Salo Salo, a reading in celebration of Filipino-American History Month. From various excerpts. October 15, 2021.

As soon as I arrived at cousin Edgar‘s salo salo to celebrate his infant’s Christening, my eyes went straight for the table centerpiece:  a whole lechon gleaming in crispiness, an apple in its mouth; with hardly any space between bowls of kare kare and sinigang, plates of bangus relleno, lumpiang prito at sariwa; fruit salads and sweet gelatinous kakanin desserts brimming at a far end of the spread.

I felt my elder Tita Sioning’s presence only at the moment she touched my elbow and pointed at the rice I scooped onto my plate.  “Look at me, look at me, iha.” Looking me up and down, at the Sacramento airport my elder had taken me by the shoulders and squeezed my arms.  “Ay naku! We must have passed right by you!” True true.  By 1998 I had traded my 1970s miniskirt for plus-size Capris; Marikina high heels for comfortable Tevas; shiny black knee-length tresses for a salt-and-pepper bob. My malnourished 85 pounds self she saw at 16 years old stunned at 200 pounds and counting in middle age.  “Whoa! What happened to you? Nagdalawang tao ka na!”  You are now two people! 

“Tikim tikim lang, ha?  Smaller portions.  A subo of rice a subo of adobo. Hoy, teka nga!  Wait lang. There, a forkful of pansit.” Nodding, I chowed down on second subos of kaldereta (was that goat?) and outwardly smiled at her insinuating sermon: my huge presence at this Christian gathering displayed my lack of moral backbone to ward off the bigger American-sized servings; the dreadful temptation of gluttony.  

“Biro my yan.  Imagine. You made it to America.  Do you know how lucky you are?”  She meant to remind that folks back home go without enough to eat.  Surviving only through community sharing and charity. A small measure of prosperity added to my immigrant skin-and-bones would have signified an acceptable level of resistance to sin.

And what could be more sinful than leaving a 15-year marriage?

Yea, I’m so lucky I escaped the wrath of the church for, already, this Catholic-baptized Filipina went against the cultural grain.  I got married on a Thursday in downtown Queens City Hall.  No wedding dress.  No wedding invites.  No wedding photographers.

Marriage is not like hot rice you spit out because it’s too hot!  Think of your children!  You do not talk about divorce!  Your Lolos and Lolas would turn in their graves.  I swallowed it all.  My Mom’s misgivings.  My in-laws’ admonitions. As daughter, mother, sister, breadwinner, caregiver; an umbrella to also support parents, partners, children, bosses and friends; I single-handedly went for an untried and stressful existence removed from supportive relations—

At the flick of a match the fire had crackled.

Though I saw him first, was attracted to him first; Bim’s lanky build sexily framed with John Lennon spectacles and buttoned-down Brooks Brothers under soft blue cashmere. His smiling confidence exuded fluent English and Pilipino—and his values fit Dad’s top directive: Only date a Filipino. Not like that Jose Rizal guy, a national hero who married a colonizing Spaniard.

 “I have a plan!” my boyfriend had leaned close. “Move to Greenwich Village, check. Quit day job, drive a cab, check. Enter Columbia night school, check. Get in at a top law school at 29, Wall Street at 34, make some real money. Buy a penthouse along Central Park...”

“Ay, naku!” I had cupped his cheek and smiled, happily for him, for us.

“I’m not done yet! Retire early, move back to the Philippines with an American degree and earn US dollars! You want to go back, too, right?”

“Huh? And quit my glamorous insurance job?” I truly didn’t imagine a permanent home away from my birthplace.

“My plan is fool-proof!” He was so sure. “You should consider moving out, too.” he immediately followed. “Move in with me.” A transfer of deep warmth overtook my body. For a Filipina, leaving family before marriage was a radical no-no; but Bim unfailingly excited my spirits. “Hungry?” He clinked my glass. “Let’s try the sushi place down the block.  Or Italian.  Are you with me in my plan?”

Pfffft! Where did it go

The flames the ningas cugon we ignited a long time ago—

Faintly throbbing

A blistering shock

When I open the front door into a blinding New York winter

My life slowed into a lonely trudge through unsalted walks

I round the corner into icy denial unpaved

I search find my way towards warmth—

Where do I belong?  Shaking

What should I do?  Fogging

What path should I take?  Shuffling

You had left me behind

Your dutiful wife I had awoken with alarm—

Dressed up, ate breakfast, grabbed my bags my tokens my enthusiasm for another day

Yet you traced your steps back to your ancestors

While I—

While I trace subway tiles waiting for the late-night trains to get home and a lonely bed.

Yea I’m so lucky yes please yes I’ll do whatever it takes seven days out of seven up before the sun shovel blizzard-buried Toyota toss pancakes from scratch kiss kiss sing across the Feeling Groovy Bridge double park at school dropoffs street parallel park race down subway up elevators at my desk by 9 by 5 down down again to re-ignite car bubbly mommy kiss kiss Italian subs unparallel park unpack baths prayers repack a fire escape cigarette by 1am yea I’m so lucky.

Filling up my plate with more than I could chew—a job on the executive floor, a home, college scholarships, for the children for me, a happier family—I wanted it all.  For the children.  For me.  I had to stay.  Have I really been that greedy?

Pasaway.  Pasaway was my elder’s hand on mine.  A slap on the wrist for the fat, rich, overeating, self-involved acculturating Filipina-American.

Pero Tita naman, Tita Sioning po—

i ache

short of breath

can’t sleep

my pulse racing

my chest pounding

nerves throbbing

up and down

bearing down

on a cervix

ovaries

long cut out

such has been the

bleeding

screaming history

of this queenly Filipina body

bursting through

empire blouses

stretch pants

orthotic shoes

this plus size

smile

hiding

not the sugary surplus

metabolic belly

but the iron

long beaten heart

Two people? Am I really two people in your eyes?

I look around in places and spaces this once-young traveler newly arrived, awed

By temperate New York City sounds, faces, autumn leaves.

A crowd fills cousin’s house spilling into the outdoors

Into another room Karaoke voices crescendo

The sweet spot at the celebration I finally reach

A hefty serving of succulent crunchy lechon smothered with sweet vinegary sauce

The infant cooing, bounces arm to arm

Tikim tikim lang

My heart, my spirit expands

This plus size smiles.

From various excerpts, mainly from "Fat Filipina American: Proud to be Two People," Graduate Program in Women's History Newsletter, Sarah Lawrence College, 2007.