Dressed in a canary-colored top and white cowboy boots, I strolled into the living room eager for the next round of hide and seek. My top stretched to meet the lower part of my kneecap, but still, the cold didn’t bother me. It was Christmas, no day was warmer than this.
As we ducked and swerved to reach our hiding spaces, the familiar spot I ritually used was occupied by another player. Frustrated, I sneaked my way back into the main hallway. The house wasn’t big enough to begin with, so each additional step I took meant seconds to the hunter’s advantage.
I made my way into the farthest room, dimmed by a burned bulb. I squinted through the darkness of the room, prowling with my hands leading the way, the furniture unrecognizable by touch.
“Hey, are you looking for a hiding spot?” Kuya Eddy was seated next to the sliding door that led to the backyard, his gaze fixated on me. I was surprised I didn’t see him there in the first place. The outline of his face was traced by the light of the moon, his hand drunkenly rested on the side of the dresser.
I let out a desperate “yes,” while my ears listened for any trace of footsteps. They’re probably looking for me right now, my sense of urgency increased.
Stumbling across the room I reached out for his open hand. He gripped it firmly, but gently.
“I know the perfect place, they will never find you here.”
The stillness of the night eased my fears. It was quiet. Without meaning to, I looked up into the sky. Hundreds of twinkling lights met my gaze. I heard him saunter towards the side of the house and I followed him eagerly.
“Are there any spiders here?” The thought of spiders sent a shudder across my chest.
“No, don’t worry. There are no spiders here.”
Leaves crunched under my white boots, I quickly looked behind me to see if anyone heard. No one was there. The window on the side of the house emitted warm heat waves, and I can hear my aunties singing carols. Then, I heard my uncle’s cackle.
Without notice, I felt two large hands under my armpits. With a squeeze, I was lifted into air, the coldness of the stucco wall pressed against the skin of my back. My legs dangled in the air, I couldn’t feel the ground.
My palms pushed against his chest, but to no avail. His strength was overpowering and my efforts to free myself only resulted in him crushing me even more.
Just then, I could see the hunger in his eyes. His hands were hungry too, as it explored the length of my four-year old body. He pressed his body against mine while his tongue flowed freely on the crevice of my open neck. His saliva mixed with the breeze, and suddenly I felt cold. Especially in the inside. I felt my pants slide down and I bit my lip, tasting blood.
I started to cry, beads of warm tears streamed down. Watery salt mixed with the taste of rust.
“Just look at the stars” he said between breaths, “just look at the stars.”
I did. And from then on, I never looked up at the night sky the same again after that night.
2
Laying on the living room floor with the blanket around my ankles, I watch my other cousins play super Mario 3. Flying plumber as a beaver. I want to play too, but they won’t let me. Maybe it’s because I’m too young, or maybe it’s because I’m a girl. Either way, I’m sad but still watch as they press buttons to make the plumber beaver to this and that.
At the corner of my eye, I see him. He’s laying on the couch, stomach touching the velvet cushions. I feel his stare on me. He’s moving his hips. I understand but don’t really understand.
I pretend not to notice.
I become afraid of the dark. I didn’t want to sleep over, but my dad was too drunk and my mom was too tired. They forced me to sleep in the living room floor. I don’t mind, but it’s open. Wide open.
I can hear my mom fall asleep next to me. Her breaths become consistent. Please don’t fall asleep. I hold her hand, close my eyes and count to ten.
I wake up in someone’s arms. I’m being carried somewhere. Just then, I recognize his breath. The smell of him lurches into my nose and I start to gag. Not again, I whisper. Please, put me back.
We’re in the bathroom and he unzips. He forces his tongue into my mouth this time and I almost choke on the taste. It’s slime. He slimed on me down there too and I’m sticky for the rest of the night, too scared to wipe myself off and too scared to say anything.
I try to fall asleep but all I can hear are my mom’s breaths.
3
For me, the best part of childhood happened before nightfall. Moments before the sun retired into the horizon, the local kids owned the streets. Our skin darkened from hours of playing, we caked up dirt through ritualized games of football, bike racing or just plain mischief. We’d only stop playing when cars needed to pass through or when our parents would call us in for dinner. Only through those mere hours after school, before nightfall, I would I feel completely and utterly free.
Across from my home was this makeshift auto mechanic station. The owner’s name was Mike, and he let us play in their outer garage sometimes because it was mostly empty. He got to play some football with us from time to time during his 30 minute breaks in exchange. He had a strong arm, and he would throw the football in to the air as hard as he can. Sometimes, he threw it so high that I would be blinded from the sun.
The best part of the garage was the tin barrels near the left side of the entrance. I never found out what was inside these barrels, but they were fun to stand and roll around on. Even though it was stained with grease and rust, they served as perfect posts to throw footballs from. We took turns throwing footballs at each other, sometimes throwing more than 50 throws without dropping a single one.
Circa 1992, Natoma alley was composed of dilapidated buildings, empty parking lots and countless homeless persons. Home to a number of freshly arrived Filipino immigrants, our family was no exception. We shared a cozy 2 bedroom apartment, complete with our share amount of mice and cockroaches. I never knew how it felt like to be alone, because there was no such thing as privacy.
At one point, I remember there being eight of us sharing that small two-bedroom apartment. My parents shared the smallest room, complete with a television set, queen bed and two dressers. The room I stayed in had one bunk bed, and two twin-sized beds lining each side of the room. The other spaces were filled with dressers, and other storage compartments to keep our blankets and other linens. We made the most of it though. My older sister stuck pictures of paradise on her side of the wall, drawing a curtain around the lower bunk of her space. My older brother got to stay in one of the twin beds next to the only window, right next to Cindy Crawford in a bikini that he pinned against his wall. I don’t remember what I had as decoration, I just remember being outside most of the time.
My grandma continually proved to be the most mysterious creature in the world. Her bed was firm as a rock, as she supplied fresh pieces of cardboard or plywood on the underside of her thin mattress. Her gowns were hand sown, and she spent most of her time singing gospel hymns out loud. The rim of her glasses sat at the edge of her nose and I would watch her eyes glaze over the small print. Sometimes, she had to pause and bring the pages closer to her face to make sure she was singing the right words. I studied her in amazement. The wrinkles under her eyes, the loose skin of the back of her hands, I was mesmerized.
Palming a five dollar bill on one hand, she would ask me to buy her cigarettes from the local Filipino store across the street. It was similar to a sari-sari store in the Philippines, but you were able to walk inside.
Her favorite was pack was Benson and Hedges and they didn’t care that I was only 6 years old. With the change, I got to buy a sugary snack for myself. Sometimes, I kept it. At a young age, I knew the importance of saving. I guess it’s the Ilocano in me.
After lighting one end of the cigarette, she would take a couple long, slow puffs from the filter. After a good ash began to form, it was her cue to turn the stick of fire around and place the burning edge in the middle of her tongue. She closed her mouth. She closed her eyes. I watched as her chest heave upward and a few moments later, smoke began to secrete from her nostrils. This is the most vivid memory I have of her.
4
I’m wearing my favorite black and white polka-dotted dress. The kids in school were jealous because I looked so happy in it, and a lot of girls my age didn’t have a mom as a seamstress. So, I considered myself lucky. I pranced around and around, the smile never left my face.
Another family party. I chose to wear my black and white dress again, this time maybe I can dance while my uncle sang his favorite tune.
“Why why why, Delilah…
Why why why, Deliliah…
So before they come to break down the door
Forgive me Delilah I just couldn’t take any more”
The microphone was forever molded into his hand. I watched the words dance in and out, coloring up when it was time to sing. He stood up during the hook, swaying his hips with the beat of the music. It was a melancholy kind of sway.
The expression on his face reflected the emotions on screen. Heartache and pain. He knew this song without having to follow the words and he sang with the force of his heart. He looked into my eyes, and even though it was only for a handful of seconds, I saw deep into his soul. His heart had been broken once, I felt it.
He had a daughter though, her name was Nathalie. She sang along beside him and I wondered if she saw the same thing I did.
Push. Unzip. Press. Moan. Heavy. Release. Sigh.
After that night, I stopped wearing that dress.
Slowly, pieces of my soul left while I tried to solve the riddle of why this was being done to me.
5
Before I would fall asleep, I would pray. My mom, a not-too-devout-Catholic, always brought me to church every Sunday to hear the words of God. I never listened, although I did try. I just couldn’t understand the message. I think I was distracted from the money baskets, all I kept thinking was that they were trying to con my mom into giving them money. They were smart, because it worked every time.
I followed the way little girls prayed in the front of my “Bible Stories for Kids” book.
I clasped my hands together and knelt at the foot of my bed. My grip became sweaty as I heard the clink of the wind chimes outside my window. I didn’t know how to phrase it right, or what exactly I should ask for.
After a few trying minutes, I decided to just say, “God, please help me. I’ve been good. I still get good grades in school. Just no more family parties.”
6
“Where are we going Mom?” The scenery turned from rich city life to mountainside suburbia and I was getting antsy.
That week I turned nine years old. I stuck my head out of the car window, relishing in the thrill of the wind. Opening my mouth made the wind more resistant and I almost snapped my neck.
Suddenly, I felt myself being yanked back in. “You’re going to get your head cut off like that. Just keep still. We’re going to visit a friend of mine.”
The minutes passed by and the afternoon heat magnified through the glass onto my bare skin. The gentle roar of the car engine started to lull me to sleep. Noticing my silence, my mom nudged me back to the present. “Wait, ha! We’re almost there. I don’t want your eyes to get swollen so keep it open. Hmph.”
She snickered in my direction but I pretended not to notice.
We finally exited somewhere in Vacaville, California. I watched my mom make twisty turns, and I swore I saw the same street signs and neighborhood vendors. It didn’t take long to realize that my Mom was lost.
“Uhh, MA! Let’s go back home. Why are we here?” My impatience began to surface despite my Mom’s constant reminder to behave.
She ignored me and rolled down her car window to ask the nearest passerby for directions. After a few more minutes of driving, we arrived at our destination.
Opening the car door welcomed a wet, thick gust of wind and dust into the car and into my eyes. I squint towards the wind and push my body out, eager to stretch my skinny legs. The heat was unbearable. I air felt thick like blankets, stacked one after the other. I scanned the area for the nearest spot of shade and darted, the sun unforgiving with its shine.
I watched my Mom walk towards a large, concrete building. It looked official, but menacing. Large iron gates covered the entrance and there was no identifying clue as to what business or service it provides. My curiosity grew with each step I took, mimicking the gait of my mother only a few yards ahead.
As we finally entered, a gust of ice cold wind refreshed my senses. We walked towards the receptionist where my Mom filled out a bunch of paperwork. We were told to put all our belonging in this huge Ziploc bag. Coins, keys, gum. No purses were allowed.
I was asked to walk on top of two big footprints. Prodded with metal gadgets and gently patted around my areas, they searched. The same was done to my Mom.
We passed clearance and walked inside a blue cafeteria.
It was eerie. The room was filled with long tables and chairs, several vending machines in the back wall, and a small playground in one corner of the room. The windows were thick with glass, almost plastic-like, and a bunch of men were dressed in blue overall garb. These men were seated with one or two others, talking in vivid hand gestures. They were loud, most of them, while others were quite glum.
“Where are we?” I whispered.
All of a sudden, a jolly middle-aged man walked up to my Mom in an embrace. They seemed happy to see each other, but there was also a wave of uneasiness. He looked down on me with a crooked smile.
“Are you…?” His voice was husky, yet full of life. I nodded in response, avoiding eye contact mostly, but not, as to not appear rude. He kneeled down and gently pulled my chin in his direction. His happiness was genuine. His eyes sparkled and moistened. I felt his arms encircle me tightly, and behind him, I saw my mom bite her lip in astonishment.
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