This is a story about a girl in a
family.
Overall she lived
a quite pleasant, quiet, quite quiet childhood. Her parents
would be there when she woke up and when she went to bed, and
her siblings would be there before she went to school and
after she came back.
There were
certain simple unerasable memories, each with a soft hue, a
colder atmosphere of when they were in another place. A casual
remark was once made at how one day she would forget these
memories. So every once in awhile she would go through the
images, taking them out of eternity, making sure they were
imprinted in her mind.
The ones that are
easily retrieved are the unhappy or strange ones. Pulling a
toy dog on a leash at the top of the stairs, getting tangled
in the leash, falling down the stairs. Digging in the front
yard with her baby brother, as he spits out a mouthful of
dirt. Putting her favorite nightgown in a lamp (it made sense
at the time); saddened when it was burned. Staying home from
school only because her siblings were sick as her parents
teased her for skipping; the kindergarten teacher strict the
next day. Closing the closet door on her hand, followed by
tears, followed by her mom asking if she was pinched, except
using the Taglog word.
The ones that are
harder to find are more valuable. Setting up chairs in a line
in the dining room, crawling underneath them with her sister,
who was still in diapers. Her mother sitting next to her as
she ate Cherrios and milk out of a huge glass bowl. Tickling
her infant brother’s tummy when she first met him, on that
snowy snowy day. Her father taking her to nursery school,
running with her across the wooden bridge. A silly dream of
her mother taking her to a store to buy clothes then to a
restaurant to eat steak, only to be awoken by the fact that
she physically sat up as her mom requested in the dream.
Twirling in her nightgown in the middle of the living room.
Her sister in a high chair, giggling, as she parades around
the chair, each time with a different expression on her face.
Putting a toy card in her dad’s pocket as he leaves to work,
and seeing the bemused expression on his face when he comes
back from the hospital, wondering about the toy. Her brother
playing quietly with toy cars sprawled on the hardwood floor.
Her mom creating bridges out of string. She and her siblings
recording their voices on tape, playing them back, listening,
laughing. Watching her parents getting piano lessons; teaching
her brother the train song, a piece played on the black notes
of the piano. Her mom explaining that she used to just dream
in Tagalog, now dreams in Tagalog and English. Standing on a
chair in a fast food restaurant, attempting to spell the word
“lemonade” using phonetics. Giving her brother toasted bread
with syrup on top when he was sick.
As time passed,
she began to do different things, make different memories,
think different thoughts. But always, always, her parents
would be there when she woke up and when she went to bed, and
her siblings would be there before she went to school and
after she came back. Sometimes, her siblings would see her at
school as well.
She was in the
school cafeteria about to return to class, and over at a
nearby table her sister sat, smiled, waved, called out to her:
Ate. Tagalog for “older sister”. Her friends nearby
giggled, confused. She read a report about her brother; a
teacher, impressed with his jumping rope, not jump roping. A
change from the days of cute words like agee.
A new adventure at night
would be to get lost in words, stories, words written by other
people, stories about other people. During the day, the eyes
fell into the encyclopedia. It had pictures. Pictures were
easier to see in sunlight. She was on the letter
“F.”
Here, look.
Family. A group of persons united by ties, constituting a
household and interacting with each other in their respective
positions.
A strange
definition, she thought, with very strict rules. She became
determined not to let such clichés come true for herself.
The household
interaction was sometimes nice. And sometimes not. There were
yelling fights, complete with slammed doors, angry faces,
splashed water, tears. There were quiet fights, with no words,
closed doors, hurt feelings, unsaid apologies, developing
grudges. There were accidents, sicknesses, deaths.
But then there
were births, improving health, kismets. There were trips to
foreign places, trips to nearby places, going pashal –
a word she associated with journeying somewhere special, which
literally meant simply going somewhere. But perhaps every
journey is special. On a plane, a passenger getting a
heart-attack, a call over the PA system asking is there a
doctor on board, her father getting up, a concerned look on
his face, and soon returning as calm as he left. An expedition
in France led to hours lost in the Metro, multiple pizzas with
egg on top, being the little family on a tour bus filled with
couples and retirees. An expedition to Florida led to hours
lost stuck together in a van, silly movies memorized line for
line, stares from small-town people in a barbeque restaurant,
relaxing at the beach, exploring the new rides (and new lines)
at Disney World. Coming home late at night, half-asleep in the
back of the van, drowsy from bubblegum games with the blanket,
a bump as they enter the driveway, her dad turning off the
engine and quietly declaring, “We’re home.”
And there were
happenings at home. Waking up in the middle of the night to
the sounds of her mom playing Pac-Man on the Atari; her mom
turning to her and saying “shh, go to sleep” with a caught
smile. Later, the hand-held video camera replaced the old
school microphone and cassette tapes. The imaginative
lip-synched musicals set in the form of music videos were
finally recorded. The 8-track player provided Linda Ronstadt,
Donna Summers, other eighties music. Mozart’s Queen of the
Night Aria became a story of children playing on the beach and
encountering a monster underwater. These were the supposed
improvements over old-school heavy videotaped movements of
younger forms dancing on an artsy round glass table or on a
Dutch-based fireplace; little figures dancing, painting,
singing, rolling, reciting, pinching in disarray.
And the third
home, another physical location, the office. Her mother
checked in patients, her father checked on patients. In the
older office they drew on the walls, blue point pen images of
faces, stick people, games, tee-pees. In the new office they
had their own room, complete with a strange couch-chair,
sample medicine mini-drawers, and a dwarf closet. There they
would play with old magazines, blown up surgical gloves,
tongue depressants; later they would watch their mother typing
and wonder loudly when they were going home. But first, her
father would check her sister’s ear, her brother’s skin. And
then: arrange the rooms, organize the magazines, lock doors,
close lights. Leave.
As a result of
time, or maybe of technology, the memories became sharper.
Vivid images, complete with surround sound.
This was
ameliorated by a physical change of home, an uprooting for
more personal space. The children were now young adults, who
needed time to cocoon, needed space to blossom. The family
timeline was given a mark.
The girl
continued to grow up in a very closed society, or was it
close-minded? Anyway, it was a society, and one of those
military high-prestige debutante cotillion societies at that.
Everywhere she went, shoes were polished, backs were straight,
speech was drawled. People were friendly to the face and
hateful behind the back. The sun was hot in the summer and the
sun was cold in the winter.
Such extremes led
to a lot of time spent alone, attempting maturity. Her brother
would drop off his books after school and run downstairs to
play concertos; her sister would go to the basement to
complete her painting; she herself would snap the computer on
and begin writing, or playing a game, or programming.
Sometimes ideas
combined between the siblings. A meld between instrumental
music, vocal music, art, and dance—the graceful movements
hands, fingers, arms accompanying a voice and piano. Her
brother always striving to include everyone; her sister always
serene. But these were precious rare incidences, pushed by an
outside event.
The lucky times
they were together were solid, reliable. An example: her
mother patiently waiting to pick them up after school and
various activities. Small talk in the van as talk show
television sounds create background noise. A look back at all
of us, asking us what we wanted: a stop at McDonalds, at
Chick-fil-a, at Arby’s, at the grocery store, at the mall, at
Blockbuster.
Even those
repeated ones around the dinner table, after being pulled down
by the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen, eagerly
reminiscing on certain memories, persisting with unending
questions, giggling at past actions—even these meta-memories
were memorable.
The scenes,
simple. The importance, infinite.
She moved away to
go to college. One by one, the rest of her siblings did too.
The household grew emptier, room by room. The definition of
family faltered.
At that time, her
parents were not there when she woke up and when she went to
bed. Her siblings were not there before she went to school and
after she came back. There was a quietness. Something new,
something different. Home no longer existed as a central
location; there was a displacement.
She wondered if
any of them understood what it was all about. If any of it was
worth it in the end. Or during. Why did the painful memories
stand out more? And, how could she get rid of them in order to
move on, to simply have the good memories. And to the oddest
question, did these memories actually happen?
The worldly,
philosophical questions—and answers—were in books, she
thought. She read. And read. It was a pastime, an escape, a
passion. A new perspective at every angle. Big, important
questions with big, important answers. The deeper she dug,
though, the more questions she had. The cliché had come true.
There was no end
to the search, she realized. The end is the search. The answer
is the search. But the answer did not have to be attained
through this manner of searching. Instead of the cold, dry
connection with books and papers, she could instead search
through the warm, reciprocal relationships with people, with
family. It wasn’t who or what you bonded with, but
how you bonded together.
And perhaps it
was a good time to come to a conclusion. She was concerned
about her siblings. One was despondent, not yet knowing that
the path out included acceptance, allowance for mistakes and
challenges. Another was distant, difficult to reach, and
gradually becoming so, whether of her own volition or not.
They were never (rarely) altogether at the same time. There
were combinations, permutations, variations. And always,
always they were busy, busier than before. There was no time
left: no time to ride tricycles in the driveway, no time to
stick their tongues out at each other, no time to adventure in
the garden and slide down the hill, no time to strike a silly
pose for a photo, no time for mom to call everyone in for
dinner, no time to giggle at the kitchen table, no time to
turn the plates as dad drove off to work, no time to complain
about doing the dishes, no time for the siblings to annoy each
other while finishing their homework, no time to sneak
upstairs late at night and still see her sister’s light on,
doing schoolwork with her dad.
Instead, her dad
would work late into the night, completely and consistently
stable hours. She couldn’t reach her brother, who was always
studying, working, in the library, in class. Her sister was
busy with many projects as well, and would only be available
for a quick hello. Her mother, with a new and exciting job,
was hardly reachable, always traveling. And she herself was
working until sunrise, or dancing until sunrise, or sleeping
until sunrise. It was always something at sunrise.
So though
each individual had patterns, the patterns did not interact in
a consistent locale.
They were
not in her life anymore.
Or were
they?
It turned
out: the encyclopedia definition was correct, if she opened it
up to interpretation. The household became the world:
A call from her
work phone would easily reach her father, who was either doing
the crossword puzzle, riding the exercise bike, reading the
news, helping a patient. But naturally, whenever she asked
what he was doing, he always responded “Nothing.” An email
from her brother, questioning paths, or calling to ask about
the performance schedule. A call to a cell phone reached her
mother, who would expertly advise about plane flights. A pager
message from her sister and father at least once a day,
telling about the most trivial (and most funny) of events, or
asking the most trivial (and most funny) questions. And of
course, the important coming together on holidays, on
graduations, on vacations, for a special anniversary.
But it was more
than that.
She would look at
the sweet pastries in Little Italy, with their green coconut
sprinkles and swirling shaped cream and delicate ladyfingers
and candied nuts; the pastries turn into memories of her mom
shaking her head at her father’s sweet tooth. At her voice
lesson, striving again and again to perfect the tone, the
accuracy, the rhythm, and brought back to seeing her brother
at the piano, a look of intense concentration, a of constant
movement towards perfection. A sudden need to stay up late,
sweep the floor, organize her bookcase, and then mix garlic
with vinegar in a saucer returns the same images of her mother
doing the same. Smiling joyfully at pet dogs causes her to
remember her young sister’s shining face when they first got a
puppy. A man passing by exclaims “A-la!”, which causes a
smile: dinnertime, her and her mom laughing uncontrollably,
and her dad saying “A-la!”
And then she
knew. Had another cliché come true? She found out what she had
known all along.
Her parents would
always be there when she woke up and when she went to bed, and
her siblings would always be there before she went to work and
after she came back.
And now, they are
even there during work, while she’s asleep, all the time.
--jmfe