ODE TO ANTHONY
While basking in the glow of midday rays on my favorite beach in the Philippines I sensed an eclipse of the sun. It was short, stout and it had a plastic shovel. Our conversation goes something like this:
A: [monotone and yelling as it seems to lack depth perception] HI-I'M-ANTHONY-WHAT'S-YOUR-NAME?
L: [quietly] Lani. What's up buddy. I'm Lani.
A: [still yelling] WANNA PLAY? WE CAN MAKE A SANDCASTLE!
I notice he’s a lone wolf so I respectfully oblige. I’ve always had a soft spot for the underdog.
L: Eh, sure. Whatcha got?
We start digging in sand and he tells me he's 6 years old, here's here with his grandma, has lots of cousins but he misses home.
L: Where's home kiddo?
A: I live in New York. Did you know my dad works at Denny's and I get to have pancakes every day.
L: [well, that explains the yelling and your portly figure] Hey, how bout that. I live in New Jersey kid, that's not too far from you. We’re practically neighbors.
A: Hey, you talk just like me!
He's suddenly cognizant of the fact that we're both speaking English and not Filipino English which interchanges f's for p's and b's for v's . Fass the pork = pass the fork. Lady Gaga's Pokerface = Fukerpace. We continue making a sandcastle while other kids play nearby. He seems disinterested in them and he wants to keep talking about food and New York and home.
A: Do you know my birthday is coming up in Knocked-Over and I'm going to have a Thomas birthday cake and lots of Spam.
L: [October?] That's amazing, kid. Spam, huh. You know, when I was your age…I grew up near the place where Spam comes from.
A: [he pauses] Do you know how to make Spam?
L: Technically no. That’s a trade secret but I suspect it’s pig snouts and hooves. But do I know how to fry it in a pan?…yes! I digress, dear child…do you like it here?
A: No. Everybody talks funny. I want to go home. Can I stay with you?
And then a lightbulb moment happens in his brain and he’s fixated on the notion that he’s staying with me.
A: YEAAAAA!!! I'm staying with YOU!!!
L: I don’t think your Lola will like that. She’s going to miss you.
A: No, I’m staying with you. I can come to your house and sleep by you. Do you get scared here? It's okay, I'll stay with you.
His cousins keep yelling at him so he begins dancing erratically and says "Look what I can do!" The gang of cousins sits back down seeing that Anthony and I are engaged in serious conversation and tribal dancing. Nice diversion, kid.
A: How come you’re here?
L: It’s pretty here, don’t you think?
A: [staring blankly] Do you like fish?
His cousins come by telling Anthony it’s time to go home. He has no intention of leaving my side. He snuggles closer. Never mind the fact that it's 100 degrees outside. He barks at his cousins to leave and they threaten him with getting Jun-Jun. Anthony hugs me and while doing so he pauses to put his arm against mine and says "Hey, we match!" He's referring to our skin tone and it reminds me of my childhood in a Scandinavian Minnesota. Amidst a sea of blonde hair and blue eyes, my brothers and I were often times the only caramel-colored kids around. Occasionally we would see another child of similar complexion in the supermarket and it was like seeing an alien. But more like a familiar alien cousin. An obligatory head nod was always in order signaling some unspoken pact of understanding. They were just as amazed by us as we were by them...like two aliens passing in the glow of florescent grocery lighting.
I had a glorious Minnesota childhood growing up on the Vermillion River and fishing for trout everyday after school. Sundays were reserved for walks around the lake and Christmastime was a -40 winter wonderland. My father spoke of distant lands of Morocco and Kenya and scuba diving rendezvousing with the sea. Our bedtime stories came from the shores of my mother’s village in the Philippines and having squid with ink for breakfast was anything but Minnesota fare.
In grade school, there was a girl who called me "nigger-chink-spic." She didn't know what I was. Apparently "Filipino-Swedish-Welsh-American girl" wasn't in her repertoire of racial epithets. It would have been easier for her to just call me “other!” However, I hold nothing against that poor girl because she had a tragic childhood that entailed being molested by her own father. Against the greenish paint and under the florescent lighting of that old building in junior high, the yellow-olive tones in my skin came alive - in making me look dead. On the Flip side, when I came to the islands as a kid, I remember getting spit on by a guy who called me mestiza. My ‘impure’ blood was a disgrace to his culture. Clearly he wasn't aware of Spanish colonialism.
But in Anthony's world, I fit in. I suspect to him, I was all things familiar. Not this foreign land of uncertainty. Where do we ever fit in, us Anthonys? If not with our families, is it in a Denny's in NYC? A grocery store in Minnesota? Or maybe its just on a random beach with some stranger with matching skin.
A: You’re my best friend.
L: Aww shucks kid, that's very sweet but I think you have to go now.
A: No. I'm staying with you.
We continue building an awful sandcastle and its hot. I feel bad for the kid; lost in this foreign land but we always learn to adapt. I see a menacing teenager coming down the beach with a scowl on his face. I think it’s Jun-Jun.
J: Antony, you git ober here right now. You hab to eat. We hab Spam.
L: Well kid [while I think you have the fat reserves of a baby seal]. I think it's time for you to go eat. I'll be here when you come back.
A blatant and painful lie...
