At the Mendocino Coast Writers Conference this year, I worked with Judith Barrington in her Memoir Group. Something she said resonated deeply with me:
Let your reader see your journey of discovery. You can move into scenes about what your journals revealed.
Part of my journey of storytelling always includes recognition that my ancestors' wisdom and guidance stay with me at all times. "Agtawid" was one of the pieces I workshopped last week.
Please let me know how you enjoy it. And welcome to my journey of discovery. (hi, Margit!)
Agtawid
Lessons from paternal grandparents-the Ilocano
side
In the summer of 1976, my
junior year in college, I moved into my paternal
grandparents’ house. I had been
awarded a scholarship to attend Osaka City University in Japan for two months.
But the program would not begin until July.
In a student’s world, the barely $1,500 remaining in my bank account
felt like an inheritance. Upon my return from Japan, it would be just enough to
cover the first month’s rent and a cleaning deposit for the apartment-
that-did-not-yet- exist. At that time
being able to stay with my grandparents was a life saver, financially. By the end of that summer, I would discover
that my short stay with them was more significantly, a life shaper.
I came to and from work,
flashing my Student Fast Pass on the 5 McAllister, transferring at 25th Avenue
to the #28 to the university and back.
In the evenings, together with Grandpa, Grandma, and the Uncles, the
five of us ate Filipino meals of pinacbet and steak; milkfish and cauliflower;
higado; salmon heads and spinach, with lots of hot rice. They gifted me with
comfort in my belly and fed culture to my spirit. From our mealtimes together, I inherited a
sense of belonging.
On Sunday mornings,
Grandma and I walked the four blocks uphill to St. Thomas the Apostle church
for 9:00 a.m. mass. We took a zigzag route, traversing her section of the
Richmond district, heading up 35th Avenue from her bright orange Victorian with
chocolate brown trim.
“Is my house pretty?”
She asked me this each
time walked down the stairs. Each time, arm-in-arm, we would turn and look up
at the house. “What do you think of the
color, Lisa-Tita?”
“Maybe go with a little
lighter color next time, Grandma- how about a warm butter yellow, with burnt
orange trim?”
She would squeeze my arm
and say, “My house is pretty, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Grandma, it’s
really a beautiful house.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really, Grandma,”
putting my hand over hers.
From her, I learned
about hard earned privilege to own a home. She and Grandpa had paid cash for
it. I learned about the discipline of
saving up money from their restaurant which my grandfather had claimed its name
was Malacañang
Palace after the Presidential palace in Manila, Philippines, but photos of the
storefront revealed otherwise. In reality, their restaurant was simply named 1550 Geary. I
realized their perseverance, working and saving money during an era when it wasn’t
easy for first generation Filipinos to earn enough money to buy a home. But in 1953, they had saved enough money to
pay cash for the house. During this one conversation with Grandma as we stood
looking at the house, I was allowed to see that her house, bright orange with
chocolate brown trim, was indeed beautiful beyond dispute.
“O-kay, let’s go to
church now,” she’d smile, satisfied.
Turning
left on Cabrillo, we walked two blocks to 37th, turned right, walking past Mrs.
Demando’s house. “I think she’s
home. We’ll go there after church and
look at her garden,” Grandma said each Sunday. But while we strolled the garden, what my
grandmother really wanted to do was to show off her granddaughter-in-college. Though I cannot speak Ilocano dialect, I could
always feel the pride in her words that I could understand, “Maestra ni Lisa idiay university.” (“Lisa is a teacher
at the university”).
Grandma liked to sit
near the back of St. Thomas the Apostle Catholic Church - on the left side,
next to the heater. The constant hissing
from the pipes reminded me how hot it was in the pews on this side. By the middle of the sermon, I’d be fanning
myself with whatever misalette booklet I could find, to keep from
fainting. I felt even hotter looking
sideways at my grandma, who always wore a wool coat, scarf around her neck, and
a bandana around her head. When the
baskets made their way down the aisle, she would carefully fold four dollar
bills – one from each of the uncles, and one from her and Grandpa, slide them
into a colored collection envelope, neatly lick it shut, and then hand it to
me.
“Drop it there in the
basket when it comes down the row,” she’d whisper, pointing toward it with her
lips.
After church, Grandma
and I took the 38 Geary to Cala Foods to buy groceries. When we returned home, she would write her
long division calculation directly on the receipt, dividing the cost four ways.
My grandparents and two unmarried great-uncles lived as housemates. When it came to day-to-day expenses, each
contributed equally to the household. Sliding the receipt showing her long
division calculations across the beige Formica table, she’d say to the uncles,
“Here’s the bill for the groceries. $15.74 divided by 4. Your share is $3.93.”
Uncle Anong would take the red Folger’s coffee can from on top of the
refrigerator and bring it to the table. Grandma would drop in her and Grandpa’s
share, $7.86 exactly. Grandma carried a
wallet but that wasn’t where she kept all her money. A recycled postal envelope placed in a secret
pocket inside her purse hid the paper money. Each of the uncles would add their
money to the can, taking out the exact change as needed. The balancing of the household expenses and
responsibilities was a ritual. Witnessing
their daily ritual with money, I eventually inherited mindfulness about the
value of hard-earned rewards of work.
The
time came for me to leave for Japan. With my last paycheck, I converted $500
into Traveler’s checks, took $100 in cash for transportation to the airport,
packed it deep into my backpack with my passport, the round trip plane ticket
from my scholarship sponsor, and my study itinerary. The next morning, as I
brought the suitcase down from my room, and threw the backpack over my
shoulder, Grandpa, Grandma, Uncle Anong, and Uncle Pepe walked me to the
door. Grandpa put one hand on my arm,
and held out a letter-sized envelope with the other.
“Here, Lisa. Something from all of us- your grandma,
me, Uncle Pepe, and Uncle Anong. During your studies in Japan, make it nice! We are proud of you!” He tapped the side of my head, nodding his
approval. Make It Nice. He always said that to us grandkids whenever
he wanted to encourage us to be our very best.
Looking at their faces
at the door, I suddenly felt apprehensive about leaving them for two months,
and blurted out something silly like “Wait for me to come back and we’ll go
grocery shopping together, okay?”
Grandpa’s answer provided reassurance. “Yes,
it’s okay. Go ahead now!”
He slid the envelope into my jacket pocket.
The airport shuttle bus
was crowded. I closed my eyes as we headed out on Fulton Street and through the
Golden Gate Park to get to 19th Avenue.
When we got onto the freeway, I opened the envelope. Inside was a stack of money. Holding it within the folds of my jacket, I
fingered through the bills, adding them up.
At first I was puzzled by the combination of bills and the random
amount.
$37.00.
All at once I pictured
the red Folger’s coffee can atop the refrigerator. I imagined the four of them-Grandma, Grandpa,
Uncle Pepe, and Uncle Anong- emptying out all the money and coins from the
coffee can onto the table. Money they
had collected from putting in their share of the groceries; calculating what
was still needed for household expenses; skimming some from what remained of
the money; adding in their pocket
change; converting the coins nicely into paper money; finally placing the resulting amount into an
envelope. For me.
How
deeply their gift symbolized their hard work, their high regard for Education-something
that had not been so easy to complete for themselves. How profoundly their gift
honored me, for their daily ritual with money and its value to their disciplined
life, carried an Energy which has continued to sustain my principles. A simple
white envelope, with dollars from my grandparents and great-uncles, each sheet
of money stacked up creating the floor on which I could plant my own feet so
firmly. $37.00. Agtawid. An Inheritance.
