My New Life In America

Five

My New Life In America

         My early life in California was not what I had expected.  The roads were not paved in gold; it was purely a metaphor for land of opportunities.  My parents had not been blessed with golden opportunities.  The reason they never sent me pictures of the house from the outside was because there was no house; it was a small apartment in a ghetto neighborhood.  Father worked as a part-time forklift operator for Union Tribune, and Mama worked as an assembler for an electronics company; both of them earning just above minimum wage.  That would be considered a lot of money back home in the Philippines, but of course, it was a lot more expensive to live here.

         Mama left early for work every morning.  It would still be dark when she came into my room and kissed me goodbye.  I pretended to be asleep, but as soon as she left the room I’d jump out of bed and run toward the window where I could watch her wait for her carpool.  It became the best time of the day for me, but as soon as she was gone from my sight, the haunting memory of that night when she left me always came back.

         Every day I prayed: Dear God, I don’t care that we’re not rich, or that I don’t have fancy things; I will even try to love baby Paul like Mama and Papa do.  Please just don’t let Mama leave me ever again.”

         Baby Paul was loveable, cute, darling and angelic.  What more could a parent ask for in a baby? He was light skinned, beautiful, good, and always happy.  He’d be a huge hit in the Philippines too, because Filipinos loved light-skinned people.  Skin-whitening products were more popular there than teeth whiteners.  My skin was a few shades darker than Paul’s.  I got it from my mother’s side.  This baby was easy to care for and a joy to everyone.  He never cried much unless he required changing or was hungry.  He was a gift from God – everything that was good about a baby, this baby got. I hated him.

         Papa and Mama loved Paul. but Papa was more attentive to the baby than Mama was, at least not when I was around them. She was more considerate of my feelings and presence than Papa was toward me.  I’d heard her talk to Papa about it one time when they were unaware that I could hear their whispered conversations from my room.  The sound was coming through the air vent, and although I strained to listen, I understood everything they said.  I was shaking nervously, hanging on to every word they said as I sat there on the floor with my ear pressed hard against the register.

          “Be considerate of your daughter’s feelings when she’s around,” Mama said.  “You have to pay attention to her as much as you give your son.”  I could sense the trepidation in Mama’s voice as she spoke.

         Grandma had warned me about Papa.  “Careful how you talk to him,” she had said.  “He doesn’t like being preached at, not even by your mama.”  How did Grandma know that, I wondered.  Mama must have confided in her about everything.  I wished she treated me in the same way.  I wished there were no secrets between us.

         I learned in no time how Pa was quick to react defensively, easily offended as if Ma was challenging his manhood and leadership in his own domain.  I didn’t know how to talk to him.  I was afraid of being reprimanded if I reasoned with him.  He was swift in raising his voice when he was displeased about something I’d done.  I knew I had so much to learn still.  For example, in the Philippines, we had a different kind of microwave.  It was very simple to operate with just one big knob for the temperature setting and timer.  This one was very complicated; just too many buttons, too many options.  It confused me, so I goofed several times, burning his TV dinners after misinterpreting the timer’s seconds to minutes.  How many times did I ruin his good clothes because I mixed whites with darks and put bleach in the water?  And for my worst offense, giving the baby his bottle after it had been sitting out for a while.  Once, he had severe diarrhea and had to be rushed to the doctor.  I could go on and on about my mistakes.  I was sure Pa would lose patience with me eventually and send me back to the Philippines.  I took it all in; after all, they were my fault.

         I just wished he’d show me some love and affection once in a while.  I would trade a dance in his arms and some kisses for each reproach.  I would trade all material things for his love and affection.

         There was a long silence next room.  My heart was beating fast.  I expected an angry voice when Pa spoke again.  But to my surprise, he sounded humble and calm.

          “I don’t know how to talk to her,” he said.  His tone was subdued, not sounding insulted at all. 

          “You have to try,” Mama insisted.  “She craves for your attention.”  I never told Mama that.  I didn’t think she noticed.  Maybe it was just one of those mother-daughter things.

          “I think she hates me.”

          “She doesn’t hate you.  She loves you.”

          “I don’t know how she could.  I’ve been nothing but a great disappointment to her.”

          “Why do you say that?”

          “I saw it in her eyes when we pulled into the Projects that first day.  I saw her disappointed expression through the visor.  And who wouldn’t be?”

          “She’s the one who feels she has disappointed you.  How do you think she felt when you called her fat?  You haven’t said anything nice to her since she arrived.  She’s traumatized to think she’s been nothing but a disappointment to you.”

          “You’re kidding!  That girl is so smart, she’s going to be ten times more successful that I am.  Look at me . . . an engineering graduate in the Philippines, and what do I do here?  Operating a forklift for the Tribune.”

          “These are tough times.  Many college graduates do menial jobs.”

          “I’ve been doing this job for ten years!”

         Silence descended upon them.  No one spoke for a long while.  I leaned my head against the wall, my heart racing.

         My mother broke the silence.  “You have to get to know each other before it gets worse.  Your daughter could grow up really resenting you if your relationship with her does not improve.  What’s worse is that she would grow up hating her brother too, because right now you’re clearly showing he’s your favorite, and that’s not fair.”

          “Paul is still a baby.  He’ll grow up knowing who I am from the beginning.  He won’t have any unrealistic expectations or illusions of who I am, so there won’t be any disappointments.  He would love me, and maybe even respect me for who I really am—a simple man with modest means—a man who takes his family shopping at Goodwill and 99 cent stores.”

         I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  I wanted to run to Papa and give him a big hug, but I knew that would only embarrass him.  I leaned my head forward, my forehead on my knees, arms around my bent legs, and I rocked my body back and forth like a yoyo.  My tears trickled down my face, but somehow, there was an indescribable feeling of joy washing over me.

~*~

         Papa’s behavior toward me changed gradually.  I didn’t mind.  I was patient.  After all, I waited fourteen years to be close to him.  I could wait a little longer to receive his affection.  First, I had to earn it and show him I was worthy of it.  I cleaned the house, learned how to cook not only frozen TV dinners, but also real foods.  I read recipes from the newspapers he brought home from work at the Tribune.  The Asian grocery store was only two blocks away so I would walk and get the necessary items.  We all loved fish, and I would get tilapia, salmon, catfish, bass, or shrimp most of the time.  I befriended the Mexican single mom next door, and she and I would often do our grocery shopping together.  I became very efficient around the house that work was done after one o’clock in the afternoon.  Paul was not hard to care for so I found plenty of time for reading.  Even Ma had more relaxing time now when she came home from work.

         I learned not only how to take care of Paul but also how to love him.  He warmed up to me in no time.  I could not believe I thought I was going to hate him because he was ruining my life.

         My early life in America was becoming a little more comfortable, hopeful and promising.  With a lot of work, it might just turn out to be the kind of life I had dreamed of: a complete and ideal family . . . even with the surprise addition of Paul in the family portrait.

~~~***~~~

WORD COUNT: 1,750

Please read also this next chapter:

ID: 1587756   (Rated: 13+) Papa, Can You Hear Me?  Joy is discovering the bittersweet truth that my father doesn't hate me. . .but. . . . by APRIL SHOWER