keep a secret…if two are dead.” He never removed his hood. Another—his name turned out to be Arturo—had stringy orange hair worn to the middle of his back, a goatee, and preternaturally large teeth. The last one was Federico. His hair was long as well, but obsidian black and with spectacular waves like a 19th century dandy.
We kept an eye on the six of them while they talked. It was so weird: they reminded me of senior citizens at a cookie and punch social, good-naturedly enjoying their treats and engaging in genteel chatter. My girls basked in the rapt attention of these strange strangers who, my husband and I soon realized, were harmless and sort of sweet, really.
They seemed to me to be the kind of boys who are forever on the outs with their exasperated parents, and so end up living at each other’s homes in turn, pooling their money for trips to 7–11 after they’ve wasted the day playing video games and smoking weed. In five years, I thought, their lives would be either exactly the same or spectacularly different.
At one point Federico said, “So, where’d you guys come from?”
My Risa said, “Oh, we rode the train.”
“Really? That’s cool. From where?”
She looked at us for guidance, which we gave. “Berkeley,” she said.
“Oh yeah? What were you doing there?”
“We watched Filipinos dance.”
“What?” said Federico.
“We watched Filipinos dance.”
“Dude! That’s hilarious. Hey,” he said, nudging the toothy Arturo, “Did you hear her? She was all, ‘we watched Filipinos dance!’”
And, well, when you put it that way, it was hilarious.
The boys were lighthearted and playful, but also—how do I explain this?—somehow blurred around the edges with sadness. It was easy to see because they faded in contrast to the technicolor animation of my children. Especially Federico. I was old enough to be his mother, and I felt my body soften around the fact: my shoulders released, my heart opened. When we stood to leave, he looked up at me, and I smiled. “You remind me of home,” he said.
I’m making too much of this, or maybe not enough, but we are, all of us, just looking for the place we belong.
The People You Meet — The First In a Series
The People You Meet — The Second In a Series
The People You Meet—The Third In a Series
Veronica Montes is a writer with a soft spot for fiction about the
Filipino-American experience + productive rants about…many things.
So many things. You should follow her.
