"...it is as advantageous to the child as it is fair to the parent to refuse resentment a permanent standing" The Naming of My Child Essay by Eilieen Tabios, U.S.A. "All that I love I fold over once and once again. . ." -- Edith Tiempo "You wouldn't know he ever was a grave digger." -- Edilberto K. Tiempo No matter what parents do, children will be ungrateful -- I am as sure of this as I am resigned to the knowledge of opening the kitchen door someday to find a dead porter sprawled across my landing. If I was able to make him love me, he will leave behind a farewell note. The porter's name is Alfonso and he drinks through a 16-ounce bottle every evening on the steps of the stairwell behind my kitchen. He has mentioned that he is in his early forties but looks ageless in his dissolution. Cheap liquor, deeply-etched furrows on his brow and edging his lips, holey t-shirts, a bent to his nose mysteriously hinting at street brawls and a careless haircut combine to present a most unpalatable demeanor to the citizens residing in my apartment building. There was a time, however, when I joined Alfonso for a drink almost everyday: I am a writer and, within the distant past, the dreaded "BLOCK" afflicted me for over seven months. This is the story with which I cast out the BLOCK. Ceremoniously, I had invoked Shakespeare from the stairwell as, my last bottle become my microphone, I informed Alfonso of my drought's end: "Write till your ink be dry; and with your tears/Moist it again; and frame some feeling line,/That may discover such integrity." "I drin' to that," Alfonso responded predictably but failed to lessen my joy. At the time of beginning this story, my relationship with my parents had settled into an amicable peace which began the day I married Gerald. This is no coincidence as, in my pre-Gerald days, the wealth of my writing life was unappreciated by my parents who focused on my inability to pay rent in a timely manner. Since our wedding, however, our households have communicated at least once a week by phone with Gerald a welcome, frequent stand-in for keeping in touch: they simply adore the man. With his Paul Stewart suits, neatly shorn hair, earnest eyes, ready laugh and cleanly-edged fingernails, Gerald is Mr. Clean-Cut Perfection. I should add that the component of "Perfection" relates to Gerald's profession, the delicate and impressive practice of brain surgery. It is no wonder that when he mangles (deliberately) a few choice words of Tagalog, he sends my mother into an unbecoming girlish tizzy as she coyly corrects him. "Singsing is the correct word for 'ring'," she said, relishing her own counsel as she approved the size of the diamonds in my fifth wedding anniversary band. "Singko means 'five'." My parents are not materialistic; I know that the diamonds simply offered additional proof that, writing or not, their only daughter would never starve. I also believed that their adoration further bloomed from Gerald's lack of involvement with the emotional baggage left over from my upbringing, including an adolescence that my parents and I barely survived. In discussing this issue with Alfonso, I often theorized that my relationship with my parents could have sundered into an unbridgeable breach were it not for the fortuitous timing of my departure to attend the University of Miami, a school I chose primarily because it was located in another state. I left just in time, I noted to Alfonso who allowed, though mockingly, a toast with his bottle before replying with another guzzle. After the nine-month break from each other's company offered by freshman year, the relationship with my parents ceased its deterioration and we settled for a truce that solidified after I married Gerald. We were always the travelers for our annual meetings, traveling from New York where Gerald and I reside to my hometown, San Francisco. My mother is scared of "flying with airplanes." How about flying with your arms, I was often tempted to ask but kept my tongue tightly leashed. We engaged in the American tradition of visiting around the Christmas or Thanksgiving holidays. Thus, did my relationship with my parents meander about its amicable way during the earlier years of my marriage. It is true, nevertheless, that memory is difficult to control. Despite the futility of the exercise, I sometimes lapsed into recollections about their slights and offenses: when the babysitting job for the toddlers of visiting relatives always fell on me and never on my brothers; when they insisted that I, as a girl, return home immediately after school while my brothers could gallivant about the neighborhood; and when I was annointed the dishwasher because that is a female job while my brothers would take out the garbage. That last one really galled because I had to wash dishes everyday while garbage was taken out only once a week and I was the only girl while my brothers numbered five. My parents' behavior was influenced by their upbringing in the Philippines and, I concede now, they can hardly be blamed for suffering from cultural dislocation. But, until recently, I begrudged them any excuse. Besides, my complaints provided much fodder for my discussions with Alfonso, himself one of a dozen kids raised by long-suffering parents in Peru. "Nevuh knew to stop," he said succinctly about his parents. Then he returned to his bottle and continued his empty stare over my head as I leaned against the wall facing the stairs over which he was draped with all the elegance of strewn dirty laundry. I sometimes wondered if Alfonso objected to my company or its frequency. He often lapsed into long silences and his attempts to hold up his share of a conversation were brief and labored. The question, however, did not bother me sufficiently to temper my long monologues; I needed to prove that my BLOCK did not signify that I had nothing left to say. To paraphrase the Great Bard, during those long nights on the stairwell with Alfonso while Gerald suffered through his long hours at Mount Sinai Hospital, I was "a spendthrift with my tongue." Other times, I did manage to remember different things about my parents: when my mother learned geometry a chapter ahead of me to be able to help me with homework; my father went shopping for an eighth birthday present of my first Barbie doll when my mother was bedridden with the flu; and my mother brushed my hair every night until I put a stop to the practice. "I'm a big girl now: I can brush my own hair," I had announced about the latter; in response, my mother bent down to rub at an invisible stain on the rub. I must have known my words hurt her, but didn't know how to ease her pain. I could only pretend nothing happened -- a pretended unawareness that became my habitual response to events that widened the gulf between my parents and me during my teenage years. When I was fifteen, the gulf widened dramatically as my father and I stopped speaking to each other. Long after my brothers ended the practice, I used to spend weekends with my parents, accompanying them to dinners at relatives' houses, the shopping trips for major appliances that turned into all-day affairs on Saturdays, the occasional movie and the barbecues that often extended our socialization with other members of the church we attended unfailingly every Sunday. When, at age fifteen, I requested unchaperoned time with friends -- including boys -- my father's "No!" marked the turning point in our relationship. I remember how long I had lobbied to join the hippest circle at my high school: Belinda, the blonde who later was crowned Homecoming Queen; all of the cheerleaders; Jasmin, the nationally-ranked fencer; Lila, the redhead who usually played most of the female leading roles in our high school plays; and, naturally, the boys who attended to them. Among them was Jason, the tall, slim, ebony-haired, dimple-cheeked and hazel-eyed editor of the high school newspaper. I had maintained a crush on Jason since the eighth grade. Somehow, at the beginning of sophomore year, Jason noticed me and, though such would have sufficed, his attention also became my entry to the inner circle of the Coolest of the Cool at Roosevelt High School. The date would not have been solely with Jason. The invitation was for bowling with Jason and whoever else was free among the Coolest of the Cool that Saturday night at Alvin's Bowling Alley. When my father emphatically said, "No!" I was surprised as well that he looked surprised. His expression asked, "How could you even think to ask?" Years passed before I learned that, in the Philippines of my parents' time, young teens did not date and children often remained in their parents' home until their wedding day. Thus, I never dated -- even bypassing Roosevelt High School's Senior Prom -- until I was a college freshman far from their reach. But until then, my mother was the first-line of his defense against my attacks and mine against his silence. When my writing life proved worrisome to my parents, I could determine so only from my mother. I long thought that marrying Gerald was the first choice I made to garner my father's approval since he refused to allow me to go bowling with Jason and the rest of Roosevelt High School's elite. But even as my marriage improved my relationship with my parents, I began to face different problems associated with my literary career, finally culminating into measuring time with Alfonso on the stairwell. Childless and often left on my own by Gerald's lengthy work days, nothing prevented me from spending months reciting Shakespeare and drinking with Alfonso. At around the fourth month of the BLOCK, I did wonder whether it was a good time to have a child. But I wasn't yet ready to give up the solitude required to devote myself to writing. Besides, I chose to believe that writing books is like creating babies except for requiring more time than nine months, avoiding the question over how to protect one's back from the bulging weight inconsiderately stretching the stomach and involving no physical sex though generating intermittent orgasms when the writing is proceeding extremely well. (On the other hand, I have heard from friends with experience that the occasional suicidal thoughts afflicting the birth of my novels also can trouble pregnant women). However, I was not as fertile as I wished. My last novel was published seven years ago; my next published work was scheduled to occur in two weeks with the debut of a new literary journal in Texas whose editors accepted a ten-line, single-stanza poem that I had written fourteen months earlier. After the poem, I wrote several novelistic false starts for a few months. When an attempt to explore the middle-age crisis of a man living in Winnetka, Illinois died after ten pages, the BLOCK arrived. With hindsight, I was insane! I know as much about suburban white males in their forties as I do about mutual funds, ancient Greek art, cigars, wine-making, IBM and the influence of sea power on the French Revolution -- topics that I thought would be relevant to a suburban white male character in his forties. I deserved to be carted away, but no one knew except Alfonso. It may seem strange that I engaged in a secret relationship with the building porter. But, indeed, my writer's lot is a "solitary life." I avoid writers' workshops or writers' support groups because I superstitiously refuse to discuss my works-in-progress. Within my and Gerald's social circle which revolves around other staff members of Mount Sinai Hospital, spouses speak mostly about the weather and trade understanding glances with each other as the doctors and nurses discuss recent medical developments, hospital disasters du jour and reduced governmental funding of Medicare programs. My last book was a welcome interruption to this routine, but that last book was published years ago. As for my former friends during my pre-Gerald days, I left them behind in Manhattan's "Alphabet City" where, in my younger days, I lived in crumbling buildings on streets labeled "Avenue A," "Avenue B" and "Avenue C." Much as I appreciated the comfort of our apartment, I could not bear the thought of inviting them to our Upper West Side three-bedroom, four-bathroom apartment with a separate dining room complete with chandelier and Ralph Lauren wallpaper; to them, it might as well have been the suburbs. Besides, I rationalized to myself, they were not truly "friends" -- simply folks with whom I had shared the downtown literary and artistic scene which came to depress increasingly as I remained among the wanna-bes rather than the emerging superstars. Thus, Alfonso, by simply being there on the stairwell and captive to my solilequys if he wished me to remain silent to the superintendent about his evening habit, became a reluctant analyst -- the type that need not provide answers but only had to listen to the verbal diarrhea manifested by my battles with demons haunting me. Also, I hate to drink alone. In the midst of struggling with the BLOCK, I lost my amicable footing during a telephone call with my mother who raised the issue of my biological clock. I spoke to her in a tone I had not used for a long, long time. I told Alfonso about it afterwards, weeping as I drank from the freshly-opened bottle I rudely took from his hands. I clearly imagined my mother hanging up the kitchen phone, hiding her face in both hands and struggling to prevent my father watching TV in the living room from hearing the sobs choking her as more welled up from her heart like the unending footmarch of an invading army into a beleaguered city. Alfonso looked at me blearily through his greasy bangs, but managed to find sufficient energy to reach forward and take back his bottle. " 'Member the rules -- brin' your own," he reminded stiffly. I found some kleenex in my pocket which I used to wipe away my tears. As Alfonso looked away discreetly, I pressed my head against the wall and closed my eyes, willing myself to stop crying. But my mother's face floated through the darkness and as my tears started seeping, they forced my eyes open. When Alfonso saw my tears resurge, he offered his bottle and gruffly suggested, "Why don' you sen' your Mama a copy of your poem. Din' you say it was about your gran'mother, her Mama? Might like that." I considered his idea while debating whether those were the most words he had ever strung together. The more I thought about it, the more I liked it, especially if I sent the poem immediately so as to imply that I had no hard feelings over our last telephone call. I had never shown my mother my poetry, but, why not?, I thought, and threw the sodden tissue into the trash bin. A week later, my mother called, quite excited about the poem. She said it displayed "excellent use of imagery," that it was "consistently evocative" even during the "deliberately sparse passages" and that there was "universality contained" because the "pictures painted by the words were quite accessible" while "concurrently creating symbols that could have definitions specific to the reader, thus, personalizing the reader's experience away from the incident described within the poem." Wow. I would have settled for "good." Obviously, I was pleased. Who wouldn't be pleased? I said, with hindsight a bit condescendingly, "That's pretty good, Mom. Where'd you learn to analyze poetry like that?" "Oh, I had a pretty good education at Silliman University from my mentors, the Tiempos," she replied. "In fact, I think they would like this poem." "The Tiempos. You mean THE Tiempos -- Edilberto Tiempo and Edith Tiempo? Those Tiempos? THE Tiempos?" I was a bit repetitive, as I later relayed to Alfonso. "Oh sure. It so happened that I took one of their writing courses and Dr. Tiempo really liked a critical essay I wrote about one of Robert Lowell's contemporaries, _____," my mother mentioned a poet whose name I had not heard before and so, to this day, still cannot recollect. Someday, I will ask my mother to repeat the identity of the poet who was the subject of her essay, but I am still soothing my ego which refuses to concede that I may not know the identity of all published twentieth-century American poets, or at least those with sufficient repute to be studied by college students. "In fact, Dr. Tiempo is the reason why I ended up with a Master's in English. He suggested that I attend the post-graduate program while I developed my own poetry. When I said that I had no money, he found me jobs teaching grammar to freshmen so I could support my studies," my mother continued cheerily as my chin metaphorically continued to graze the floor. "I became one of their proteges. They would have us over for dinner, talk about their experiences during their Iowa writing workshop days and introduce us to their books, including those of Robert Frost who is my favorite, Robert Penn Warren, T.S. Eliot . . . oh, and Marianne Moore. I never cared for her, though. Remember the phase when she used a lot of commas, almost after every word? Well, as I thought then, that degenerated into a fad." Marianne Moore? I had never read a poem by Marianne Moore. Yes, Marianne Moore was continuously lauded by both Ezra Pound and T.S. Elliot and, yes, associated with William Carlos Williams, Alfred Kreymborg and Wallace Stevens. Nevertheless, I had never read the works of this poet who also edited The Dial, a prestigious literary journal during the 1920s. Hence, I was at a loss over whether to agree with my mother's assessment over Marianne Moore's usage of the comma. As I recall, this was the first time I was ever at a loss with my mother. As for Edilberto Tiempo and Edith Tiempo, these are just names to me and I had accorded them all the respect worthy of dead, established writers even though, as of writing this story, they are still alive. I know that, in addition to writing novels, short stories and poetry, they were the guiding lights behind the prestigious Silliman Writers' Workshop in the Visayas region of the Philippines. And my very own mother had been a protege? "Oh sure. You know, some of the best Filipino writers came out of their workshop, rivaled only by the school headed by Nick Joaquin," my mother added. Nick Joaquin? The famous writer based out of the University of the Philippines in Manila? Nick Joaquin has been honored by the Philippine government as a National Artist in Literature and has written in almost all available genres: journalism, biography, history, drama, novel, short story and poetry. Again merely a name to me from literary history, but my mother lived consciously through his times? As I later said to Alfonso, who nodded either in agreement or to keep himself awake, the whole thing made me wonder and realize just how little children know about their parents. "I didn't even realize," I exclaimed after emptying the bottle I was waving through the air, "that she possessed one thought involving Iowa!" As a child, all I noticed was the secretarial position my mother donned upon emigrating to the United States. And, like a child, I created my definition: my Mother, the Secretary. I never even rushed to send her copies of my early books and merely did so as an afterthought to everyone else within my and Gerald's social circle. "I do remember an incident when she once complained to us over dinner that her boss never appreciated the time she took to correct the grammar of his correspondence," I said to Alfonso as I dredged my memory for potential clues about my mother's past literary life. "Jes' proves how far she fell comin' to this country," Alfonso said. Raising an eyebrow at him, I responded with silence as I considered his statement. Unexpectedly, Alfonso continued after another swig, "It's hard startin' over in a new country. That, it definitely is." Alfonso looked more awake than I ever had seen him as he nodded profoundly at my surprised expression. As I stared into his eyes, I was reminded of an incident that occured the summer after my college graduation. I had returned to San Francisco and was meeting my mother at her office for lunch. But, first, she introduced me to everyone in her department, hailing me as "her only daughter who just graduated college, Summa Cum Laude." She saved her boss and department head, Mr. Jefferson, for my last meeting. By the time it was his turn to meet me, my mother was preening and strutting like John Travolta, as if she had been the target of everyone's praise: "Way to go, girl," from Anita, the receptionist; "Wow, wow, wow!" from Eddie, a young analyst; "How wonderful, my dear," from Mrs. Santos, another secretary; "You must be very proud, indeed!" from Hank Dawes, one of the Vice Presidents, etc., etc., etc. Under his paternalistic, smiling expression, Mr. Jefferson was either merely insensitive but well-intentioned or extremely cruel. I tend to lean towards the latter. "Summa cum laude? How impressive! You must take after your mother. You know, if I ever have any long documents that must be processed by the end of a business day, I always make sure that your mother is assigned the job. She is the fastest typist who works for me," he said, holding on to our handshake and looking deep into my eyes. I was reminded of this incident because Mr. Jefferson's eyes were as black as Alfonso's and surrounded by similarly generous folds of flesh that offered the impression of eyes eternally half-shut. Mr. Jefferson's eyes, however, contained a sadistic glint. As the building's noises ebbed with the aging of midnight, I continued to sit there with Alfonso on the stairwell behind my kitchen door, immobilized and unable to speak. I simply could not sort through the thoughts jumbled together and tumbling through my mind like flotsam and jetsam tossed at will by a raging cyclone. * * * * * * * * * * Nowadays, I don't hang out as often on the back stairwell. I'm writing again. With my belated realization of what my parents must have suffered to enable our family to enter the United States where, as my mother divulged in a recent conversation, my parents perceived more opportunities exist for their children, my old resentments started to disappear. And, perhaps connectedly, the creative force has returned to my writing life. I do keep in touch weekly with Alfonso, usually with a cup of disgusting herb tea while he continues to drink gin, whiskey or bourbon (I choose to consider the expansion of his menu as proof that he misses the frequency of my company). I no longer romanticize the mystery of his past that forces him to huddle with his alcoholism behind my kitchen door. I only know it will kill him before cirrhosis of the liver. Alfonso finally shared his life story which culminated on his drinking on my stairwell every evening. I refuse to divulge details or be embarassed in admitting my reason for such confidentiality: his life is fodder for another story. As for my mother, I work to ensure that our relationship never reverts back to mere amicability. Actually, it does not require much "work," partly because we no longer have to discuss my biological clock. In fact, I'm pregnant. I persuaded Gerald to consider parenthood a few months ago. As my relationship improved with my mother through her shared recollections of her earlier days as a young poet learning from the tutelage of Edilberto and Edith Tiempo, I also became more optimistic about and willing to chance parenthood and all that it means -- what it requires as well as offers. The quickness of pregnancy's arrival fazed Gerald and me, but we got over it. I still believe that no matter what parents do, children will be ungrateful. But I also now realize -- hoping that this understanding is not the peak of my wisdom -- that it is as advantageous to the child as it is fair to the parent to refuse resentment a permanent standing. I shared this gem with Alfonso in my usual verbose manner, quoting Shakespeare once more as I raised my cup of Celestial Tea to his bottle of Old Kentucky: "Time's glory is to calm contending kings,/To unmask falsehood and bring truth to light,/To stamp the seal of time in aged things,/To wake the morn and sentinel the night,/To wrong the wronger till he render right,/To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours,/And smear with dust their glittering golden towers." As he has done before, Alfonso replied, "I drin' to that" and forthwith engaged in another swig. Interestingly, my editor reacted to the news of my pregnancy by saying, "If you ever have any grudges over your parents, you'll find that you'll lose them once you become a parent." I smiled, but did not inform my editor that the process had already started. Knowledge of my parents' sufferings may have sounded the starting bell but my psychological reconciliation was certainly accelerated by my recognition that anyone annointed by Edilberto and Edith Tiempo is worth the full measure of ungrudging respect. As someone who is barely a footnote in literary history with my two novels that failed to sell out their meager first printings and five poems published by journals in some of America's most obscure cities, I know that the Tiempos' body of work is not easy to achieve. Still, there are a few things that could improve in my life. I would like an easier and quicker birth for my novel-in-progress that has reached 350 pages without yet introducing the murder which is supposed to set in motion the events comprising the novel's primary concern. I have also discovered that it is not easy, despite the crowds of New York City, to make new friends even though Elena, the wife of one of Gerald's colleagues who became my obstetrician, is promising; at the recent Mount Sinai Hospital holiday party, I became sufficiently bold to introduce the subject of poetry, to which Elena grinned and replied with my favorite Sylvia Plath line, "The tulips are too excitable; it is winter here." In addition, I would like to know more about my mother's life with the Tiempos and those literary times in the Philippines. Nowadays, however, my mother would rather discuss such issues as names for my baby, whether Gerald and I should move to the suburbs and whether we should look for a financial advisor because Dad suggested starting a college fund to defray the hundreds of thousands of dollars expected to finance the baby's turn to attempt higher learning. Dad. My father, an inarticulate presence for much of my past, is now frequently on the phone, usually checking on my pregnancy's progress and reading snatches from the latest additions to his library, Preparing For Birth, Raising Your Spirited Child, Babyhood, Toilet Training Without Tears, Parachutes for Parents ("Parachutes?" I moaned but Dad ignored me and continued reading), What To Eat When You're Expecting, What to Expect in the Toddler Years and, naturally, Dr. Spock's Baby and Child Care. However, once, my father also said, "I am so proud of you." My father proved defenseless against my pregnancy. I still remember his phone call to me after having just shared the news of impending parenthood with my mother a few minutes earlier. I repeat again because I so relish the memory: he said, "I am so proud of you." In our subsequent conversations, my father also proved how much attention he actually has been devoting surreptitiously to the progress of my writing life. At one point, he quoted certain passages he had memorized from my books of long ago -- my tears from that phone call were like the waters rushing to swallow the landscape after ignited dynamite felled a dam's walls. Those tears also liquefied and flushed out a certain hardened pebble of feeling that had buried into and long afflicted my heart. On the far side of the phone, I knew my father was silently shedding his own tears, but I did not mind and, I know, neither did he. Finally, I know something else that I am saving as a surprise for my mother: if my baby is a girl, she will be named Edith; if a boy, Edilberto. More specifically, if it's a boy, we will nickname him "Ed" so that he won't ever be tortured by American playmates over Edilberto's illustrious but unusual moniker. Childhood and adolescence most assuredly will be fraught with enough turmoil, worries and angst sufficient to tear at and scar the heart. As a parent, I undoubtedly will be part of the source. THE END This article originally appeared in The Evening Times of Manila. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ | Home | Site Map | E-Mail us | All rights reserved. ©1998 ©1999 NewFilipina ©1998 ©1999 BagongPinay.