In the Philippines, it is customary to trace someone’s foot onto a piece of paper, cut it out, then go shoe shopping without the shoeless person needing to come. I always found this practice bewildering. Why not bring the person along? How accurate can a paper cut-out be for finding footwear? But by and by, Ma did this for the family, and the shoes always fit perfectly.
The same goes for Filipinos and shopping for pants. Why try them on when you can simply wrap the waist of the desired slacks around your neck? Why bother reading the sizing label on a stack of socks when you can wrap the socks around your fist?
It was only when I found the Ziploc bag containing the tracings of my father’s feet that I felt his absence. The same indelible ink used to label the bag “Pa’s shoes, Florsheim, size 10” was used to make the palimpsest that was no longer Daddy. A shadow of a shadow of a shadow of a whisper.
My tears were finally unleashed in the dramatic fashion of Filipino mourning, like lacerating a boil so the infection could heal.
I remember as a young child watching, for the first time, the novena being recited in honour of my uncle’s death. The repetition, the sorrow expressed in every rosary bead, the pouty-faced Mother Marys at every turn of the page in the novena prayer book were enough to make one wail. And that was the point. Just short of screaming at the deceased, we were, as a community, telling Tito Ferdie to leave us. Leave us behind, look forward into God’s embrace, and walk. Walk far away from us. Even though, in our hearts, we wanted the person to be alive, we knew that if we didn’t encourage the spirit to pass into the afterlife, it would linger, and it would worry about us.
So I cried. I cried until my cries turned to wails. The louder, the better. Go, Daddy. Go and walk. To the other side where you will feel better. It felt right to treat his parting like a death. It was the death of everything I knew.
I admit to having fleeting fantasies of becoming the first Filipino country music star. This is, of course, second to my fantasy of becoming a saint. But since Ma informed me one has to be dead to become a saint, a country music star seems to be the best bet.
In my kamiseta and underwear, in front of the washroom mirror, my dream comes true. Under the glow of the overhead lighting, I sing the lyrics to the song that my daddy would hear. His son. No longer chubby and ugly, but handsome and thin.
He is sitting in a bar, having recovered from being mentally ill, now earning an honest wage and looking with honest regret at his past and everything he had done to us. Then, on the bar’s television screen, I appear, his handsome and thin son Bing, now known by his stage name, Boy Delacruz, singing to his long-lost father.
The camera catches a glimpse, underneath my Stetson hat, of my misty eyes. The quivering lip behind my adult stubble. I speak, my voice low and sombre: “This one, this song is special. It goes out to my daddy. Wherever you are.”
My daddy almost loses his balance as he stands up from the bar stool.
“That’s my son! That’s my son! And he’s so handsome and thin!” And then I sing.
We’ll leave the light on outside our home
So in the darkest nights you’ll know you’re not alone
We’ll leave the light on outside our door
Daddy, that’s what family’s for.
The sighting, of course, leads to our reunion. The reunion leads to our doing the things we always did before: food court meals, ice cream trucks, see-saws.
It is a splendid fantasy, complete with American Idol judge remarks, love affairs, unwanted paparazzi, you name it.
But another fantasy is brewing. And it makes me think I am abandoning my daddy each time I imagine it.
It was Halloween, and Ma compromised on my costume.
“It’s too cold to be a saint.” She explained about Canadian cold, which was two-years new to me.
So she allowed me to be a priest. It was cheap: one piece of white masking tape on my black turtleneck. It was warm: black fleece pants and an oversized overcoat, making me look like a plush version of a missionary. She used Dippity-do to slick my hair to the side and drew a moustache and beard on my face with her eyeliner.
“Now your name is Father Bernard.” Ma smell-kissed my forehead and handed me my lunch.
I took the lunch bag full of stinky, half-warm chicken adobo and rice, both of us laughing in our apartment hallway. “Saint Bernard!”
Ma’s finishing touch for my costume were my props. A black paper-covered notebook to look like a bible. A sleeve of haw flakes, to play communion.
Before bell at the literacy centre, I told Sylvie to line up. Ma helped me open the haw flakes, then ceremoniously gave them to me. “Sige na, go play,” she said with a smile and simultaneous roll of her eyes.
I got a good whiff of the Asian market’s fishy smell still on the paper sleeve; the flakes themselves were a hybrid scent of raisins and brown sugar.
I held one round flake in my hand between finger and thumb.
“Body of Christ.”
Sylvie stared at me, perplexed.
“That’s when you say ‘Amen.’”
“Ohhh ...” she said.
I instructed her to keep her arms folded in front of her and to stick her tongue out so I could place the “communion wafer” on it. She obliged in fits of giggles. Then she stepped aside and behind her was Laura, the girl from my building, dressed in a fairy costume.
“Can I have some?”
“Sure. Stick your tongue out.”
Round and round they walked in a rotating line, until almost all of my haw flakes were finished. I made sure I took a wafer after every repetition. I knew priests did not do this. They served communion after eating only one wafer themselves, but the haw flakes were so yummy, I couldn’t help it.
“Where did all the Jesus go?” Laura said.
“It’s finished,” I said, scrunching the sleeve before putting it into the garbage bin beside mountains of Halloween chocolate bar wrappers.
Just before the bell rang for us to head to class, Sylvie’s mom pulled out a red lipstick to make Sylvie look like a Raggedy Ann doll. Her mom had managed to find an apron and had tied Sylvie’s hair into two braids. The final touch was the makeup. Her mom sat down and pulled her in and wrapped her legs around Sylvie to keep her from moving while she drew circles on her cheeks, then smudged them into a garish blush.
“You want some too?” I thought Sylvie’s mom was talking to me, and as I stepped forward, Laura passed me.
“Sure!” Laura replied. Laura got the full glam treatment. Since she was a fairy, she got both rosy cheeks and ruby red lips.
“All you need is lipstick!” Sylvie’s mom giggled. She shook her head at the sight of the two girls. “Goddamn it, my lipstick is almost all used up. You both look like tramps.”
I was suddenly sad, feeling the grease of the painted-on beard. I wanted lipstick, too.
The weight of my mother’s arm sloped across my shoulders. It was firm. A fence. I knew she had seen me take a step forward when the lipstick was offered. Her downwards gaze at me made me feel so ashamed. Then, to my surprise, she bent down, kissed me on the forehead, and whispered in my ear. “Not here.”
She knew. The pairs of heels that were out of place in her closet. The worn-down lipstick. The dresses hanging lopsided on their hangers.
I looked up and saw her smiling at me, tears welling in her eyes. “Another time. Not here.”
DAILY REPORT
October 31, 2011
Facilitator: Hina Hassani
Location: Rouge Hill Public School
Attendance:
Parent/Guardian/Caregiver |
Children (one per line please) |
Cory Mitkowski |
Laura Mitkowski |
Edna Espiritu |
Bernard Espiritu |
Helen McKay |
Finnegan Everson Liam Williams Sebastian Dennis Chloe Smith |
Fern Donahue |
Paulo Sanchez Kyle Keegan |
Marie Beaudoin |
Sylvie Beaudoin Johnny Beaudoin |
Lily Chan |
Jennifer Chan Aiden Chan |
Yanna Knowles |
Reese Knowles |
Sonia DiSorono |
Luka DiSorono |
Anna Maria De Souza |
Winston Dunst Benjamin Tate Paula Santiago |
Pamela Roy |
Evan Roy Yanna Roy Tasha Roy |
Notes:
Halloween was a blast despite the rain. Lots of kiddos in cute costumes. The Chan family had them in matching dim sum outfits. Each kid had a hat with pork buns. So adorable! We made some pretzels shaped in the letters spelling “Halloween.” Not that the kids knew. They ate the letters before we could even decorate them. Oh well.
Mrs Rhodes has been included in our conversation around Bing and his possible giftedness designation. I have forwarded them my thoughts for his assessment and will support his mother, Edna, through this possible transition and her decision making. He comes to me for extra work since, he tells me, he’s not challenged enough in Mrs Finnegan’s class. I usually give him story writing prompts, which he hands me the next day with ease. Today, though, he and Sylvie asked to make friendship bracelets. I gave them two colours of yarn, and they went to work. What was amazing is that they noticed Laura watching from the side, and they let her join in. It was lovely to watch. All of this strategizing around Laura, and she integrated herself into the group.
Weekly supplies requested:
2% milk |
three bags, please |
Cheerios |
one box |
Shreddies |
one box |
apples |
one bag |
bananas |
two bunches |