This essay appeared in Bellingham Review (2019).
Auntie C—, my mom’s eldest sister, lived in a bahay kubo on Tondaligan Beach with her son and his several children. Somehow they’d dissected the small hut into four or five separate rooms: tiny bedrooms with bamboo mats on the hard floors and a front room where Auntie C— sold chewing gum, cigarettes and offered gambling such as blackjack. The house always won.
I met her for the only time, on my first visit to Pangasinan, Philippines over
twenty years ago, she might as well have had a large “D” imprinted on her
smooth, brown forehead. Growing up, that’s one of the few details I knew about
her: she’d gotten divorced. Or she lived the life of a woman who’d been
divorced if such thing were legal in the Philippines.
Perhaps that’s why she lived in squalor compared to her younger
sisters who owned homes on Gonzalez Street. Homes with proper floors, walls,
roofs. Without a man, she lost whatever value she’d had as a person, a family
member. A dilapidated hut on a littered beach mirrored what the rest of our
family, and the local community, thought of her.
My grandmother had despised C—. That’s the word she used—
‘despised.’ As an eight-year-old hanging out in my grandparents’ cramped
bedroom in San Jose, California, shortly after they emigrated to the US, I
couldn’t have known the meaning of the word, but from the tone she used
whenever she said it, I knew Auntie C— was no good. The mention of her name
made the corners of my grandmother’s mouth turn downward as her eyes grew wet
behind her oversized glasses.
Once, as a young girl, my mom overheard me say ‘divorce,’ and
immediately seized upon me to say that that word, THAT word, under any
circumstances should never be repeated. A rare viciousness in her eyes and
voice made me take her more seriously than I usually had. And so I worked for years
to erase it from my brain, to act as if the word didn’t exist in the English
language. Not a difficult chore to do when no one else in our family or
community ever went through one. To erase the word is to eradicate the
possibility of any serious marital problems between two Filipinos.
When I felt bold one day,
I asked my grandmother why Auntie C— had gotten a divorce. “Her husband was a
drunkard who beat her up.” I waited for an explanation, some expression of
sympathy for my Auntie C—, but none came. The story goes that he just walked
away one day. An image in my mind of a thin, brown man staggering down a
dusty street at dusk with a bottle in his hand. He doesn’t look back. No one
ever sees him again. Auntie C— meets another man, with whom she has several
more children. So in addition to being a ‘divorced’ woman, she’s also a cheater
and a whore.
three days in a row during my visit to my mom’s hometown, Auntie C— turned up
at the front gate of the family home where I’d been staying, her hands
outstretched, asking if my missing balikbayanboxed had turned up yet.
“Come back tomorrow, Auntie,” I’d say.
the time she passed away, years later, I felt some relief. For her. The
whispers would finally end. People could focus on something else besides how
she ruined her life by telling her abusive husband to go. Now that she’s gone,
I overhear my mom and her sisters talk about how her son continues to have
children, so many children he can’t afford to support, so many children they’re
spilling out of the makeshift windows of the bahay kubo. It must be his
mother’s fault, I hear myself think.
A— and I share the same age. When my maternal grandparents left the province to
emigrate to the US and live with our family when I was eight, A— cried and
cried. Letters on see-through onion skin paper arrived on a regular basis. My
grandparents would let me read them, but it always felt like a violation: they
left her behind to live with us. I stole my grandparents from her. I shouldn’t
be reading her most intimate writings about how much she missed them, how she’s
taking care of their German Shepherd for them until they return. My
grandparents, in their lifetime, would never return.
we wrote to each other. But these letters felt forced. They weren’t actually
letters to each other; instead, they served as letters for our grandparents,
especially my grandma to see. Pieces of paper with ‘Via Air Mail’ written
across the envelopes to prove that my cousin A— and I had formed a new
friendship despite being thousands of miles apart.
I thought of A—, I thought of a small girl like me, sitting on a fence in the
barrio. Surrounded by carabao and trees filled with coconuts and mangoes.
Expansive fish ponds in the background, one of several of our family
the letters stopped coming. Years later, my grandparents would eventually get
stolen away from my family by my auntie in San Diego. I understood the deep
loss A— must’ve felt.
then complete silence. Did A— get married? Did she have children? It’s
as if she’d never existed. No updates reached me. Not that I sought any
updates. I’d run away from home as a teenager. By the time I returned at age
twenty-one, I focused on school and work—nearly killed myself with trying to
get ahead, to make up for missed time. To catch up with everyone who’d somehow
done life right.
years of no news about A— came big news. Really big news. She’d met someone in
Saudi Arabia, or whatever country in the Middle East she’d left the Philippines
for to work in as a domestic helper. Or a nurse? Either guess leaves a
fifty/fifty chance of being correct. I don’t have any details about her affair,
but can fill them in for myself: she left the province in search of better
opportunities, to send remittances to her family, to put her children through
school, to help pay for the education of poor cousins and neighbors who wanted
to study, to help her adoptive (within the same family) mom with daily expenses
and household needs. I wasn’t there and no one told me so, but I know they
regarded her as a hero on the day she left. She and her husband cried, laughed,
promised to write, and call although not always possible due to the expense.
She’d taken her paycheck and sent as much as she could back home. Perhaps after
several years of saving up, she could afford to go home. And her employer let
her. And when she got there, the one place she really wanted to be, everything
had changed. Her children had grown, she had to get reacquainted with her
husband—mentally, emotionally and physically, she was expected to share her
experiences living in the Middle East but could find no real words to explain
what it’s like to have one life but live another.
Back in Saudi Arabia, it started out as a prolonged look. She
looked away. He didn’t. And wouldn’t. No one understands how lonely it can be.
No one knows how alone you can feel. When she started the affair, she knew it’d
never get back to her family. How could it? She edited her life like a
well-crafted essay, only showing them what she wanted them to see.
The remittances continued while the letters and phone calls became
less frequent. I’m busy. I’m tired. As long as she kept up her end of
the deal—to send money so everyone else can have a good life—why couldn’t she
have a good life as well?
(Sometimes I wonder if the
innocent girl from the barrio who longed for her grandparents could’ve ever
imagine she’d grow up to have a lover in Saudi Arabia.)
Somewhere, as I write this, she’s in the arms of another man.
People act shocked. And stunned that she won’t be coming back. I imagine her
husband back in the Philippines in a house she bought. Her children educated
thanks to her ability to pay their tuition. Our family and her neighbors
labelling her husband a cuckold.
Somewhere, as I write this, she’s walking to a Western Union, or
opening her Venmo app, to send her hard-earned money back home. As their bank
account fattens, she turns to her lover who she can never marry for more
reasons than one and says Kiss Me.
psychic, a Filipina who we’d never seen before, sat on the living couch with my
mom, whispering predictions as my mom nodded. My sisters and I lay on our
stomachs, looking down from the second floor, through the railings, as they
spoke. When the medium left, my mom came upstairs. She gathered the three of us
in front of my bedroom door and delivered this news: “She said one of your
daughters is going to get a divorce.” It’s going to be me. At twelve
years old, I don’t know how I knew this, but I did. I had no doubt that this
would happen, and that this most taboo of acts would fall on me.
years later, when I delivered the news to my oldest sister over the phone that
my husband and I were having problems after just over a year of marriage, she
said, “Marriage is forever. You have to make it work NO MATTER WHAT.” Her fist
pounded the oversized granite counter in her giant kitchen. To my surprise, my
parents showed sympathy and understanding. When my dad said I shouldn’t stay in
a marriage if we weren’t happy, I let my sister know that dad’s opinion trumped
hers. And that was that.
tell Auntie you’re divorced,” said my dad, whispering in a corner at a party at
my brother’s house. The news was fresh, the idea of having a divorced daughter
hadn’t settled in yet. I kept the news to myself. Separately, my mom approached
me at the same party, but in a different corner, and delivered the same
message. I know I know I know.
Now, it’s been five years since my separation, three years since
my divorce. In January, I’ll be travelling to the Philippines with my parents
to see relatives and take care of family business. Without having discussed it
with my parents, I know when relatives ask why my asawadidn’t come, I’m
going to pinch myself hard and say, “He’s working Auntie.”