Niñia

My friendly greeting was met by a blank stare. I spoke anyway, but I was not sure if she understood.

"You teach Sara Bisaya!" My cousin suggested to Niñia, her 8 year old niece. I concured with an eager nod, but Niña did not budge. "She's shy" my cousin assured me.

When I first came to the Philippines, I wasn't sure how I would build relationships. I knew people understood English and most spoke it a little, but I figured without the ability to freely communicate, knowing a person would be difficult. I love kids and I'm not close to any of my young relatives, so I really wanted to talk to her, but Niñia was young and less experienced in speaking English.

In the days following, I waved and greeted her when she passed me in the house. She would smile but not respond. Sometimes I would stop and tell her a story about my day. I would ask her if she understands. She would smile but not respond. A few times I told her that I wish we could communicate.

About four days into my trip, I was still recovering from jet lag. My alarm woke me from a nap, but I wasn't done sleeping so I hit snooze. As I laid my head down to continue my nap, I heard the door creek open. Niñia and her brother, Lawrence's, heads were peaking into the room. It was funny to me so I laughed and gestured for them to come in.

They came sat on the bed. Niñia handed me a picture of my family from 2002. I smiled, pointed to my face, and told her that was me when I was her age. She took a big breath as if she was about to speak, but then turned to her brother and laughed. "Is this your picture?" I asked, She noded and took another big breath.

"You... hahve...ahn...uncle." She said very slowly. "yeah!" I responded, excited to hear her speak. She turned to her brother, whispered something and laughed again. Then she turned around, with her whole hand, wiped the hair from her face and took another deep breath. "You have ahn uncle... in.... the Canada," She said, pointing out the window.

I don't remember our whole conversation- but I do remember laughing a lot. After she taught me about my family and asked me questions about my family, she began teaching me Bisaya. I think maybe her and her brother had been practicing right before they came into my room-- practicing English so they could talk to me and teach me Bisaya like my cousin suggested the first day we met, when I was not sure if she understood.

Since that conversation, Niñia has visited my room so many times. She has taught me bisaya, tagalog songs, showed me videos on youtube, done my make up, and asked me so many questions. She's no longer hesitant to come and hug me--we are friends.

Sometimes I can't understand her and sometimes she can't understand me, but the language barrier has not stopped us from knowing each other. I know that Niñia really loves to sing. I can tell that she's adventurous and brave. She has a lot of ideas that she enjoys organizing them. She's assertive, likes structure, and she's curious about everything.

We have to play charades sometimes--we dance around the English words she does not know. She doesn't seem to mind though. Out of all the Filipinos I've met-- she had the least English skills. Even so, I think we know each other well. One day I hope I can explain how special her friendship is to me in Bisaya.

A Meaningful Meal

It’s late, but we have just arrived so we celebrate with food. The air is hot and so is the breeze. There are no clouds but there are lots of stars. The mall is loud and exciting and new. I feel disoriented but happy.

It is crowded so we must wait to be seated. While we wait, my aunt looks at a menu. I want to look to, but one was not given to me. This must be how they order.

We are seated, and there is still one menu. They ask what I would like and I do not know because I cannot see the menu. My aunt orders for me. This must be how they order.

My cousin asks for another menu and hands one to me. I choose quickly because I do not understand and I do not want to inconvenience anyone.

They bring scallops to the table without the other foods. Everyone takes some. This must be an appetizer.

They bring my dish out on a platter with a serving spoon. I put it on my plate but think it would be easier if they just put it on my plate. This must be how they serve food. My dad immediately takes a spoonful of my food. This must be how they share.

More food is brought to the table. They offer me all the food. I am new, this must be how they greet me. With hesitancy, I try everything. They try everything too. This must be how they share.

My aunt picks my dish up and tells me she will bring it to the other table, where my other relatives sit. She must think I am done. I take some more before letting the dish go. She brings it back. I am confused. She brings soup from the other table to our table and then I understand.

“So… here do you not order individual meals?” I ask my cousin. She explains. Here they order food for the whole table. Everyone eats from all the dishes. I like this style.

We exchange stories and ask questions. This is the most meaningful meal I've had with my father.

Today I Meet My Father

Today I meet my father.

I did not know him for 22 years. I knew his accent. I knew that he ate food weirdly. I knew that he was different, but I did not know him.

A few days ago, I explored the airport in Hong Kong. I was supposed to meet dad upstairs to eat. I could not find him, so I sat down. I hear someone cough. It sounds like my dad’s cough, so I turn around. It’s an older Chinese man. I begin to eat. Soon I hear someone laugh. It sounds like my dad, so I turn around. It’s not my dad. I continue to eat. I see a man with dark skin and a shirt like my dad’s. I begin to call to him, but realize he is not my dad.

But we were not in the Philippines yet.

I am in the mall with my cousin. My dad is at home and will not be with us until later. I hear someone speaking Bisaya. I think it is my dad but it is not. I hear someone greet a friend and it sounds familiar. It is also not my dad. My dad is not at the mall, and I know he is not, but I think every sound is him.

In the United States I hear a familiar cough from across the room, it is my dad. I am at the supermarket and I hear someone laugh. It is my dad. I recognize him without knowing he was at the store. Last week I was sitting with a cap and gown ready to graduate. Through the crowd of photographers I easily found my dad. He is the dark skinned man with the phone attached to his waist. I recognize him because he is different.

What was familiar to me is that my dad is not usual. That’s what made him familiar. Here, in the Philippines, he is no longer familiar. I do not recognize him by his accent because here he does not have one. I do not recognize him by his skin because here everyone has dark skin. I did not know my dad’s cough had an accent, but it must, because here I do not recognize it.

Today my father is no longer weird. He is no longer defined by how he is different from me. This place and these experiences have redefined my dad. Today I meet my father.