Finding My Place In Limbo

I hate summers. The temperature here in Las Vegas can reach a scorching 115 degrees Fahrenheit with 13% humidity. Nevada is sucking my youth away right before my very eyes as I am mummified by the arid heat of the desert. I absolutely hate it. But I don't know any other place that I can call home. In fact, while I do have a "home" in the sense that my family is my "home", in the deepest, most secret places of my heart, I don't know where my home is. I mean, I'm not an American.

I wasn't born nor raised in the USA. I don't sound "American" though I would consider myself not just fluent in the language but quite articulate. And I would consider myself well entrenched in all things American--humor, music, politics or pop culture. And officially, I am an American citizen because I believe in participating in the great democracy and freedom that this great nation gifts its citizens. And yet, I don't feel American. America doesn't feel home to me.

On the other hand, I was born and raised in the Philippines. I love my culture. I speak the language. I eat like one. I swear like one. And yet, I feel like a stranger when I am there. I long for the Philippines of my youth from the 60s to the mid-70s.

I long for those days when you could still hear the frogs croaking at dusk as I took my afternoon walks on the street and when there were few vehicles on the road to even worry about smog or dust. I long for the clear brooks and streams of the Bulacan of my youth when one can see shrimp and fishes in rainbow colors right from the banks...or when we can climb a santol or chico tree and eat their succulent flesh without worrying about the filth.

I want to hear the man yelling "puto! kutchinta!" thus heralding the sunrise...or the old lady in a tapis and a huge clay pot (palayok) on a circular base (dikin) yelling "guinataan!" How about the old Chinese man who yells "taho!" or the young boy selling "balut!" "penoy!"--all signaling the start of merienda, the afternoon snack.

I loved those many afternoons and evenings when friends would just drop by unannounced to eat and talk or make music with their guitars, harmonicas and while my father played the piano. So many wonderful moments all gone. The last time I went home in 2000, I felt lost in the unbelievable traffic, dust, soot and smog of the streets of Manila. And that's just the beginning.

My Manila, my neighorhood, my beautiful Bulacan....they're gone now. And I find myself a complete stranger in a strange land that I no longer know or recognize.

So I am now a Nevadan. Nearly 20 years. A desert suburbanite. I lock my doors at all times. I have a security system. I live in a gated community. My house is temperature controlled at 77 degrees F. My visitors have to be buzzed in. I don't remember ever having a friend just "drop by" to have a snack and to pass away the afternoon. . .or to even nap on the chair next to me just to gain enough rest to still be around for dinner. I "lunch" with friends now. Two hours tops and it's over for another week or month. I have cold cereal for breakfast. And I have no maids or chauffeurs and worst of all, no laundry lady. Egads. All those roles are mine now.

I speak English 24/7. My husband is a Caucasian who does not speak my language. One of my two sons married a beautiful Caucasian girl. My first grandchild carries only a quarter of my race. Her eyes may be blue.... No one will recognize her as a Filipino. My blood will have been diluted a fourth of its power. None of my four children speak Tagalog. But I speak American perfectly. I have to confess that there are times when I NEED to speak the mother tongue to someone who is close to me. I sometimes wish that my husband can use Tagalog endearments to show his affection. But even if he does, it will not sound genuine because he will NEVER speak it the way I speak his language. That disparity sometimes annoys me. And sometimes, it saddens me.

One day, I was jarred ever so strongly by the realization that on my deathbed, I will speak another language that is not my own....if I want the people who matter to me to understand my dying words. Such a travesty. And so I find myself in between worlds...neither fitting here nor there. And though no one will know this because on the surface, I integrate very well, deep inside there is a definite longing for a country that exists only in my memories.