Welcome to the Family

WELCOME TO THE FAMILY

          I am not happy about going to Cebu this summer. I would rather be playing video games on my Sega Mega Drive that dad bought me for my sixth birthday last August. Ama Cebu (grandmother), Kong-Kong Cebu (grandfather), and Uncle Maxwell (my dad’s brother), are waiting for us outside. Their eyes are red from their over two hour-long wait, but they smile when they see us exit the airport.

          They and my dad begin speaking to each other in Chinese. They are smiling, but they sound like they are about to tear each others’ throats out.

          "That’s how your father’s side of the family talks, Verne,” my mother tells me. “You’d better get used to it. You’ll be hearing them every day, for two whole months.”

          “What are they saying, anyway?” I ask her.

          She keeps silent as we board the van. She cannot understand them either.

          “Dad, why do you, Ama Cebu, Kong-Kong Cebu, and Uncle Maxwell keep speaking in Chinese?” I ask while on our way to my grandparents’ house. “Mom and I can’t understand you.”

          “Oh, your mom can understand a little,” he answers. “She just can’t speak very well.”

          “Verne,” my Ama Cebu continues. “You know, you are Chinese. So, you should speak Chinese. Your dad didn’t teach you Chinese? Don’t you speak Chinese at home?”

          “No, my dad only taught me English. We speak English at home.”

          “Very bad, your dad is a bad father, did not teach you to speak Chinese. Your mother is okay, she really does not know Chinese. But your dad is bad. In Cebu, we all speak Chinese. If you don’t speak, how will you understand? I’ll tell everyone to speak to you in Chinese, so that you’ll be forced to learn. Don’t you learn Chinese in school?”

          “I know a little Mandarin.”

          “That’s good, but in Cebu we speak Hokkien. Oh, why are you wearing black? That color is bad. You give me that shirt later, and I will keep it. Nobody wears black in our family.”

          We arrive at the red gate around thirty minutes later. I recognize the house right away because of the colorful butterflies painted on the wall around it. The guard opens the gate, revealing my Tai-ma’s (great grandmother’s) house.

          With the old stone fountain in the garden, and the marble floor of the lanay, both decorated with dragons and Chinese characters, plus the dirty-white paint peeling off its walls, it looks more like a haunted house than a place where people live in.

          I give a sigh of relief as I notice that nobody seems to be home. Not my Tai-ma. We would be going down to say hello if she were there. Not her children, nor grandchildren, around thirty of them all-in-all. They would have run towards the van with waves and shouts of hello if they were there. Her house is like a zoo when everyone is home.

          “Dad,” I ask. “Why is it that Tai-ma’s children never moved their families into their own houses?”

          “Our family here in Cebu is very close to each other,” my dad answers. “We love Tai-ma very much so we want to see her, spend time with her, and talk to her every day.”

          We continue down the road toward my grandfather’s house. The car stops. I step down and notice two of my uncles and two of my aunties
waiting for me by the swings. I remember the names of one uncle and auntie, but I cannot remember the names of the other two.

          They run towards me when they see me. My favorite auntie, Auntie Bernie, hugs me.

          “Hi, Verne! Welcome back to Cebu,” she greets. “How was your flight?”

          “It was okay,” I reply, “What are you guys doing here?”

          “We were waiting for you, Verne,” says Uncle Terrence, my favorite among my uncles. “The whole afternoon,” he continues.

          “Why do you speak to him in English?” Ama Cebu scolds them in Hokkien, before entering the house. “You should speak to him in Chinese, so that he will learn.”

          “You don’t know how to speak Hokkien, Verne?” Uncle Terrence asks.

          “Nope.”

          My uncles and aunties begin to laugh and speak among themselves, but this time in Bisaya instead of Hokkien. What they are saying goes something like “Verne, blah, blah, blah Verne, blah, blah, blah Hokkien, blah, blah, blah, dad did not teach him, blah, blah, blah, mom doesn’t know how to speak Chinese,” and so on, switching between Bisaya and English.

          Finally noticing my confusion, Auntie Bernie asks me, “You can’t understand Bisaya either, can you?”

          “Nope.”

          “Your dad never taught you?”

          I nod my head.

          “So, how many languages can you speak?”

          “Two: English and Filipino.”

          “That’s no good, Verne. You have to know at least three,” my other uncle, I cannot remember his name, says. “Your aunties and uncles in Cebu, we know how to speak four, at least a little. We can speak Chinese Hokkien and Bisaya very well. And, we can speak a bit of English and Filipino as well.”

          “Maybe we should try to speak to you in Bisaya,” my other auntie adds. “So that it will be easier for you to learn by listening to us.”

          Ignoring their comments about my not being able to speak certain languages, I keep looking alternately between my uncle and auntie whose names I cannot recall. I begin to panic. How could I have forgotten the promise I made last summer? I need some time alone, so I can try to remember their names.

          “Um, ok. I have to go now,” I tell them, before I turn around, and run towards the backdoor of my grandparents’ house.

          Finally, some quiet, I think to myself. Two months more of this cannot be good for my sanity. My relatives are so old-fashioned, the older ones wanting to speak in Chinese, and the younger ones, in Bisaya. English and Tagalog are what everyone uses back in Manila. My not being able to play my Sega makes me homesick. Also, there is a promise I need to fulfill.

* * *

          Last summer, one of my aunties made me promise to memorize all twenty plus of their names. I sit on my bed while waiting for my turn to use the shower. In my mind I try to match the names and faces of my uncles and aunties. I was able to do so last summer, but that was a long year ago and I am horrible at remembering names.

          Of course, I can recall my favorites: Uncle Terence and Auntie Bernie. They always treated me to soda and French fries in my past visits. Then, there were Uncle Dexter, Uncle Philip and Auntie Cherry. The three of them are brothers and sister who I see almost every day when I am in Cebu. I play basketball and badminton with Uncle Dexter a lot as well.

          I know there are also Aunties Cathy, Ellen, and Julie. I have more than twice as many aunties than uncles. But, I cannot remember who is who, and these are only half the names I should know. Worst of all, I cannot recall the name of the auntie I made the promise to— the scary one who told me to remember her name “OR ELSE!”

          She never really explained what she meant by “OR ELSE!” but I did not want to find out. I squeeze my brain trying to remember her name, but nothing pops up. My mother comes out of the shower. It is my turn to take a bath.

          It is dinner time. My grandparents are pouring a mountain of food, around five times what I usually eat, onto my plate when the doorbell rings once, twice, nonstop. I peek out the large windows from where I am seated, but all I can see is a forest of shadows. Why so many of them? What now?

          “Verne! Open the door, Verne,” a female voice from outside says. “Do you recognize my voice, Verne? Do you remember my name?”

          I remember her all right. She is my scary auntie. I hoped she had forgotten about that promise, but today has been filled with bad luck for me.

          “Thank you auntie,” she says as Ama Cebu unlocks the front door for her. “Verne, where are you? I missed you! Aren’t you happy to see me?”

          I watch them enter the living room, one by one, like zombies in a horror film. “Verne…Verne…Verne…VERNE…” I hide under the round dining table. Its long red table cloth almost touches the floor. Hopefully, they will not discover me here. I stare wide-eyed as the shadows grow larger, come nearer, until they finally weave into a blanket of shadows around me. I kneel down, cover my ears, and close my eyes.

          “Ve-erne, we know you’re down there,” my scary auntie says. “Why don’t you come out and say hello?”

          “I’m shy.”

          “Awww…he’s shy. Hahaha! Don’t be shy, Verne,” she says. It’s just me, your prettiest auntie. You remember my name, don’t you?”

          “Uhh….umm….”

          “You don’t remember my name? I’m hurt.”

          I keep silent. They keep silent as well. After a moment, they begin speaking to each other in a mix of Bisaya and English. “Blah, blah blah, Verne, blah, blah, blah, is really shy, blah, blah, blah, is you young, blah, blah, blah, can’t expect him to remember, blah, blah, blah, it’s your fault, now he won’t come out anymore.”

          “Verne,” Uncle Terrence says as he peeks under the table. “Are you okay?”

          It’s okay, Verne, if you don’t remember all our names,” Auntie Bernie follows. “We were just joking.”

          “Do you want to be alone tonight,” she continues.

          “Uhuh. I’m tired.”

          “Okay, but we’ll see you tomorrow, right,” Uncle Terence adds.

          “Okay.”

          “Okay, Verne! See you tomorrow,” my scary auntie adds. “My name is Auntie Josie, and you’d better remember me the next time we meet, OR ELSE!”