It started with Baboy, which is Tagalog for ‘pig.’ At the time, I wobbled with my weight, and of the few things that fit me was that nickname. Other kids loved its sound so much, they made it a game to blend it into pop music. People said it to feel their lips smack between syllables, like a basketball coming to rest: Ba, boy, baboy, bababoy, boy. Even when shouted, people played with which half to stress: BA-Aboy, or BabO-OY. Remy never could decide, so he bounced between both.
At Filipino parties, it’s custom to serve lechon - a whole pig skewered over a fire spit, roasted until the skin crusts a quarter inch through. Once, when we finished our plates in the kids’ room, Remy faked starving for more lechon. Instead of leaving the room to get a second helping, he poked me with his fork and dragged it along my shoulder. He brought it to his lips, rolled his eyes, and said, “Wow. We should’ve just cooked you.” The kids snickered, and Remy smiled at them. “Hey, Baboy, I have a serious question.” He nudged me with his elbow. “Come on, it’s serious.”
“What are you going to ask him?” some kid said. Remy stooped with his hands on his knees, met me where I sat. “How’d you get to be so fat? My mom says there’s lots of reasons people are fat. She says it could be jean etiquette, but most times it’s cause the person eats the wrong thing - like really oily food - and the person eats too much of it. Like, way more than he needs to live.” He poked my belly, grinned at how his finger indented. “So, which one’s your reason? Hm?” Other kids joined in, “Yeah, which one is it; I bet it’s the oily food one, What’s jean etiquette; Tell us, please?”
How it turned into ‘Playdough,’ my memory blurs. But play dough can be molded into balls, into lumps, and into rolls. It can be squashed into pancakes and indented with just a finger. I forget the reasons surrounding it, but Remy made sure that name stuck.
Saturday, January 30, 2016
Sunday, November 22, 2015
Misused
“It’s a strange phenomena,” I told her, “People who date out of comfort.”
“You mean phenomenon?” she asked, “Just the one event, right? Because ‘phenomena’ is plural.”
Once, I tried sharing how I grew up with cystic acne. I pointed to how the legions would spread from my chin to my temple.
“Lesions,” she told me, “A legion is a militant group. Usually, overwhelming in number.”
I replied, “But that’s exactly what I mean.”
She nodded. “Yes, but it’s still wrong.”
Another time, I confided my wish to be more clairvoyant, then she stopped me to say that the word in that form is supernatural. To be clairvoyant is to be prophetic, to have biblical powers. To want clairvoyance, though, is perfectly acceptable. So instead, I should start saying that I want clairvoyance.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I think you use words that you only kind of know. You probably shouldn’t do that. Clarity is key.”
On another lazy Saturday, we lounged on her bed. I whispered, “I’m never so mellow than when we’re laying together.”
“Lying,” she said, “The word you want, is lying.”
“You mean phenomenon?” she asked, “Just the one event, right? Because ‘phenomena’ is plural.”
Once, I tried sharing how I grew up with cystic acne. I pointed to how the legions would spread from my chin to my temple.
“Lesions,” she told me, “A legion is a militant group. Usually, overwhelming in number.”
I replied, “But that’s exactly what I mean.”
She nodded. “Yes, but it’s still wrong.”
Another time, I confided my wish to be more clairvoyant, then she stopped me to say that the word in that form is supernatural. To be clairvoyant is to be prophetic, to have biblical powers. To want clairvoyance, though, is perfectly acceptable. So instead, I should start saying that I want clairvoyance.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I think you use words that you only kind of know. You probably shouldn’t do that. Clarity is key.”
On another lazy Saturday, we lounged on her bed. I whispered, “I’m never so mellow than when we’re laying together.”
“Lying,” she said, “The word you want, is lying.”
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Eulology
I wrote my first eulogy for my uncle, Julio Junio - July June - a backwards progression that mirrored our relationship; I hardly knew him alive, but now in death, people expected me to.
My immigrant family qualified me to write it, me being the only member studying English. They asked me to solve the issue the same way I went to my I.T. friend for a quick and free fix, the same way I expected him to debug a language causing me difficulty.
Problems arose. Mainly, how I thought him more an ornament than an uncle, more furniture than man. And what should I say about a corner fixture? ‘Farewell to our beloved armchair, patterned with liver spots and crooked teeth.’ Or, ‘Our table passed away with all his legs. He denied the operation in order to stand, but died lying down, anyway.’
To solve the issue, I gathered my relatives and held memory tryouts. I found it helpful, how he traded my cousin video game time for back massages. I decided to leave out how nice he was, according to my mom. Or how really nice he was, according to his widow. I questioned what to make of the fact that my uncle cried when he first landed in California. My family picked him up hours late, and by then, he thought himself stranded - not only lost, but alone.
I oversaw the layout of these story shards, upholstered with tucked seams to hide how none of them were mine. Not only did my family buy the finished product, they commissioned me for the next two eulogies, two more pieces to complete a dining room set.
The formula remains. My relatives give me fragments, then I tinker until it looks like a person. Eventually, I won’t have to source for second-hand accounts. I won’t have to fake the intimacy. Eventually, I’ll look back in fondness at how I used to be an impostor.
My immigrant family qualified me to write it, me being the only member studying English. They asked me to solve the issue the same way I went to my I.T. friend for a quick and free fix, the same way I expected him to debug a language causing me difficulty.
Problems arose. Mainly, how I thought him more an ornament than an uncle, more furniture than man. And what should I say about a corner fixture? ‘Farewell to our beloved armchair, patterned with liver spots and crooked teeth.’ Or, ‘Our table passed away with all his legs. He denied the operation in order to stand, but died lying down, anyway.’
To solve the issue, I gathered my relatives and held memory tryouts. I found it helpful, how he traded my cousin video game time for back massages. I decided to leave out how nice he was, according to my mom. Or how really nice he was, according to his widow. I questioned what to make of the fact that my uncle cried when he first landed in California. My family picked him up hours late, and by then, he thought himself stranded - not only lost, but alone.
I oversaw the layout of these story shards, upholstered with tucked seams to hide how none of them were mine. Not only did my family buy the finished product, they commissioned me for the next two eulogies, two more pieces to complete a dining room set.
The formula remains. My relatives give me fragments, then I tinker until it looks like a person. Eventually, I won’t have to source for second-hand accounts. I won’t have to fake the intimacy. Eventually, I’ll look back in fondness at how I used to be an impostor.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
Inherited
Megan, my half-sized housemate, presses her baby blue Princess Elsa stamp on the back of my hand. She nods when I tell her it’s pretty.
Her mother finds us in the shared living room. From a grocery bag, her she digs out a lock of braided hair - a thousand shades lighter than hers. “Why the hell is he keeping this?” she asks of my landlord. I know better than to defend him.
Megan eyes her mother, then scoots closer to me. She stamps below the original, then completes a triangle. She blots each of my knuckles.
Alongside the braid, her mother finds a plus sized swimsuit. She holds it open to show how two of her could fit. “Is he hoping she’ll come back for this?” she asks, but answers herself in Spanish. She uses words I only guess at, but Megan heard them all before.
Swarmed over my wrist, the Elsas spread to my forearm, claiming open territory. I tell Megan it’s pretty, and she nods.
Her mother rubs beneath her eye, baiting tears. “Is he talking to her?” she asks.
Megan maps crowded constellations from elbow to shoulder cap. Her stamp suspended, she searches for new placement.
I tug at my shirt and pat my chest. “Here.”
Her mother finds us in the shared living room. From a grocery bag, her she digs out a lock of braided hair - a thousand shades lighter than hers. “Why the hell is he keeping this?” she asks of my landlord. I know better than to defend him.
Megan eyes her mother, then scoots closer to me. She stamps below the original, then completes a triangle. She blots each of my knuckles.
Alongside the braid, her mother finds a plus sized swimsuit. She holds it open to show how two of her could fit. “Is he hoping she’ll come back for this?” she asks, but answers herself in Spanish. She uses words I only guess at, but Megan heard them all before.
Swarmed over my wrist, the Elsas spread to my forearm, claiming open territory. I tell Megan it’s pretty, and she nods.
Her mother rubs beneath her eye, baiting tears. “Is he talking to her?” she asks.
Megan maps crowded constellations from elbow to shoulder cap. Her stamp suspended, she searches for new placement.
I tug at my shirt and pat my chest. “Here.”
Friday, August 29, 2014
Fresh Cut
For two months after my friend got dumped, he refused leaving his house. When he emerged, I saw he took clippers to his head and shaved himself to roots. I mentioned how it suited the season, but he denied the weather having any say. Instead, he brushed his fresh cut where locks used to be, and said, “It just felt right.” He explained the process of how easy the inches came off, how months of time could clump on tile.
While I adjust my clippers, I push my hair back for an idea. My cheeks could be tighter to the bone. My chin could be more sharp, show more prominence.
After I wipe the fallout from my brow, it pleases me to see my head doesn’t peak the way I thought. The square of my jaw might even carry the look.
Still, I don’t prefer it, this open line of sight to my eyes.
I tell the mirror that my clothes are dated, that I should work out more.
While I adjust my clippers, I push my hair back for an idea. My cheeks could be tighter to the bone. My chin could be more sharp, show more prominence.
After I wipe the fallout from my brow, it pleases me to see my head doesn’t peak the way I thought. The square of my jaw might even carry the look.
Still, I don’t prefer it, this open line of sight to my eyes.
I tell the mirror that my clothes are dated, that I should work out more.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Skipping
I chaperoned three students on a sailboat. With nowhere for them to get lost, I reclined while our skipper, gray haired and skin creased, tried to teach them when to flip the jib.
But it didn't interest them, this mechanical information. Instead, they stuck their head out the railing to see if they could spot fish through the foot of translucent water.
As our skipper grew to know the kids, he favored giving instructions over explaining them. To help the situation, I belted, “Listen,” but it came just as one of them swore he saw a turtle - though there was none - and each of them scampered to the stern.
Once they laid the sighting to rest, our skipper squinted, adding toes to the crow's feet at his eyes, and said, “The wind's dying down.”
To my surprise, someone responded, “Is that good or bad?”
He replied, “It's temporary.”
In the silence that followed, I hoped they thought it through. But one spoke up with, “I'm hungry,” and the others agreed.
But it didn't interest them, this mechanical information. Instead, they stuck their head out the railing to see if they could spot fish through the foot of translucent water.
As our skipper grew to know the kids, he favored giving instructions over explaining them. To help the situation, I belted, “Listen,” but it came just as one of them swore he saw a turtle - though there was none - and each of them scampered to the stern.
Once they laid the sighting to rest, our skipper squinted, adding toes to the crow's feet at his eyes, and said, “The wind's dying down.”
To my surprise, someone responded, “Is that good or bad?”
He replied, “It's temporary.”
In the silence that followed, I hoped they thought it through. But one spoke up with, “I'm hungry,” and the others agreed.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Implications
I imagine Jennie sitting across the fast food booth, pausing from picking at her fries while I mention the stresses of seeing multiple women. “Really should start keeping note cards,” I’d say, “Before I get their hobbies mixed up.”
I draw out the look on her face as she sees the latest picture I posted - with a woman whose shoulder melds into mine in front of a fake Christmas tree.
I see us sitting on the curb of her house, her asking about my work, what I’ve been up to, who I’ve been hanging out with. And I trace the trail of her questions past her lips, down her throat, back into her lungs, then collapse the walls by muttering a foreign name.
I fantasize because of the reality: I haven't heard from her in weeks.
I draw out the look on her face as she sees the latest picture I posted - with a woman whose shoulder melds into mine in front of a fake Christmas tree.
I see us sitting on the curb of her house, her asking about my work, what I’ve been up to, who I’ve been hanging out with. And I trace the trail of her questions past her lips, down her throat, back into her lungs, then collapse the walls by muttering a foreign name.
I fantasize because of the reality: I haven't heard from her in weeks.
So when she approaches with a text of “I hope you're doing fine,” I unwrap the gift to mean, Yes, I still matter. And only now am I prepared to reply with nothing.
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