Magdaragat, p.19
Magdaragat, page 19
Why not start a real conversation?
(turning to the Busker)
Why couldn’t you have said something along the lines of —
Busker. (puts down the guitar)
Ahh, you’re Filipino? I had a Filipino co-worker at my last job. He brought pancit and lumpia to our work potluck. They tasted amazing. Can you recommend a Filipino restaurant?
She smiles at him genuinely.
The Busker picks up the guitar and the eager look on his face returns.
The Woman sighs and drops her smile.
Woman. (to audience)
But no, I have to respond to the shouting of random Filipino dishes.
(to Busker)
That’s … nice.
Where are you from?
Busker. (proudly) Nova Scotia.
Woman. Ahh … (thinking of a Nova Scotian dish) The Donair.
Busker. That’s right! I love Donair!
Woman. (to audience)
He says where he’s from so proudly because he is never asked The Question. He answers with pride because that’s the place where he was born and the place where he grew up. No doubts. No questions. Everyone believes him the first time he answers.
I’m rarely given the privilege of being believed.
She puts down the grocery bags.
A few weeks ago at work, all of the managers were introduced to the new Director of our unit. We started off great but as I walked him back to his office …
The Woman shakes hands with her new Director.
Director. Great to meet you, and thank you for making me feel so welcome. By the way, where are you from?
WOMAN. Winnipeg, sir.
Director. Oh, sorry, that’s not what I meant. Where are you from originally?
Woman. (smiling politely)
I was born in Winnipeg.
Sir.
The Woman picks up the grocery bags and steps away.
(to audience)
But what else could I do? What could I say?
She closes her eyes.
I needed to be home. I needed to be with my family.
The Woman puts down the bags.
I have two sons, five and ten years old. They’re mestizo, Eastern European and Filipino, the perfect fusion of my husband and I in every way. I looked at my five-year-old as he played with his toy cars. I see my dark hair and his father’s straight nose, my almond eyes and his father’s eyelids. I needed to know.
(to five-year-old)
Jamie, come here.
Jamie stands in front of her. She takes his hand.
Woman. Have you ever been asked the question, “Where are you from?”
The boy nods.
She takes a breath.
Woman. What do you say?
Jamie. I’m from Canada.
She smiles and touches his face.
Woman. That’s right, honey. You’re from Canada, born in the same hospital where I was born, in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. Can you do me a favour and get your brother?
Jamie. Okay.
(calling out) Gerald! Mommy wants you!
He runs out.
Gerald enters sulkily.
Gerald. I’m in the middle of a game.
Woman. I just have a quick question, honey.
Have you ever been asked the question, “Where are you from?”
Gerald shrugs.
Woman. How do you answer?
Gerald. (shrugging) I dunno.
Woman. (sterner) Gerald, how do you answer the question, “Where are you from?”
She takes his hand.
You can tell me.
Gerald. The Philippines.
Woman. What?! The Philippines? Why do you say the Philippines?
Gerald. (stepping back)
Because that’s what they want to know.
Woman. Why do you say you’re from the Philippines? You were born here. I was born here. My parents have been here over forty years. Daddy was born here. His parents were born here! Their parents were born here! And one of their parents was born in Poland. You are not from the Philippines!
Gerald. I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m sorry.
Woman. No, honey! I’m sorry for yelling.
She hugs him.
Gerald. I thought that’s what it means.
She pulls away and looks at him.
Woman. That’s not what it means.
I’m so sorry. I’m not mad at you.
She looks down at their hands.
I’m not mad at you.
She lets go and Gerald walks away.
I’m not mad at you.
She looks up at the audience, scanning the people in front of her.
She turns and glares at the Busker with seething anger.
Woman. I’m mad at them.
She directs her anger at the Busker, circling him.
I’m mad that my ten-year-old has been asked the question enough times to know that it doesn’t matter that he’s half-white or that he’s second-generation Canadian.
I’m mad that he knows he is viewed as an outsider.
I’m mad because those words mean one thing when you are white and another thing when you are brown.
She turns to the audience.
Where. Are. You. From.
She turns to the Busker, picking up her bags, turning to leave.
Busker. (jovial) Since you’re Filipino, I wanted to play you something.
The Busker starts to play the chords to “Bahay Kubo,” a children’s song from the Philippines. He sings “Da da, da da” for the melody. He keeps playing the same verse over and over again (three chords).
The Woman turns to him slowly and is taken aback as she hears the song. She listens for a moment. Her anger trickles out of her as she stares at him.
Woman. (to audience but looking at Busker)
“Bahay Kubo …” It’s a song from the Philippines. My mother used to sing it to me. She had a beautiful voice.
(singing along with the melody) Bahay Kubo, kahit munti …
It means Little House … And a garden. It’s about a little house and the vegetables that grow in the garden. I remember singing the song with her. I remember speaking the same language.
(singing along with the melody) Bahay Kubo, kahit munti …
She closes her eyes for a moment.
My mother died two years ago. I would give anything to hear her sing to me again.
She circles him, her eyes fixated on him as she speaks.
If I wasn’t so wound up from the stupid, ignorant, racist question he used to get my attention, I probably would’ve given him a loonie, a toonie, maybe all the money in my purse for a memory I hadn’t thought of in years, maybe decades.
How did he learn this song? Who taught him the melody? A friend? A lover?
(singing along with the melody) Bahay Kubo, kahit munti …
We bought Gerald a ukulele last year for his birthday. After three days, he never touched it again. If this man could teach Gerald the song, I would give him money. I would give him my jewellery. I would tell him about the fantastic Donair place in St. Vital. I would do anything to share this song with my children so that someday they can share the song with their children.
(singing along with the melody) Bahay Kubo, kahit munti …
Why? Why did you have to ask me those words? Why couldn’t you just say —
Busker. (stops playing, speaking politely)
Excuse me, Miss, I am so sorry to disturb you. I’m just curious, are you Filipino? You don’t have to answer, of course, but if you are Filipino, and even if you’re not, I have a song that I think you’d enjoy.
The Busker starts playing an exaggerated version of “Bahay Kubo” again, badly singing the lyrics of the song.
She steps back into her original position. Defeated.
Woman. (to Busker, angrily) HEY!
He stops playing.
Next time, if you want to know someone’s ethnicity, you should just ask.
Racist asshole.
The Woman walks away in frustration.
The Busker is confused, oblivious to her anger. He shrugs it off.
He nods and smiles at an unseen person passing by.
Busker. Hey! Where are you from?
Jamaica? Hey mon! I love doubles and beef patties!
The Busker starts to play a set of syncopated reggae chords.
He smiles as the unseen person drops money into his case.
Yeah! Thank you, mon! We be jammin’!
He continues to play the song.
Lights fade out.
Where. Are. You. From. was commissioned by Royal Manitoba Theatre Centre and produced as part of Tiny Plays, Big Ideas, a virtual festival featuring four short plays exploring the theme of human rights. The original creative production team included Audrey Dwyer as dramaturge, Hazel Venzon as director, and starred Rochelle Kives & Rob Patterson.
Jim Agapito
Punk As F*ck
I was asked to speak at the FAB 5 conference for the Manitoba Teachers’ Society. The conference is geared toward teachers in their first five years of teaching. It was fitting — they were starting their careers as teachers and I was starting my career in radio. The following is my keynote address and what I came up with.
My name is Jim Agapito.
I’m a Filipino-Canadian from the north end of Winnipeg. I spent the early part of my life living in a duplex with my entire family. I had two grandmas, two grandpas, five uncles, five aunts, three cousins, one brother, and a mom and dad all living in one home. To this day, I eat fast. Why? Cause if I ever wanted seconds from a meal, I had to make sure I could beat everyone, cause kids always ate first.
My aunts listen to pop and my uncles listen to rap — but there was always one uncle, my Tito Bong, who was into rock. He was the coolest. I don’t know what it’s like in other cultures, but Filipinos always have this wild and crazy party uncle. Mine was my Tito Bong.
So why am I mentioning this? Well, it has a lot to do with my personality and my unique perspective on life. My talk today is about diversity. I promise I’m gonna go the hella long way around about it. But I promise you’ll get a kick out of it.
I went to a private Polish Catholic School for Filipinos. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s true. I know what you’re thinking. We teach in public schools. What the hell does this have to do with us? Well, the truth is, it has to do with diversity.
How many people here went to Holy Ghost School? I went to school back when they still gave the student the strap. Now I never got the strap. I did, however, have nuns smack the hell out of my hand when I was being bad.
It’s not something I completely understood, and it’s also something that never bothered me. Now I’m not saying it’s something I approve of, but I guess it’s something my parents were used to in the old country, so they had no problem with it. Yikes! (The truth is the nuns loved me.)
But I was one of those hyperactive little kids that was always goofing around. The truth is, I would be diagnosed with ADHD. How many people here teach young hyper children? Here’s my advice to you: give them a lot of love.
My poor mother, Yolanda, once asked the doctor to give my older brother Mark and I meds to chill us out. The truth is, after one day of being on meds, my mom said we weren’t the bundles of joy (or intensity) she was used to, so she just let us act like bundles of energy trapped in a jar with the lid slightly off. So amazing.
Growing up in school, all the kids played basketball. I don’t know what it’s like in other cultures, but playing basketball is one rite-of-passage thing Filipino kids did. It’s one of those things that your family watched you play, that you watched during playoff time, and that your titos and titas, meaning aunts and uncles, told you you stunk at if you were no good.
My mom was super protective of both my brother and me growing up. When we moved out of the north end and into the Maples, basketball was the one thing I was allowed to do. You see, my mom, like so many Filipino moms during that time, was hyper protective of her children. If Yolanda couldn’t see me playing ball in front of the house with my older brother, I wasn’t going out. My mom was always worried something was gonna happen to her little Jimmy Boy.
For a long time, my best friend in the neighbourhood was white. This was a super big deal for me. For the first seven years of my life, I was surrounded by Filipinos. No diversity there. Being friends with Derek gave me little glimpses into what it was like not to be Filipino. One of my best memories was surprising Derek with the kind of breakfast we Filipinos ate. It is composed of eggs, beef, or longanisa (which is Filipino cured sausage) and rice.
Filipino breakfasts are huge. You always feel a little bit of carb shock. So seeing Derek having nothing but cereal in the morning was super weird. He was always stoked to come over and have breakfast with us. I was always excited to have cereal when I could. It wasn’t until years later that I learned why this is a thing.
Traditionally, Filipinos don’t put cold things in their stomachs first thing in the morning. My mom convinced herself that I hated cold cereal. Truth be told, it’s because she never let me have it.
At age ten, these were the first inklings that I might be different from other people.
For example, Filipinos love sugar. Sugar is in everything. Heck, even our spaghetti, which I detest and nearly gets me thrown out of the culture, is on the sweet side. Why? Because of colonialism. Here’s a quick history lesson. The Spanish colonized us. Then the Americans. The Americans decided to take our sugar, refine it, and, after decades of buying it from us, said they didn’t want it anymore. Instead, they flooded the market with it, and then, when we got desperate, they got big business to come and buy it from us cheaply. Oh yeah, and because we had so much of it around, we would use it in everything.
And that’s my first lesson on diversity for y’all. I don’t know what it’s like now for you teachers. You’ve got the Internet, so kids probably Google stuff all the time. But for a wide-eyed, ten-year-old Filipino, I never realized that we were different. This was what my family ate, so I thought that this was what everyone else ate.
When I discovered that they didn’t, I tripped out. It led me to more questions. Questions I asked my mom. Questions she had no answer for.
It wasn’t until I went to another private school in grade nine that I really discovered that I was different.
I went to an all-boys Catholic school on the opposite side of town. It was so far that it was a two-hour bus ride back and forth. There were so many weird new things for me to get used to — not only was I not around girls, but kids were coming to school in BMWs and, sometimes, even their own cars!
I came from a working-class family. My dad worked nights for CN. He always made sure to drop me every morning at school. Up until grade ten, my dad drove an ’81 Ford Mustang. It was a shit box. It was covered in Urban Camo, meaning it was partly rusted out. On the very rare occasion when my mom would drive me, I came in a ’81 Caprice station wagon! Yes, it had the fake wood panelling on it!
Some of the rich white kids made fun of me. It is the first time I experienced racism. They used to say awful things like, “Your parents couldn’t clean enough rooms for a new car?” or “Did the nursing gig not pay enough for a new car?” It used to bum me out. It also got me into a lot of fights.
Now we Filipinos love food. We have an obsession with food and making sure we always have enough. What some of you call dinner, we call an appetizer. More on this later.
When you’re in the cafeteria and all your friends are buying lunches and stuff, you feel a little awkward carrying around a giant-assed piece of Tupperware with yesterday’s leftovers. Some of it was delicious food that my parents prepared that we didn’t want to go to waste. But imagine taking that out and some kid saying, “What the fuck is that?”
I felt sad that my mom carefully double packed something that I thought was a piece of heaven, but what others said smelled and looked funny.
That gave me a horrible complex. That’s when I begged my mom to buy me pizza pops and crappy sandwiches. I just wanted to fit in more. And boy did it suck.
I think my parents sensed something was up. They could tell that I was awkwardly asking to get dropped off closer to the school bell. So they did the unimaginable. They let me blast the most profane gangsta rap you could imagine rolling up.
And I mean real gangster shit. Like, I was playing Wu-Tang Clan’s Enter the 36 Chambers and Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s “Brooklyn Zoo.” It was the bomb, and it wasn’t like I was coming in quiet. My parents let me blast it as loud as I could.
My parents didn’t want me to feel different. They wanted me to fit in, and that truly led to a bunch of issues I have now.
For starters, my parents never forced me to learn the language. Other than the swears, I didn’t know much. I could kinda fake understanding based on inflection, but really, I never spoke it at all. Which also kinda sucked cause you know family members were judging you when they stared, smiled at you, and talked in Tagalog.
Secondly, I was never forced to eat Filipino food. I am allergic to seafood. Imagine growing up in a Filipino household where fish and shellfish were in everything. My family, to this day, has a hard time believing that a Filipino can have allergies to those staples. It’s come to a point where they’ve tested my “hate for it” by putting trace amounts into everything. The moment my lip gets swollen or my eyes start closing is when they believe something is changing with young Jimmy Boy. But it didn’t stop them. It’s only recently that they’ve started taking this seriously.
