Mama, Papa, Why Have You Abandoned Me?

ONE
Mama, Papa: Why Have You Abandoned Me?

          I was born out of wedlock; and if that wasn’t bad enough, my father was not even aware that he had fathered a child. Having been born on April 1, 1995, my mother named me April, otherwise known in my small community as “April Fool” -- the town’s bastard child. I grew up with those cruel words thrown at my face often by the town bullies. The nicer adults simply referred to me behind my back as the child of sin in the eyes of God. Mama called me “Mahal”, meaning love, which did not necessarily mean I was conceived out of love. Mama never drank, but for the first time in her life, she had a glass of wine one night, and that was all it took when she met my father at that party. As a result, I became the product of their one night stand. Mama didn’t even know my father’s name.

         I grew up weaving a fairy tale in my head whereupon a handsome prince would find the woman he loved and told her that he’d been looking for her since they first met. The prince discovered that their love for each other produced a child, and he was so happy. They got married, and the three of them lived happily ever after.

          “Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you, if you’re young at heart.” I sang this Disney song in my head constantly, and every night I prayed that my fairy tale would come true. There was nothing I wanted more in life than to have this dream become a reality—to have a complete family--Mama, Papa, and me.

         “Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you, if you’re young at heart.” I believed it could happen. I believed it could happen. I had seen enough Disney movies, and read enough fairy tales, to believe it could happen to me. And one day…it did. It took seven years for my fairy tale to become a reality, but it did happen, and I was the happiest girl in the world.

         A handsome man who looked like someone from America showed up at the door one day. You could always tell people who’d been living in the States for a while. It was in the way they dressed, talked, and behaved. I could not explain it; maybe it was a certain kind of air they carried with them. He had my slanted eyes, like Chinese eyes, not like my mother’s, which were more round and big. His nose was small and his lips were full--like mine. He had a minor lisp—not quite noticeable, unless you were hanging on to every word he uttered…like I was doing. His skin was lighter than mother’s medium brown complexion.

         When I saw Mama’s stunned expression and quick, happy tears when she saw him, my heart did a few tumbles. I knew then that God had granted my nightly prayer.

          "What a beautiful little angel you are," he said to me then he got down on his knees and swept me off my feet. “You look just like your mommy—petite, slim, and … where did those dimples come from? Are you sure you’re my kid?” He twirled me around and I felt so high up in the clouds. “Just kidding. Two of my siblings got them, too. In fact, you look just like one of them. You definitely have my blood.”

         I was giggling like a newborn baby. Thank you, God, thank you,” I said internally, tears cascading down my face. I loved my father instantly. I took mental pictures of that precious moment in time and burned them in my memory to enjoy forever.

         A few close friends and relatives were formally invited to the wedding, but as expected, most of the town folks came, invited or not. Nothing much happened in our little community, so the wedding was a huge event. People brought lots of foods for the festivity, so feeding everyone was not an issue. I woke up before dawn smelling the intoxicating aroma of pigs being fire-roasted over open pits. I was still floating on air about the wonderful moment when I met my father for the first time.

         The wedding was held by the river where children often played and bathed. Papa looked even more handsome in his Barong Tagalog—the traditional airy attire for Filipino men--a dress shirt made of light and silky pineapple fabric. Mama looked like a Polynesian princess in her strapless, long and flowing white cotton dress, with a red hibiscus flower in her hair. Both of them wore matching thong sandals and very wide smiles. I was the happy flower girl, so proud that I was a part of my parents' wedding. I wore a tiny version of Mama's wedding dress and sandals. The song "Faithfully" by my father's favorite band, Journey, blared from the boom box. The sun was still setting in the west, making my parents' faces glow even more.

          Finally; the bastard child orApril Foolwas no more. I was simply April, or to be precise, April Luna Banali, the legitimate daughter of Nestor Banali. I held my head way up high whenever I said my new name. Suddenly, I was the most popular kid around.

         It was a picture-perfect wedding. I created a whole album of the wedding memories. I wrote, A Love Story on the cover, with a photo of my parents kissing. On the last page, I printed the words: And WE Lived Happily Ever After with a photo of the three of us. We looked deliriously happy. It was perfect! At last, the family portrait I had drawn in my mind since I could remember was now fully developed…and printed.

         People, including the mean children who used to mock me often, told me how lucky I was because I would now be living in a country where roads were rumored to be paved in gold. Funny thing was, no one ever mentioned, or seemed to care, that I finally became a legitimate child.

         Some of the girls said to me: “So now that you’re going to be living in America, you’re going to be wearing real designer clothes and carry genuine Coach Bags.” Even at an early age and living in a small town, I already knew the difference between a fake Coach Bag and a genuine one; it was an illness in my country where even the poor carried an obsession with designer products. My grandmother was a seamstress who worked at a small shop in a nearby town sewing fake bags and fake designer labels like Prada, Coach, Dooney & Burke. She often said that someday I'd be carrying genuine designer bags because my father made lots of money in the States. I imagined how rich we were going to be when my mother started working there, too. I couldn’t wait.

          “I hope you don’t forget about me,” said my best and only true friend, Dodong, who’d been very sad since I told him that I would be living in the States with my parents. He was stuffing his cleft face with a big chunk of lechon, or roast pig, in one hand, and a stick of lumpia or egg roll in the other. Scorned for his facial deformity from birth, he and I had shared a certain bond since we were little.

          “Don’t worry,” I said. “I will write to you often.” He smiled wide, mouth full of food. “But you have to write me in English so you can practice. You’ll never know; maybe someday you can also come to America.”

          Dodong frowned and shook his head. “No American father,” he lamented. His father was in jail for stealing food from a grocery store. “Is it true about the roads in America?”

          People said the roads in the States were paved in gold, not like the dusty dirt roads where we lived. I could not wait to find out if there was any truth to this rumor. Most of all, I looked forward to living in a big house, with my room filled with American teen magazines, books, my own TV, and lots of feather pillows on my bed. I’d wear new clothes and shoes every day to school, and have a cell phone to call my grandma and Dodong in the Philippines. Ah, yes…I could not wait to see very tall buildings that could reach the sky, to shop at the biggest shopping malls, ride in big cars, have lots of toys, and eat at McDonald's. My mouth watered at the thought of humongous hamburger sandwiches. I heard they were much better in the States.

          After the wedding, I thought we were all leaving for the States together, but Papa had a different plan. “I’m sorry, April, but I have to go back to work,” he explained. “I have to make money so I could find a house big enough for us, then I will send for you and your mother right away.” I was very disappointed. Mama did not look surprised. If she knew of the plan, why did she have to keep it a secret from me?

         Once again, my father left, leaving me wondering if I would really see him again.

         I waited, and waited, and waited. It took almost about a year and a half before a U.S. visa for my mother came. I was ecstatic and asked her about my visa. “You don’t need one because you’re a child,” she explained. I noticed that sometimes my mother looked happy, sometimes she looked sad, but I didn’t concern myself too much about why she was acting that way. It was probably natural, I thought, that people would feel like that when they were about to leave their country. Not me. I was happy that we were finally leaving. I had enough of the barrio life. I was ready to live in America.

         One day, I overheard my mother talking to my father on the phone. She spoke softly so I could not understand her very well, but it sounded like she was giving him some dates and numbers. When she hung up and turned toward me, I saw the tears. First, there was the look of surprise when she saw me standing there, then she got down on her knees, gathered me in her arms and hugged me tight.

         That night when she kissed me goodnight, I smelled her favorite jasmine perfume--a gift from my father at their wedding. So it would last long, she only used it when she went to church or to a rare social gathering. Why the perfume late at night? A strange feeling came over me and when I felt her wet cheek on mine, I knew something was wrong. I bolted upright and asked her what was going on.

         “I’m just going somewhere. I’ll be right back,” she said. Her cracked voice told me differently.

         I knew she wouldn’t be right back. She was going to America . . . alone, without me! I panicked and grabbed her tight around her waist. “Mama, don’t leave me,” I pleaded. “Please, Mama.”

         My grandma rushed into the room and tore me away from my mother. “She’ll be back soon,” she said, but I didn’t believe her. Mama wasn’t coming back soon. I screamed and kicked vigorously, but Grandma was too strong for me.

         “I love you, Mahal,” my mother said then she ran to the door and shut it behind her. I would never forget the awful sound made by her new shoes on the wooden floor as she ran as fast as she could… away from me.

         I ran to the window when my grandma finally released me from her grasp. I saw my mother board a jeep with a suitcase in each hand. She turned her head toward me and threw me a kiss. “Mama! Mama!” I thought I would die as I watched her disappear from my sight.

          Mama lied to me. She didn’t come back right away as she had promised. I would not see her again for a long time…two years to be exact.

~*~

          The next two years after my mother left me and joined my father in America was like reading a magazine about people I didn’t know very well, or didn’t know at all. I would read about the places they saw, food they ate, things they bought for the house, the relatives and friends they visited. Glossy pictures showed them always smiling and looking prosperous in their beautiful clothes. Although I never saw any picture of their house from the outside, the interior always looked nice and clean, like an American house with a big refrigerator, oven, microwave and dishwasher. She said she didn’t have to wash clothes by hand anymore because they had machines to do that, so now finally her fingernails were long and beautiful. She got a job too, but she never told me what exactly she did. I knew it wasn’t teaching like she did in the Philippines. I couldn’t imagine her doing anything else because she loved educating children. She tutored me so well at home that I was always one of the top students in school, especially in English. “You have to learn English well,” she’d advise me often, “because you will be speaking it everyday when we live in the States.”

         I could not understand why my parents didn’t come for me right away as they promised. They sent money and gifts that didn’t mean much to me. Some children restored their meanness toward me and started calling me April Fool again. “Walang Tatay! Walang Nanay!” (No father! No mother!) they’d shout at me, taunting me for being an abandoned child this time. It was worse than being a bastard child. I started getting very depressed. I skipped school many times and would walk the long way home for hours without my grandma knowing. At home I would eat and eat till it caught up with me and I started gaining weight. That only gave the bullies another reason to tease me. “April’s fat! April Fool!” Many days I would run home tearfully into my grandma’s arms. “There, there,” she would say as she wiped my tears, “it won’t be long now. You’ll be with your parents again.”

~*~

         For a long time, my parents lived only in my head through their letters, phone calls and pictures. They were so far away . . . so far I could not measure the distance that separated us. Halfway round the world, they said, but even when I looked at the map I still could not comprehend.

          “Could they forget about me after a while?” I asked Grandma often. “And is it possible that I could forget about them, too?”

         She was always patient with me with this question, and her answer was always the same. “Not true, child,” she’d say. “Nobody will forget anyone.” I loved Grandma so much. I was so lucky to have her when no one else wanted me. Mama was her only child and they had the most wonderful relationship I had seen anywhere. I never saw them argue or fight like some other mothers and daughters I knew, maybe because there was just the two of them. Mama and me … we loved each other very much, but I didn’t like it when she kept secrets from me. I wondered if my grandma also kept some secrets from me.

         I never knew Mama's father. He died when Mama was only a little girl. When I asked her if she missed him once in a while, she answered: “I think I did in the beginning. But I was only three years old when he died. After a while, I started forgetting how he looked like, then your grandma and I would look at his pictures and I would remember. But now, I can’t picture him anymore. All the photographs were lost in a fire that burned our house when I was ten. I lost all reminders of his face. But he will be in my heart forever. The mind can forget. The heart never does.”

         Did Grandma know what was going on with my parents? She seemed not surprised at all when Mama left me that night, like she was prepared for it. Did Mama confide in her about everything? What secret did all of them keep from me?

         One day I woke up without Mama and Papa on my mind. It took about an hour before I realized it and I panicked. I stumbled out of the shower and ran to my room. I grabbed the photo album from the lamp table and pressed it against my chest. My tears came, joining the drippings from my wet hair. Grandma found me squatting on the floor, hugging the album and gently rocking myself back and forth. She quickly grabbed a sheet and wrapped it around my unclothed body, sat down next to me and encircled me in her embrace.

          “Grandma, do you think Mama and Papa ever wake up not thinking about me?”

          “Your parents love you. They think about you always.” She then changed the subject by taking the photo album from my grasp and remarking how thick and heavy it had gotten, cradling the album as if her arms were a weight scale.

          “All the pictures they sent me from the States are already here, Grandma. I organized them in date order. I also identified each one based on Mama’s descriptions in her letters.” I was proud of my work and quickly forgot what had made me cry just moments ago.

         “You’re very good, anak (child). Okay, you show me all.” She had seen the pictures before, but she and I were always happy to look through them again.”

~*~

          The news came after my mother finished singing Happy Birthday to me over the phone. “Pack your bags, honey. We’ve bought your tickets. You’re coming here in five days.” I had dreamed about this moment for two years, and I couldn’t believe my ears. Pack your bags, honey. Did she really say that? She did. I asked her to say it again and again, and she did, laughing, enjoying my excitement and happiness, and I hers. It was true. Finally, I was leaving for the United States. I would be with my parents again to spend years of love and togetherness with them--just the three of us: Mama, Papa and me–a picture of my perfect world. It was the happiest birthday ever.

         All of a sudden, I was popular again in the community. Even the mean children became friendly to me and stopped calling me fat and April Fool. Little did I know that I would eventually be calling myself that: April Fool, as I began a new life in America . . . and discovering that the perfect family portrait I developed in my head had been smeared by an unexpected intruder who could ruin all my hopes and dreams in America.

~~~***~~~

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