Papa, Why Do You Treat Me This Way?

Three

Papa, Why Do You Treat Me This Way?

          The long flight from the Philippines to California felt endless, but I did not mind.  It was my first ever experience to fly, and I could not contain my excitement about everything.  I didn’t even care that the old man sitting next to me snored horribly that the passengers around us kept looking back at him.  I didn’t pay attention to the couple in front of me who complained about this and that, including the food and snacks, which I thought were just terrific.  The flight attendants were so nice, always checking to see if I was comfortable, or if I needed anything.  I felt so special.  I couldn’t believe everything was free, even the movies.  They called our aircraft a “747” and it was so humongous that twenty, maybe more, of our house in the Philippines could fit inside it.  I spent many times looking through the window, admiring everything outside: the vast Pacific Ocean, the islands, the changing of colors, and especially the clouds.  I wondered if I could just lie on top of the clouds and not fall through. 

         When it was too dark to see anything outside, I looked through the family album I brought with me.  Mama seemed to have gained some weight in her last pictures.  She had always been slim.  I’d been told that people got fat when they moved to America.  “So much food there," they said.  “America could feed the whole world.”  Papa was never around much since I was born, so there were times when I had to look at his pictures to remember the details of his face.  Already I started noticing some changes in him; maybe a little less hair above his forehead, and a tad darker, but always slim. 

         I wanted to always remember every little detail about Mama and Papa: the places they’d been, the people they visited, and the food they ate.  I fantasized that I was also living their lives—always with them, like a family—the way it should be.  I had memorized even the contents of their home in vivid detail that sometimes it seemed as though I had actually lived in that house.  During my last birthday, they celebrated it with a colorful cake that Mama told me she had baked.  I couldn’t believe it.  She had never been a good cook.  I wondered how she made those dainty yellow and pink daisies—my favorites—and the skinny stems and leaves.  I was impressed.  America taught my mother how to bake a cake for my birthday.

          At last, at last, I’m going to be with my parents again.  We’re going to be together like a real family—a perfect family--my fairy-tale family. Life’s going to be great.   I fell asleep with this happy thought.  When I woke up, we were in Los Angeles, California—our Port of Entry.  Oh, my God!  What a huge airport! And where did all these people come from?  I hope I don’t get lost.  The flight crew was aware that I was traveling for the first time and alone, so they assisted me with everything.  I was amazed at the number of Filipinos working at the airport.  They were just all over.  Some of them even talked to me and made me feel comfortable.  The Customs guys were also Filipinos.  They thought it was cute when I tried to tip them and they gave me back my twenty pesos or fifty cents in U.S. money.

         I took another flight to continue to San Diego.  It was a smaller plane; only about five of our house could fit inside it.  Most of the passengers were from the same flight with me from Manila to L.A.

         It was mid-morning when we arrived at the San Diego International Airport.  The sight was fantastic.  I could see the white sand beaches, the palm trees, boats, bridges, beautiful skyline of downtown, manicured lawns in residential areas; gigantic homes with swimming pools, and so many cars.  This is where I’m going to be living?  I must be dreaming, or I’ve died and gone to heaven!

         My heart was filled with joy as I stepped on the escalator going down toward the baggage section of the San Diego International Airport.  I was nervous. Would my parents still recognize me? I’d grown three inches and gained thirty pounds, with a much longer hair that came down to my waistline, just like Mama’s hair.  Same mean children who mocked and jeered me for being an abandoned child started calling me fat.  Grandma said those children were just jealous of me because I was smart, pretty, and I was going to the States.  “You not fat,” said Grandma.  “You’re just pleasantly plump because you eat good food all the time.”  Mama gained weight; maybe it was a sign of their prosperous living in the States. 

         I swept the crowded floor with my eyes looking for my parents.  So many people.  So many Asians.  It wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought to spot them.  I suddenly felt very nervous.  Was I looking presentable enough? I was filled with questions, worried that I would disappoint my parents for any reason.

           I finally saw them.  They were looking toward my direction but did not seem to recognize me.  There was Papa, not looking quite the handsome man I remembered.  He looked thinner, tired and worried.  Next to him was Mama who seemed equally weary with bags under her eyes; long hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a little lipstick and none of the usual make-up she wore back in the Philippines.  She looked skinny, not fat, and as if she had aged by ten years. 

          And there--probably the reason for my parents’ haggard look—an infant cradled in my mother’s arms.  Astonished, I felt my imagined perfect world crumble beneath me.  My knees weakened and I thought I would stumble down the escalator.  Oh, God.  Please tell me that’s somebody else’s child. But I knew it wasn’t going to be, and just like that, the perfect family picture was no more, and my heart was drained of all the happiness that had consumed me for days.

         Why had they not told me about the baby?  It wasn't as if they didn't have the opportunity during the last nine months.  I realized more than ever that my family was not built on honesty and communication.  Didn’t they care about my feelings at all?  Did they think this was going to be a pleasant surprise for me? 

          As I stared at Mama, Papa and the baby, I saw my future—a future as empty as my heart.  Nothing has changed, I murmured, blinking to stop the tears of my fragile emotions.

          Mama saw me first and her face beamed.  “April!  April,” she yelled and rushed toward me.

         I wasn’t sure if Papa was instantly thrilled to see me like Mama showed me as she balanced the baby in one arm and hugged me with the other.  She didn’t have to get down on her knees anymore to hug me.  “My, you’ve grown,” she exclaimed.  “You’re almost as tall as me.  And you’re so pretty.”  She had tears streaming down her face—tears of happiness, I was sure.  Papa’s expression on the other hand bore something I could not define.  If I were forced to describe it, I would be inclined to say he had the look of a disappointed father who had not seen his daughter for years and didn’t like what he saw. 

         Three words Papa said stuck painfully in my head, and I knew it would mark me for the rest of my life.  “You look fat,” he said, and he was not joking.  I wanted to cry from the choking embarrassment of his insult1. This was not the kind of welcome greeting I had expected from him.  I recalled the first time we met: how he swept me off my feet, telling me how beautiful I was, like a little angel. What happened between then and now?  Did I get that terriblyfat and ugly in his eyes? Even if I did, was that something a loving father would say to his daughter?

         Ma glowered at him with a reprimanding slap on his arm—a light one, but her eyes threw daggers at him.  “That’s not a very nice thing to say to your daughter,” she admonished.

         The kids back home who called me fat were right.  Not quite five-foot-one and one hundred twenty five pounds, I began to see in my mind’s eye the overweight image of a young girl in a strange new place, scared to death now that she knew she was fat, as if she didn’t belong in a beautiful place where only skinny and beautiful people were allowed to live.  As I looked around the baggage section filled with people who looked great, happy to be greeted by their families, and children who looked slim and wearing expensive clothes and shoes, I knew then that I was definitely out of place.  Even though I was wearing a fake designer dress, a fake Coach Bag from Grandma, it was obvious that I was also a fake thing, trying to impress, but people could see right through a wannabe right away.  Papa certainly did.

         Mama was excited to show me around right away.  She knew how much I wanted to eat the original American hamburger sandwich and french fries, with unlimited refills of Coke from the machine.  Filipinos who’d been in the States always said the burgers and fries tasted much better here than in the Philippines. We went inside the McDonald’s Restaurant.  I couldn’t contain my excitement when I gave my order.

         “Don’t be shy,” Mama said.  “Order anything you like.  This is your welcome treat.”

         I ordered a combo.  The sandwich looked so huge in the picture.  I wondered how I could take even small bites from it.

         “Would you like to share a combo?” Mama asked Papa.

         As if Mama had just announced to the whole world that they were the poorest of the poor, Papa glared at her with fierce eyes.  “You’re embarrassing.  If you want a combo, just get it.  You don’t have to share it with anyone.” 

         Mama blushed. I was glad we were the only ones in line.  "Your father prefers Carl's J and Jack-in-the-Box," Ma whispered to me.  I just nodded; I didn't recognize the names since we didn't have them in the Philippines, but I suspected they were like McDonald's.

         Papa ordered a sandwich and a medium Coke; Mama ordered a value meal, which seemed so cheap at about four dollars and fifty cents, but once I’d converted it to Philippine money at about two hundred pesos, it came out to about the same.  My combo cost twice as much.

         I was hungry and I had no problem eating my meal.  It was great.  It was everything I had dreamed of.  The sandwich was juicy and tasty, and the fries were crisp on the outside and soft on the inside--just the way I liked it.  I was in heaven.  For a while I had forgotten all about being fat. Mama seemed pleased and happy as she watched me devour my food.  She was sitting across the table from Papa and me, with the baby on her lap who was still asleep.  I didn’t immediately see the critical observation Pa was giving me until I was almost at the last few bites of my sandwich.  Mama reached out with a napkin and wiped a sauce off my jaw.  “Those are so juicy and delicious, aren’t they?” she said, her eyes advising me to take it easy and eat a little slower.  I always ate fast when I loved what I was eating.

         I turned to Papa and immediately saw an expression of mild disgust on his face.  I caught Mama’s look of warning toward him.  I understood what dialogue was exchanging between them.  I lost my appetite and put the remainder of my sandwich down as I stared at the ten or more fries left on my tray.  I hadn’t noticed the family next to our table.  They weren’t black or white, and certainly not Asians, so they must be Hispanics, or Native Americans.  They had three children, the oldest of whom looked just a little younger than I.  One thing screamed at me about them.  They all ate like I did, fast, furious, no etiquette whatsoever.  They were also overweight, from the parents down to the youngest one.  It dawned on me then that I was exactly where I belonged.  The picture didn’t look appetizing.  I wanted to throw up.

         “Would you like a milkshake?” Mama offered sweetly.  I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not.  She couldn’t possibly be.  Pa, on the other hand was definitely serious when he said, “I don’t think they have any diet milkshake here.”

         “Thanks, Mama.  I don’t want a milkshake,” I said softly.

         Papa got up and headed for the restroom.  Ma noticed that I was tearing up.  She could always tell how I was feeling.  It must be that certain special bond mothers shared with their daughters—the spiritual and emotional connection that I didn’t feel with my father.  Or it could be that Pa and I just had not been together much.  I grew up without him.  I didn’t know him.  He didn’t know me.  He only judged me by the way I looked: fat.  Did he even know or care that I was always on top of my class from day one?  That no one in my class could read, write and speak English as well as I could, and that I played the guitar, like he did?  Did he even care about all my accomplishments?  Was my weight the only thing that mattered to him?

         “I’m sorry about the way your father is acting,” Mama said.  “He’s been getting a lot of these migraine headaches lately.  There’s a lot of pressure at work with layoffs, and he’s concerned about losing his job.”

         “Is he glad that I am here, Mama?”  I was trying hard not to cry.  I didn’t want Pa to see me cry.  He could take that as a sign of weakness.  God forbid that he’d find something else to dislike about me.

         “He’s happy you’re here.  You have to believe that.”

         Ma noticed that Pa was coming back to our table; immediately she changed the topic.  “So, what do you think of your baby brother?”

         I hate him.  He’s ruining my life, I said to myself, masking the displeasure and disappointment I was feeling toward the baby.  “He’s beautiful, Ma.  And he’s so good.  Does he sleep all the time?”

         “He’s the best baby.  He wakes up when he’s hungry or wet.”
 
         Not like I was.  I’d been told I was persnickety as a child; cried a lot and kept everyone awake many nights.

         Papa didn’t sit down anymore.  He was ready to leave so he could go back to work.  He had taken a few hours break from work to pick me up at the airport.  I was disappointed that he had not taken the whole day off for my first day in the States like Ma did.  He didn’t finish his sandwich.  He must not eat much, I thought, no wonder he looked thinner than the last time I saw him.  As we were leaving, Mama attempted to take home Pa’s leftover sandwich and include it in her doggy bag, but Pa put his hand on it and glared at her, saying nothing.  Mama’s otherwise pale face suddenly turned red.  She had changed so much since Philippines.  She had always looked pretty with carefully dolled-up face and stylish hair.  Now any make-up she wore was restrained with only a touch of light rose lipstick on her mouth.

         On the way home, we drove through the beautiful downtown San Diego, just enough for me to see the impressive tall buildings, the scary-looking Coronado Bridge, the U.S. Naval ships along the harbor, and the luxurious apartments and residential areas.  I couldn’t wait to see our house.

         The baby finally woke up.  Mama asked me to get the bottle from the cooler and give it to him.

         It was amazing.  The baby looked at me with those gorgeous big brown eyes as if wondering who I was, then almost immediately flashed me the sweetest smile, the glint in his eyes picking up the various hues of green from the trees we passed.  I felt a pang of guilt for having thought ill things about him.  I touched his little hand and he wiggled his baby fat in response.  You’re going to make it hard for me to hate you, aren’t you?

         He giggled and cooed, as if he could hear my thoughts and saying to me:  You’re going to love me, sister.

~~***~~

WORD COUNT: 2,860

Please read also this next chapter:

ID: 1586761   (Rated: 13+) A Shattered Vision Of My Perfect Family  Disillusionment is discovering a cruel secret my parents have kept from me. by APRIL SHOWER