Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
LOST IN THE AFTERGLOW of running into Aaron (and the anxiety of trying to come up with good ideas for him), I almost miss an incoming call from my sister, Eva, while driving to my parents’ house for dinner. I patch it in through the car’s Bluetooth.
“What’s up?” I say.
“When are you getting here?” Eva says. “Mom is making me watch that campy Filipino soap opera of hers on TFC. Hurry.”
Eva, though twenty-four years old and almost finished with her master’s degree in social work at San Francisco State University, still lives at home. So she’s vulnerable to our mother’s utter devotion to teleserye.
Mom was a local beauty queen as a young woman and won a contest to be on the Filipino TV show Anna Clara . It’s not hard to see why Mom had a brush with stardom. At fifty-six, she doesn’t look a day over forty. It’s almost embarrassing to be seen with her in public. Most people can see her family relationship to us—the dramatic cheekbones, the button nose, the strong shoulders—but they always think she’s our older sister instead. I take some comfort in knowing that we’ll probably inherit some of Mom’s youthfulness. Hopefully, it will balance out Dad’s unfortunate head of hair, which began graying at thirty-five and is now almost completely white at sixty.
“I’m fifteen minutes away,” I say to my sister. The traffic from the Pink Unicorn to San Leandro is heavier with commuting traffic than I’d expected. “Just get Dad to overrule her and switch the channel to something else.”
“Like I’d want to watch the National Geographic Channel instead. No thanks. I’ll stick to Mom’s soap opera. Even though I can’t understand anything they’re saying.”
Neither Eva nor I have the ability to speak Tagalog, though I can somewhat understand it. I was three years old when we left the Philippines to move to the States. Eva was born here. Our parents tried to encourage me to stick with it, but I resisted, wanting to fully acclimate to English like all my new school friends. After months of trying to convince me otherwise, our mom dropped it and switched to more passive-aggressive means of keeping Tagalog alive. Like blasting The Filipino Channel whenever we’re home.
“It’s always the same thing anyway,” I say. “Someone’s cheating on someone else. Someone’s maid steals money to pay for her kids’ education. The son has a secret girlfriend.”
“Or is gay,” Eva says.
“I’d actually watch that.”
“You would. So how far—”
“Hoy!” my mom yells in the background so loudly that I can hear her through the speakers of my car. “Go set the table, Eva. And why aren’t you paying attention to the show? Learn more about life in the Philippines.”
“Whatever, Mom! If everyone in the Philippines was actually that rich and ridiculously good-looking, I’d move there in a second. Rex, hurry up.”
Eva clicks off, and I settle back into the slow stream of traffic.
Half an hour later, I hear the familiar mix of TV and conversation between my mother and sister as I enter the house. Whether it’s gossiping, bickering, or just catching up on the day’s activities, they always have some nonstop discussion or another going on. Meanwhile, my dad is nowhere to be found. Which means he’s in the garage working on a project in his workshop.
I inhale the familiar scent of rice steaming away at the counter. “I brought some cheesecake from Berkeley Bowl. What’d you make, Mom?”
Eva throws a kitchen towel at me. “What did I make, you mean.”
“You cooked tonight? I’ll just have the cheesecake for dinner then.”
“Hey!”
“Don’t make fun of your sister,” Mom says, chopping away at some lettuce for a salad. “You know I’ve been teaching her how to cook. It’s a useful skill. One that I’d be happy to teach you, if you’re interested, Rex?”
Mom has been asking me a lot lately if I want to help her prepare meals for her church parties. I always assumed it was just a way to get free labor.
“Maybe at some point.”
She harrumphs and keeps chopping. “Fine. Keep eating your takeout. What happens when I die? You’ll never have Filipino food again.”
“Mom, this is the Bay Area. There are lots of Filipino restaurants around.”
“And none of them can cook like me. Now go make yourself useful and get your dad.”
Just off the kitchen is the entrance to the garage. Though it’s only a few steps away, I considered it a completely different world growing up. It was off-limits for most of my youth. Too many dangerous objects lying around—sharp-edged saws, nails, and unfinished wood.
When I turned eleven (the same year I discovered my love of women’s clothing at Macy’s), my dad sat me down on a fold-out metal chair next to his woodworking bench and invited me to watch him while he worked. After I felt comfortable, he said, I could help him with household projects. And then, maybe, I could join him on weekends on-site at some of the jobs for his cousin’s woodworking business.
I gently refused, saying it wasn’t really my thing. He wasn’t surprised, of course. But to his credit, he did manage to show me a few useful DIY things around the house, which I became incredibly thankful for years later when I bought my first condo.
“Hey, Dad. Dinner’s ready.”
“Sige, sige. Coming.” He sands away at a small box. I can’t be sure from where I’m standing, but it looks like a birdhouse.
“That looks neat. Is it for the garden?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” He looks up, and, as he so often does, scans my face. As if doing that will tell him what he needs to say next. “It depends on how good I make it.”
“Oh, so if it sucks, you’ll give it to me?”
He stares, blinks, and laughs. “Yes. Probably,” he says, wiping his hands on his dirty sweatshirt.
My relationship with my dad has been good for years now. Since I came back home from college, we’ve reached a place where I don’t feel uncomfortable around him anymore or sense that he feels any uneasiness around me. But it’s taken us years to get here, and I try not to take it for granted. Whenever I begin to second-guess my decision to leave the old me behind, I try to remember how much has gone into protecting myself from the harm my dad warned me about when I was a kid.
AFTER WITNESSING ME falling in love with a dress display at the mall, my mom knew that I wanted to learn more. She began to teach me things surreptitiously, away from my dad’s disapproving gaze, by allowing me to sit by her side as she got ready to go out.
She showed me what the basic pieces of a woman’s wardrobe were, the benefits of specific silhouettes and the downsides of certain fabrics.
And she introduced me to the wonderful world of women’s shoes. Ohmigod, the shoes! I was entranced by them. Especially any with high heels. I loved how they made my mom taller and more regal, like a queen.
Even more than the clothes and shoes, though, it was the makeup that truly fascinated me. I’d been aware of makeup before, but only in terms of what actors wore on TV. How they used it to transform themselves into superheroes or mythical creatures, making them into things they were not. What thrilled me about my mother’s makeup was that it didn’t make her into something she wasn’t—it made her into more of herself, accentuating the woman that was already there.
I wanted all of that for myself. The chance to make me even more than I already was.
And I was already a lot.
After a few weeks of watching Mom prepare herself, I thought it was only natural that I’d go from learning how she did it to doing it myself.
She refused.
“You’re far too young, anak. Maybe when you’re older.”
I wasn’t disappointed, though. How I decided to interpret what she said was: I’ve taught you all you need to know. Now you figure it out on your own. I was certain of this because of the big wink she gave me as she walked out of the bedroom, leaving me alone with her riches. It was definitely more than just a tender punctuation point. It was tacit permission.
Afterward, whenever she was busy preparing food for dinner or on the weekends when she was off running errands, I’d sneak into my parents’ bedroom, ears attuned to Dad’s hammering in the garage to make sure he was busy, and sort through my mom’s things. I learned what she used daily and what she wouldn’t miss for a few hours or even a few days. The special things I knew she kept the farthest back in the closet. Hidden. Shiny dresses for when she wanted to look as radiant as she possibly could. There were shoes back there, too, with heels higher than the everyday ones. I’d pilfer a few things from my mother’s makeup collection in the bathroom as well, sneaking them into my bedroom and trying to recall my mother’s detailed instructions on how everything worked.
The first time I tried putting everything on, what I saw in the mirror was not quite a princess in a ballgown. Nowhere close, to be honest. But I still felt as if I were on my way to being a more extraordinary version of myself. I knew I’d get better with practice.
Over the next few weeks, even as careful as I was with putting everything away, I had a feeling that Mom knew what was going on.
Once, at dinner, she stared at my lips, and then, with widened eyes, she grabbed her napkin and wiped my mouth with it. My father’s gaze went to me, and I went rigid, knowing that she’d just wiped away traces of her lipstick on my mouth.
She tsk ed as she tucked the napkin away discreetly, out of my dad’s view. “Rex, you need to be a more conscientious eater. Close your mouth when you chew.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as the concern in my father’s face dissipated and his focus went back to eating.
Now, knowing that my mother was in on my secret self-transformations, I decided I didn’t need to be as careful as I’d been.
That was a huge mistake.
One afternoon, I’d taken a few of my mom’s more colorful things—a short cocktail dress, iridescent green pumps, and a pre-packaged collection of makeup in a color palette called “Carnivale.”
After weeks of experimentation, I’d finally gotten to the point where everything seemed to fit right, with makeup that wasn’t a complete disaster. Things were still far from perfect, but for the first time, I felt truly transformed. I was finally pretty. And I wanted to celebrate.
I put Britney Spears’s In the Zone into my CD player, navigated to the last track, and pumped it up. The synthetic strings of “Toxic” took over my room.
In front of the full-length mirror hanging on my wall, I sang along in my naturally high voice, proud of being able to match Britney’s vocal range. I waved my arms, shook my hips, and pretended I was one of the sexy flight attendants from her video.
My lipstick was blotchy and my eyes were overly lined, but I felt fabulous. The singing, dancing person on the inside finally matched the appearance on the outside. My heart soared. I danced faster. Sang louder.
Until my dad appeared in my room.
I froze in terror.
I’d let my guard down and had left my bedroom door open a crack. Maybe he’d heard me while coming into the kitchen to get a snack. Maybe I was so loud he’d actually heard me from the garage. All I know is that the look on his face was something I’d never seen before.
Before I could even react, he reached out and turned off my CD player.
“Why are you dressed like this, Rex?” He was shaking, but not from anger, it seemed. The look on his face was the same as when we’d almost gotten T-boned by an SUV while driving to church the week before.
He was afraid.
“Take all that off right now, Rex. I won’t allow this in my home. You will not go down this path in life. You are opening yourself up to bad things.”
I couldn’t move. I just stood there as he stared at me, his face full of dread.
After what seemed like a lifetime, he finally left my room. I wiped the lipstick off my face with the back of my hand and sank down to my knees on the floor.
But as shaken as I was, I didn’t fully obey him. Not at first. I didn’t quit when he told me to. I couldn’t.
That didn’t happen until years later.
Since then, though, my dad and I have been great. Of the few benefits bestowed on me for turning my back on my drag, my improved relationship with my dad is undoubtedly the best.
AT THE DINNER TABLE , we chew our food in silence. Eva made, or tried to make, Mom’s chicken and pork adobo. But the pork is tough, the chicken is stringy, and the sauce is so acidic it makes my eyes burn.
I force down a mouthful of food and take a long sip of my water. “Great job, Eva.”
“Shut up, Rex.”
“Kids,” Dad warns.
Mom swallows so hard her eyes bulge. “Adobo is not so easy to make, you know. The ratio of ingredients must be just right.” She pats Eva’s hand. “It’s fine for a first try. You’ll get it right next time.”
“I don’t even know why I have to keep trying,” Eva says, frowning.
“How else are you going to land a husband?”
My father and I burst out laughing. Eva says nothing, chewing with a wrinkled brow.
“And how about you, Rex?” my mother asks. “Are you dating anyone special these days? When will you be bringing someone nice over for us to meet?”
Over the years, I’ve dated a bunch of guys. Many, actually. None have lasted. And “dated” might be too generous a term. But things might be changing. If I play my cards right, there might be a chance for me to be with Aaron. This time, officially and out in the open.
“There could be someone,” I say, getting excited. So excited, that I accidentally scoop too big a spoonful of Eva’s super-sour adobo into my mouth. My mouth curls into a snarl as I chew, trying my hardest to eat it all.
Mom asks, “Oh? Did you meet him at work? Is he one of the lawyers there?”
“No. That would be super-awkward if I dated one of them.”
“He’s one of the scientists then?” my dad asks.
“Someone I knew from IU. Well, not IU exactly. He was a bartender at Kilpatrick’s in Bloomington.”
“Bartender? You better make sure to go back to school and get your law degree, Rex.” My dad pushes his plate away, which, admirably, has been finished. “You’ll have to support him.”
“Bartending is a valid job, Dad. Don’t be so snobby,” Eva says.
“And so is being an EA,” I say quietly.
“Ano yun, Rex?” my dad asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
“So where does he work?” Eva asks.
“The Pink Unicorn. In Oakland.”
“That place has the best drink specials!” Mom and Dad look up at this. Eva stammers, “I mean, that’s what I’ve heard, at least.”
Eva, the successful, straitlaced student, has always been their golden child. Especially compared to me, the one who disappointed them by not going to law school, which I said I’d do after a break from college and then again after becoming the legal team’s EA at Symria. Meanwhile, Eva is about to graduate at the top of her class and already has interviews lined up with a few hospitals and clinics. The last thing my parents want to hear is that she’s out boozing it up at local bars.
“Honestly, it’s a bit worn down,” I say. “I told Aaron I might have some ideas about how to spruce things up a bit.”
“Really, Rex? Are you going to help them redecorate?” my mom says, her smile strained. She knows me all too well. “I can always help if you’d like.”
Mom’s always had a keen eye for design. “That’d be great, actually. And they need better publicity. A better presence on social media would help.”
“You know I can help you with that, big bro,” Eva says.
Perfect. As the event coordinator for one of the Filipino student organizations at SFSU, Eva’s got plenty of experience with creating social media posts.
“And… I was thinking of maybe also revitalizing their karaoke night,” I say.
“What’s this?” Dad says.
“Karaoke?” Eva says.
“Oh! You need my help with that for sure, diba, anak?” Mom asks.
Did I mention that my entire family loves karaoke?
“Okay, calm down. I still have to figure out all the details.” And I’m not one hundred percent sure that I want to go through with the whole thing, anyway.
“Rex, that would be so nice if you could be involved in performing again!” my mom says, practically dewy with delight.
“I didn’t actually say that I’d be performing, just that—”
“I’ll help by singing, too.” She takes a big inhalation of breath. We all know what’s coming next.
Eva groans. “Mom.”
Dad juts his hand out to grab my mother’s. “Hon, not at the dinner—”
My mom, her hands up like Eva Perón, lets loose, “‘I came in like a racquetball! I never hit someone I love! All I wanted was to break your walk! All you ever did was, wreck knees! Wre-e-eck knees!’”
“Wreck knees? Mom! Do you even listen to the words you’re singing?” Eva says, exasperated.
“ Che! ” Mom says. “It’s not my fault all these pop songs don’t make sense. I don’t understand why Miley Cyrus is singing about having bad legs. Don’t hate me because I’m such a good singer.”
My mom is definitely not a good singer. But she doesn’t let that stop her.
“Eva, is there any more adobo?” my dad asks. “Maybe you can give some more to your mom. To fill her mouth with.”
As my family continues to make fun of each other, I keep second-guessing my karaoke idea for the Pink Unicorn. Even what little singing my mom does creates a tiny ache in my stomach, and not just because of her malaprop lyrics. Is it too late to back out of saying I’ll help Aaron and his bar?
As if answering me directly, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Aaron. Dinner Friday at 7 still ok?
I respond immediately. Oh yeah. Let’s do it.
The words stare at me, and I realize I’ve said something slightly inappropriate. Too late to delete it. Maybe if I follow up with—
For sure. But dinner first? ;-) Aaron replies.