We’re From Different Worlds
Our distinctions bring us closer together
My boyfriend and I have been in Peru for less than twenty minutes, and I’m already struggling to speak Spanish. While directing a cab driver to our Airbnb, I suddenly pause in mid-sentence realizing I’ve forgotten the word for left. An awkward silence fills the compact Prius as he patiently waits for me to say something, anything. But, the seven-hour flight from New York and the 11,000-foot elevation in Cusco isn’t exactly bolstering my brain function.
I can’t ever, for the life of me, remember this word. It never fails. Even after studying this language from sixth grade through college, getting elected as president of my high school’s Spanish Club, and being so Filipina that I stink of Spanish colonization, this so-simple-it-hurts translation forever remains on the tip of my Americanized tongue.
“Izquierda,” my boyfriend whispers in his gringo accent. He knows I despise the coddle of an assist, but being familiar with my reoccurring struggle, he knows this one’s necessary.
It’s a wonder why he defers to me when we travel to Spanish-speaking countries. His proficiency is as elementary as mine, but should a local ask him a question, he quietly nudges me to answer. Frankly, I’m honored. He makes me feel as if my bad Spanish is some sort of asset. He encourages me to believe that all those years of Spanish class actually paid off. That maybe my high school election wasn’t some arbitrary contest after all. That perhaps my Philippine heritage naturally enhances my Spanish-speaking abilities. Of course, I know the truth. People just take Spanish more seriously when it comes from a brown girl as opposed to a white guy.
“I suck at this,” I tell him, pouting as we leave the airport.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself! You’re pretty good.”
It’s a lie out of love if I’ve ever heard one. He says the same thing when we play video games together. Usually, after my sixteenth attempt at some jump-jump-uppercut combo that he’s completed in two turns. But he holds my hand when he says it. He turns away from the lush landscape of the Andes to look at me and make sure I cheer up. His words are casual, but it’s the warmth of his reassurance that encourages me to believe his bullshit statement. I smile, take his compliment, and run with it.
Throughout the ride, our driver tosses softball questions my way like what brings us to Peru and how we’re doing today. He speaks in Spanish that’s purposefully slow and articulate. It’s as if he’s telepathically cheering me on to converse. A far cry from the Parisians of our last trip who immediately give up on my appalling French by responding in perfect English. And, a considerably different response from the New York City cab drivers back home who prefer leaving our conversation to no more than two street names. When I manage to respond in Spanish, it gives me hope. I feel ready for our first day in Cusco.
If only it was as lovely and pleasant as our cab ride over.
My boyfriend and I toss our bags onto the floor as soon as we step foot into our Airbnb. Ready to seize the partially cloudy day, we excitedly leave after a quick outfit change. Me in a polka-dot poncho, him in a Marmot rain jacket. Each item being a living testament to our similarities. Two born-and-raised city kids, clearly taking a good first stab at dressing for the elements. What we lack in outdoorsy experience we make up for in neurotic planning. He’s equipped with packing cubes, a four-quadrant pill case, and new hiking boots that he thoroughly researched before purchasing. I prepare our days based on a spreadsheet of attractions, restaurants, and bars. The mere act of crossing off an item gives me a high. I’d try to convince you that we’re not completely lame in spite of our travel rituals, but I probably lost you at packing cubes.
We pass vendors pushing carts of regional fruits I’ve never heard of as we walk through the city’s afternoon rush. Women in traditional Inca garments cradling baby llamas while beckoning animal-crazed foreigners like myself for a photo op. Several stray dogs napping on every patch of dewy grass in the main square, appearing so rested and content that life as a domesticated pet suddenly seems subpar. Somehow, in spite of the dead giveaway of our touristy attire, we blend right in. No one pays us any mind as we weave through the crowd, huffing and puffing for each breath like the altitude amateurs we are. Eleven-thousand feet above sea level, beneath hundreds of terracotta roofs, surrounded by dozens of strangers, we lose ourselves in a feeling of ease. It’s funny how anonymity and solidarity can yield the same result.
“Wait. Where are we?” I ask, suddenly breathless.
Every movement in Cusco feels closer to a stride than a step. I look around at the infinite mountain range encompassing us, feeling directionless and disoriented. I can only tell we’re on one of the rare two-way streets I’ve seen so far. No more than three blocks past some main square adorned with Inca monuments, stone-wall churches, and stray dogs.
“That square was Centro Historico,” he replies. “And this is Avenida El Sol.”
“How do you know?” I ask it with a sneer that overcompensates for my envy.
He shrugs with a resounding, “I dunno. I look around?” He then points to the street sign directly above my head. His infuriating sense of direction makes me feel like a walking stereotype. Alas, I am in debited to this strength of his. It’s saved us plenty of times, especially when we find ourselves on some dark road whose name, of course, escapes me.
It’s not uncommon for my boyfriend to know better, do better, or have a leg up on me in general. It happens without him trying or even noticing. His apathy to our differences is its own kind luxury. However, as the minority in the relationship, I can’t help but notice every time my white partner excels even in the most casual everyday circumstances. Like when he can sing every lyric in a group singalong of “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” Or when he knows how to play shuffleboard at a bar. Or when he has a shortcut for removing rosemary from the stem. Or when he can eat an entire steak without craving a side of rice. Or when he knows how to use the oven as an actual kitchen appliance rather than a storage unit. There are too many food-related examples to mention. Each instance serving as its own reminder that we come from different worlds.
Then, it happens. He stops in the middle of the street. Well-mannered locals excuse themselves as they swerve around us while he frantically pats himself down and I repeatedly ask what’s wrong. Finally, my partner admits defeat.
“My debit card,” he groans, “I left it in the ATM.”
It’s been fifteen minutes since we’ve been there, which means someone probably swiped it by now. I know I would. A lost debit card at an ATM may as well be a handwritten invitation. As the likelihood of that outcome dawns on him, my boyfriend begins turning anxious and paler than he already is. When he does, I smile. I know it’s my time to shine.
“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do,” I tell him.
My sense of direction may be shit, but quick thinking is a strength I know I have. From food poisoning in Montreal to lost luggage in Krakow, I have no problem with adapting to a dismal situation and, at the very least, making the most of it. I swing into action by establishing a game plan as I tell my boyfriend that we’ll retrace our steps and call his bank. I propose the notion of his card being right where he left it. I also hold his hand and smile, knowing the chances of that happening are slim to none. Another lie out of love.
When we get to the ATM and confirm the worst, his communication skills become limited to heavy sighs and nodding at the ground. He begins pacing back and forth in silence. Anxiety usually starts in his legs, working its way up to his stomach if it gets bad enough. With that in mind, I quietly suggest he continue his pacing in the direction of our Airbnb’s bathroom.
While I admire the sight of sparks flying from his neck as his brain short circuits, I don’t take any pleasure in my boyfriend’s misfortune. I do, however, enjoy when a foreign country strips my white partner of any home-field advantage. It is in these rare moments that I feel the playing field level out beneath us. As we walk down new avenues and side streets — whose names I still can’t recall — each of us must experience a whole new culture at its most rudimentary levels. Whether we try a bite of guinea pig, feel the difference between llama and alpaca wool, or wonder how the hell the city’s stone walls hold without an ounce of mortar. Here, both of us start from a blank slate.
Back home in the States, culture can feel exhausting. As a Filipino-American, I never got the Filipino part or the American part completely right. The majority of my childhood was spent absorbing white American culture, trying desperately to blend in. I now spend my adulthood making up for lost time, trying to reclaim my Pinoy roots. Yet I’ve never watched Top Gun, and I still can’t name one teleserye. I do my best to keep up with both halves (except for the Big Bang Theory — I’ll pass on that). However, the metaphor for blending my identities feels more akin to a balancing act rather than the melting pot I was taught as a child. So, I find respite in a faraway place. Being immersed in a new culture means taking the pressure off trying to understand my own. Through travel, I lose myself in a destination where I can be alleviated from the pressures of my hyphenated world as I escape into another.
Back in the comforts of our Airbnb and its WiFi password, my boyfriend’s distress gradually subsides. All it takes is a long-distance phone call from Cusco to Chase. He finally stops pacing once he hears the customer service representative say the magic words at the other end of the line. “No additional charges were made,” “Your new card is on its way,” and “Will that be all, sir?” When he hangs up, he looks up to the Inca deities and exhales with a heavy sigh.
“I need a nap,” he says.
As we hold each other in our musty bed of air-dried linens, the large and pointed tip of his nose presses down against mine. I was taught to fear anything that could flatten my nose. From a young age, Filipinxs are told to pinch their nose cartilage in the hopes of achieving the pointier look of our colonizers. However, I’ve grown to call my nose cute as opposed to flat. It fits with my boyfriend’s nose like a puzzle piece, making room for his bigger beak as the two share a single space. “I hope our kids get your nose,” he whispers before falling asleep. It is in these moments when our distinctions no longer separate us. Quite literally, they bring us closer.
In an interracial relationship, differences are inescapable things. The world makes it difficult for me to not compare, to not size up, to not keep score. Sure, no one chases us with pitchforks. No one says we can’t be together. No one mocks us to our faces. But modern-day racism is no longer limited to outward expressions. It’s in the subtle looks we receive from strangers. The endless ether of scathing Reddit threads and Twitter rants. The unknown users who shout phrases like race traitor and self-hating as explanations for my relationship.
Ignorance even comes from the opposite direction as I watch Filipinxs celebrate my relationship for the wrong reasons. Strangers at my favorite Philippine restaurants who take a break from eating to gossip about the itim girl who managed to date a puti. Grinning titas who are so proud of the fact that I’ve brought home a guapo — and therefore educated, wealthy, successful, and all-knowing — white man. Old-fashioned elders who happily envision our bloodline becoming more mestizo by the minute. My boyfriend never notices these underlying messages that are politely giftwrapped in awkward stares or pointed lips in our direction. Even I shrug them off with annoyance, too familiar with chismis culture than I care to admit.
My boyfriend and I have reached a point where envisioning our future comes naturally. We daydream about the flat-nosed, light-eyed, bi-racial children we may have. However, after our fantasies, I shudder to think about the glances and whispers that our kids may have to endure. I stew over the criticisms they may encounter from both society and themselves. I worry about being unable to give them full pieces of two worlds — the cultures I myself am still trying to grasp. The pressure of this hypothetical possibility is unnerving. It requires a break in a foreign land every now and then. However, it also fuels me in my quest to make my identity whole.
Acquiring more knowledge about my Philippine roots means, one day, providing my children with a positive outlook on their heritage. It’s a foundation I wish I had, so, as I grow older, I do my best to fill in the gaps. I’m thankful to have a partner who supports me in this ongoing pursuit. His understanding gives me hope for all of the qualities I pray our children inherit. The ones that go beyond color. Empathy, acceptance, and kindness. Perhaps, even quick-thinking skills and an excellent sense of direction. And, if we’re lucky, both a love for rice and the ability to sing “Take Me Home, Country Roads” when necessary. The best of our two very different worlds.
After our afternoon nap turns into a few hours of nightly rest, I wake up in a daze with no thought in my mind other than the urge to pee. The weight of the air falls heavy on my legs and even heavier on my bladder. I inch toward the bathroom and eventually reach the toilet to pee out what feels like every liquid I’ve consumed in my lifetime. Releasing it feels like liberation. Euphoria, even. While turning to wipe, I hear a deafened ring in one ear. I stand up slowly hoping to waddle back to the safety of our bedroom. But the altitude in Cusco spares me no time to react. I stumble backwards and faint, hearing nothing but the thud of my head as it hit our ceramic toilet bowl on the way down.
A friend who studied neuroscience will later tell me I fell on an area of the brain that handles communication. This makes sense. When I regain consciousness, I’m unable to form a sentence. I think of saying the word help, however, my lips cannot seem to translate that term in either English or Spanish. The closest thing I can muster is a high-pitched, gargling sound. One I can only compare to what, I assume, a cat sounds like when it’s strangled. I do it loud enough to wake my boyfriend. He opens the bathroom door to find me pants-less while making cat noises beside a urine-filled toilet. With my pajama bottoms still down to my knees, he lets out a petrified scream I never knew his baritone voice was capable of.
“Are you okay? You’re okay, you’re okay,” he repeats to himself.
He peels my limp body off the tiled floor like a groom sweeping his new bride off her feet. As he lays me down onto the bed, I wish I was conscious enough to calm him down. With stars in my eyes, I want to tell him how much I love him for taking care of me but mostly for putting up with me. But his face remains panicked as my silent, dazed expression hints to a possible concussion. Luckily, that’s not the case. Proper blood circulation jump starts my brain, restores color to my cheeks, and allows me to speak.
“That hurt,” I so eloquently say. With my consciousness more intact and his facial expression less panicked, there’s nothing left for me to say. “Love you,” I tell him.
In this faraway place, down one debit card and up one fainting spell, we become something other than an interracial couple. We become two idiot tourists. A well-earned title — one that rids us of any pressures or expectations. A common state of being we share as much as our love for travel, mid-day naps, video games, new recipes, old vinyl, The Smiths, Biggie Smalls, and terrible celebrity impressions. All of the ways in which we’re more similar than we are different.
