| After Mass, we drive to Josephine�s Water Camp and Restaurant, the water park/restaurant/fishing spot/hotel where the party will be held later that night. Filipinos have an odd way of combining things that should be separate, or rather, would be separate in America. The mall near my uncle�s house has a grocery store and a bowling alley inside. We check into our respective rooms and then have lunch in three bahay kubos (huts) on the water. It seems that fried fish and fried chicken are staples in the Philippines. Fatten the Americans up, so we can eat them too. There are people starving over in the poorer districts. Call me paranoid. When my cousins finish eating and start fishing, my mother decides to deny my own fun. �Take Grandma and go to room 103 to get your hair and makeup fixed.� Yes, ma�am. Grandma and I wait bored out of our minds in room 103. She tells me stories about when she was a child and tells me not to find a boyfriend and get myself pregnant -- 20 percent humor, 80 percent urgent seriousness. Heh � I love her. Finally, two overtly gay Filipino men enter carrying an arsenal of beauty supplies. I�m scared. They brush, pull, pin, spray, tweeze, elongate, accentuate, smooth and color. I cringe, moan, grimace, whine and occasionally force a smile. When they�re through and I look like a supermodel (hardly), I squeeze my way through a crowd of aunts and cousins awaiting their own torture, which I�m sure they don�t see as such. I make my way to room 210, my family�s room, and carefully undress, trying desperately not to spoil my new face and coiffure. Heaven forbid midnight would come early for Cinderella. I slide into the yellow satin, white lace number that was made just for this occasion. Each of Grandma�s nine children picked a color motif for their families, which would then be exposed on the customized gowns (all with white lace sheaths, of course) and undershirts for the barong tagalogs (a sheer, white long-sleeved shirt with an embroidered design; the Filipino tux) the men would wear. Mom picked lemon yellow. Hmph. There�s something innately repulsive about girlyness, which I reaffirm after looking in the mirror. I wedge my size 8 feet into size 7 � heels and painfully make my way back downstairs when my family finishes dressing. My brother, sister and I decide to take the ride offered to us to the restaurant. �Hmm � Five hundred people are supposed to fit in here, eh?� The place is entirely too small for the number of people the grown-ups are estimating will come. �Oh, don�t worry,� Mom says, �They�re going to set some tables up outside on the deck.� Ha. Three hundred people will sit out on the surrounding deck, hmm? I wouldn�t be surprised if this place fell into the water, which would of course turn a palette of colors from all of the makeup everyone is wearing. The party starts and people start arriving fashionably late. I�m introduced to a plethora of people whose names I know I will not remember in five minutes. I flash them a million-dollar smile and act as if I�m so glad to see them, because uh � I met them when I was two years old and have missed them ever since. I detest this bogusness. All of my relatives and I retreat into another part of the restaurant on the photographer�s request for pictures. We�re divided into every categorization possible: each immediate family, each immediate family with Grandma, all of Grandma�s daughters, all of her sons, all of her sons and daughters, all of the girl grandchildren, all of the boy grandchildren, all of the grandchildren, everyone who had chicken pox before the age of five, everyone who now wears dentures. I think they�re just seeing how many they can take before we all go blind. �Say cheese!� Cheese. We return to the party hall and even more guests. The place is packed, and the deck almost is too. We make our way to the foyer and the program starts. OJ, the conquering choreographer (he started as the choreographer of a folk dance and eventually made himself the host of the party), introduces each family and its members in turn over the mic, in order of rank. The parents sit at the head table, the children sit at two reserved tables near the head. Last to be introduced was Grandma, in full attire, escorted by Uncle Freddie. She�s beaming. She�s angelic. Waiters serve the head table�s occupants their food. The rest of us are herded like cattle by table to the feeding trough, or buffet line. They only give us small portions, because it looks like there won�t be enough food for everyone � at least covered in the bill. I�m hungry, damn it. My cousins, siblings and I finish our food quickly and are told to give up our two tables for arriving guests. Hmph. My feet hurt. Our guests sit in shifts because of the overcrowding. A grown-up version of musical chairs, I guess. When the authorities (the General down to the Captain) decide we�ve reached a reasonable hour, the program continues. My parents, uncles and aunts have prepared a folk dance as one of the party�s main events. They clear two tables and move them (how they did that, I have no clue). Then, in the small space they have to do it, they begin the dance. OJ barks numbers out to them over the music as cues, and it ends up looking somewhat tacky. The audience would probably be more entertained if they all got in line and started doing the Electric Slide or the Boot Scootin� Boogie. But after another hour, a spotlight is directed toward the table the multi-tiered cake is sitting on and Grandma slowly approaches it, wearing the most serene birthday-girl smile. She is again serenaded, this time by all of her guests. Maligayang Bati � Happy Birthday to You � is the new tune and it is welcomed with new tears. The emotion was so sincere and pure. It was true joy. Suddenly, all of the former problems and aggravations seem trivial and we remember why we are all here � to celebrate the life of a very special woman. |
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| propaganda My Worldview 5.26.98 Maligayang Bati 10.5.00 The Devil, the Grape- fruit Diet and Fat Pants 11.14.00 Lies: Kid-tested, Mother-approved 8.6.01 |
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