ON DISCRIMINATION AND DOMESTIC HELP
I used to travel a lot. When I was still living in the Philippines with my ex-pat ex-husband, we used to go to Hong Kong or Singapore every weekend to escape the Dengue Fever outbreak. My ex is by far the most anal person I have ever met, and he was simply paranoid about germs. When poor little kids started dying from the hemorrhagic fever, he practically imprisoned our son, Max, in our hotel suite. Being held captive at the Mandarin Oriental is not exactly healthy for any 3-year-old, Aedis Egypti notwithstanding. So you see, these little weekend sorties out of the country were necessary to our sanity.
Before one of these trips, my best friend, Coco Q., who was visiting with us at the time, gave me some valuable fashion advice for travel to places such as Hong Kong and Singapore: Don't wear jeans on weekends. Apparently, if you committed this fashion transgression, some ignorant colonial might mistake you for a domestic and insist you press his trousers. It seems that every weekend like clockwork, Filipina maids would swarm to the parks like lemmings, wearing standard-issue denim.
"Believe me," Coco confided with a knowing look, "you'll be treated much better." I shrugged, taking my signature Versace's out of my suitcase. I thought it was curious to hear this from Coco, of all people. After all, I wanted to point out, we both did TV news. Surely, if CNBC Asia and RPN-9 thought we were presentable enough to beam into people's houses nationally (and in her case, internationally), we would NEVER be mistaken for a pair of au pairs! Besides, if some foreigner was thick enough to mistake me for a maid just because I was a Filipina wearing jeans, I'd hit him on the head with my Louis Vuitton bucket!
Unfortunately, such is the stigma of the Filipina. It gets even worse if you're a Filipina married to a foreigner. For some reason, once they think you've joined their ranks, all PC flies out the window. It doesn't matter if you studied at the Sorbonne, speak flawless English and hold two PhD's. Once you start rubbing elbows with them, they think it's their God-given right to enlist your services as a domestic recruiter. The first time I went to Israel, my ex introduced me to one of the most decorated Israeli generals in their nation's history, and all this man could say to me was "could I help him find a really good Filipina maid?"
It wasn't so bad when we were living in LA, where Filipinos occupy all social stratas, and Filipina domestic help was almost unheard of. Our cleaning lady then was, in fact, a Chilean exchange student who was doing houses on the side to earn extra money. When we moved to Miami, where I was the only Filipina I knew of within a 40-mile radius, it was also okay. Over there, most of the domestic help you find is Black/Haitian or Hispanic.
All that changed when we moved to my ex-husband's home city, Toronto. Toronto, like LA, also has a very big Filipino population occupying all social stratas, but a big part of the Filipina population there, like their sisters overseas, gravitated to the "domestic" market like moths to the flame. All my former in-laws had Filipina maids: my ex-mother-in-law, sister-in-law, brother-in-law, and various aunts and cousins now removed, all extolled the domestic virtues of my kababayans.
Okay, okay, I confess, I also had a Filipina maid. Her name was Margarita, and she was an "alajera" in the Philippines. Margarita would sometimes don jewelry that was even prettier than mine, which was a lot to say considering my ex was a diamond dealer! We shared a relationship based on mutual fondness and respect, and I was sad to let her go because we had to move to Europe.
I, of course, have also experienced my share of discrimination. Whenever we took the ferry from Hong Kong to Macau, I would always be "detained" in the holding area while my ex would argue that I was a US resident, etc. etc.,. Of course, I would always be the last one out of Immigration, defiantly meeting the curious stares of my casino-hopping ferry-mates. When I first obtained my Schengenstaten visa (meaning "seven states": Germany, France, Belgium, Netherlands, Luxembourg, Spain and Portugal), I was instructed to go to a police station upon reaching Amsterdam (my point of origin) to "inform the authorities of my presence". I felt really insulted to be told this, just because I was a Filipina. After all, isn't this the sort of thing convicted child molesters are required to do? When I finally got to a police station, none of the officers present knew what I was talking about. They ended up typing something to the effect that on this date, this person was in this police station, etc. etc. (it was in Dutch). Go figure.
Actually, Amsterdam wasn't too bad. You see a lot of Indonesians there, Indonesia being a former Dutch colony, and you see a big representation of this racial mixture in the people. I never really encountered any racism in the Netherlands. In fact, in all the places in Europe that I visited, the pervading feeling of discrimination was directed toward the gypsies, who swarmed to the cities in the summer, victimizing tourists along the way. One of them nearly snatched my purse one night. Lucky my hand brushed against his while he was doing it, and I started yelling up a storm. The guy quickly ran across the street, having the cheek to turn back and face me while putting his finger to his lips, motioning me to be quiet!
So ends my treatise on discrimination and domestic help. As I type this in my family room in Modesto, California, I am reminded of the year we used to live in Cincinnati, Ohio, where notices of Ku Klux Klan meetings were routinely printed in Community Billboards in all the major dailies.
And I thank the Lord for all my blessings.
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
MY SWEET LITTLE BUMBLEBEE
Lance, my little bumblebee, will be turning 4 in just a few minutes. It's hard to believe my little preemie who came 6 weeks early is now a smart, rambunctious little pre-schooler. I wrote this letter to my husband, Lorenzo on March 20, 2001, when Lance was just 16 months old. Reading it now, at the eve of his fourth birthday, I am once again reminded that time waits for no one...a cliche, I know, but bittersweet nonetheless.
Hi Daddy!
Mommy and I went out for a walk after taking my kuyas to school. It was still a little cool, so Mommy bundled me up in my sweater and we were on our way. I saw many black birds, some big, some small. I was also amused at the water sprinklers, which were always threatening to wet Mommy and me. We didn't get wet, but I felt the cool mist on my face.
Mommy picked out dandelions for me. She taught me how to blow on them to scatter them in the wind. I know how to blow, but I have to put them close to my mouth because I can't blow too hard yet. Mommy also plucked a little yellow flower for me, which I held for a while. She thought I was trying to eat the flower, but I was just blowing on it like she taught me to blow on the dandelion.
On the way home, Mommy sat on the park bench and took me out of my stroller. I practiced walking while holding on to the park bench. Then Mommy saw a ladybug and picked it up from the ground so I could play with it. I was laughing and having so much fun. The ladybug crawled on my hand and back to the park bench. I kept picking it up and Mommy said I was very good because I was gentle with it. When I was done playing with the ladybug, Mommy put it back on the leaf so it could eat. I had dropped my cracker on the ground. I wanted to pick it up, but Mommy said to leave it there for the birds to eat. I picked it up and ate it anyway, when Mommy wasn't looking.
At around 9:30 it was getting to be really warm, so Mommy took my sweater off. We started walking home because Mommy noticed that I had taken a doodie. On the way home, I saw a shopping cart on the curb. I pointed it out to Mommy because I wanted to ride in it, but Mommy didn't think it was a good idea. She promised me that I would sit on a shopping cart next time we went to a supermarket, which she said would be soon because we're out of bread. Speaking of bread, Mommy says you forgot to bring your sandwich, so Mommy had it for a snack after we got home.
I am now taking my nap. I can't wait to see you again, Daddy. I love you very much. Will you come with us to pick up my kuyas later? They don't get off till 4:45, so Mommy thinks it would be a good time to stop by the bowling alley to put down a deposit for Kuya Joey's surprise birthday party. I'll see you later!
Love, LANCE
Lance, my little bumblebee, will be turning 4 in just a few minutes. It's hard to believe my little preemie who came 6 weeks early is now a smart, rambunctious little pre-schooler. I wrote this letter to my husband, Lorenzo on March 20, 2001, when Lance was just 16 months old. Reading it now, at the eve of his fourth birthday, I am once again reminded that time waits for no one...a cliche, I know, but bittersweet nonetheless.
Hi Daddy!
Mommy and I went out for a walk after taking my kuyas to school. It was still a little cool, so Mommy bundled me up in my sweater and we were on our way. I saw many black birds, some big, some small. I was also amused at the water sprinklers, which were always threatening to wet Mommy and me. We didn't get wet, but I felt the cool mist on my face.
Mommy picked out dandelions for me. She taught me how to blow on them to scatter them in the wind. I know how to blow, but I have to put them close to my mouth because I can't blow too hard yet. Mommy also plucked a little yellow flower for me, which I held for a while. She thought I was trying to eat the flower, but I was just blowing on it like she taught me to blow on the dandelion.
On the way home, Mommy sat on the park bench and took me out of my stroller. I practiced walking while holding on to the park bench. Then Mommy saw a ladybug and picked it up from the ground so I could play with it. I was laughing and having so much fun. The ladybug crawled on my hand and back to the park bench. I kept picking it up and Mommy said I was very good because I was gentle with it. When I was done playing with the ladybug, Mommy put it back on the leaf so it could eat. I had dropped my cracker on the ground. I wanted to pick it up, but Mommy said to leave it there for the birds to eat. I picked it up and ate it anyway, when Mommy wasn't looking.
At around 9:30 it was getting to be really warm, so Mommy took my sweater off. We started walking home because Mommy noticed that I had taken a doodie. On the way home, I saw a shopping cart on the curb. I pointed it out to Mommy because I wanted to ride in it, but Mommy didn't think it was a good idea. She promised me that I would sit on a shopping cart next time we went to a supermarket, which she said would be soon because we're out of bread. Speaking of bread, Mommy says you forgot to bring your sandwich, so Mommy had it for a snack after we got home.
I am now taking my nap. I can't wait to see you again, Daddy. I love you very much. Will you come with us to pick up my kuyas later? They don't get off till 4:45, so Mommy thinks it would be a good time to stop by the bowling alley to put down a deposit for Kuya Joey's surprise birthday party. I'll see you later!
Love, LANCE
Saturday, November 01, 2003
BORIS' INCREDIBLE JOURNEY
Got a strange message on my voice mail today...some man named Gary Potter called to say he had my cat, Boris, and "did I want him back?". I had lost Boris, my Russian Blue, some ten months ago, when I exiled him to the backyard for chewing the molding around my powder room door. When I was ready to make friends again (after having sufficiently cooled off), I looked for him in my backyard and he was gone.
Of course, this being the dead of winter, I expected the worst. Boris was the biggest fraidy-cat you could ever imagine. He was also de-clawed, which meant he had no way to defend himself against territorial cats, predatory dogs, and the elements besides.
We had gotten Boris shortly after moving into our house in Modesto. My husband came home from fishing one night to find me almost beside myself, hysterical after seeing a big frog hopping around in my laundry room. I have always had an irrational fear of frogs, which was exacerbated when a tiny one landed on my head when I was a teenager.
Lorenzo took stock of the situation and promised to get me a cat for our anniversary. This took a lot for my husband to say, since he was never a cat person. I had always pleaded and entreated for a cat, but we would always get stuck in the negotiation process, because Lorenzo was seriously lobbying for a dog.
We went to the animal shelter the very next day. A Morris lookalike, a huge orange tabby named Old Yeller, first caught my eye, but when they took him out of the cage for us to examine, I didn't like the way he smelled. Good thing, because I really had my heart set on getting a big Russian Blue anyway.
Boris was a personality right from the start. When I first saw him, he was sleeping in his cage. I woke him up and he came to the front so I started petting him through the wire. The animal worker then called me to show me another Russian Blue that was already available for adoption. When I saw the other Blue, I wasn't too interested because it was a female and quite small, so I went back to Boris. He was lying at the back of his cage again, but when I called him this time, he wouldn't come to me, as if to say "I've already wasted my time on you once, I'm not about to do it again." I did everything to lure him to the front of the cage, because by then I had already seen that he was a beauty. Still he wouldn't come. Finally, when I said, "Please?", he stood up as if he understood, came to the front of the cage to be petted, and I was hooked for life.
We couldn't adopt Boris that day because the 4-day waiting period wasn't over, so he wasn't available for adoption until the next day. I spent the whole night thinking about my cat and praying that no one else would grab him from under my nose. I was afraid his owner would come for him before I came back. I was delighted to find Boris still there the next morning, and we took him home!
Unfortunately, my cat's glorious homecoming was short-lived. We soon found out that Boris was perfectly capable of ignoring vermin. If Mickey ever held a diminutive Thanksgiving Parade right under his nose, he would probably yawn, face the other way and pointedly look bored, the very picture of contempt. There would be no mistaking his message: "Is that all you can come up with?".
The seeds of discontent were again taking root at the Sereno household. To quiet my husband's accusations of "false advertisement", I decided to hire an exterminator to get rid of mice and frogs alike. But I was determined that someone else would take the fall along with me, so I wrote the following letter to my (then) landlord:
February 20, 2002
Dear Jim,
If you remember, shortly after we moved into your house, I informed you that I saw a mouse in the kitchen. I also told you then that I had gotten a cat, and was hopeful that this would take care of the problem.
Unfortunately, it was soon obvious that my cat was more interested in finding new and more creative ways to take cat naps, and the mice (savvy creatures that they were) had taken full advantage of this fact. The wee creatures were getting bolder by the day. One even took it upon himself to entertain me by frolicking in my dish drainer. The fact that it was stacked full of newly washed dishes (that eventually had to be washed again) did not amuse me one bit.
The final straw was when Lorenzo discovered little spots of moisture in our new family room couch. At first, we couldn’t figure out what it was, until we looked again at a later time and saw mouse droppings in the same area. This was the same piece of furniture that was delivered the day you came here, barely three weeks ago. The enterprising little things had found a way into my couch before I could even send Levitz my first payment.
Perhaps the mice would have shown us a little more respect if we had a snake like you guys. Unfortunately, with Boris the Amazing Sleeping Cat to take over the cudgels, we were pushovers. I had to take matters into my own hands, so I hired Step Aside Exterminators to take care of the dirty little details. So far, we have trapped nine of the pesky critters.
I would like to request that the initial payment of $70 be taken out of next month’s rent, if that’s all right with you. This covers the initial treatment of the house. We will, of course, take care of the $35 monthly fee. I am enclosing a copy of the Service Agreement for your records.
I hope everything is well with you. Please call if you have any questions.
Best Regards, Renee Sereno
My landlord knew better than to argue the issue, and we got our $70 back.
Flash back to the present: I returned Gary Potter's call, and got the full details of Boris' Incredible Journey. They were in the middle of renovating their place when Boris arrived. According to Mr. Potter, he looked like the cat in "Pet Sematary", only worse because he had fallen into a can of paint. He would also guard his food so ferociously, spitting like a firecracker when the other cats came near, even chasing after the family German Shepherd on more than one occasion. In fact, he was so wild they called him "Hell Cat". I couldn't believe my ears...Boris, my proper, respectable, mild-mannered Dr. Jekyll, had a hidden Mr. Hyde unbeknownst to all!
Anyway, to make a long story short, Boris found his way to Mrs. Potter's heart, and some 10 months later, she told her husband to take him to the vet to make sure his shots were current. Of course, at the vet's they scanned him for a microchip and voila! my name came up as his rightful owner.
I explained to Mr. Potter that I had already adopted a Pit Bull in the interim, and Spot would end up having Boris for lunch. He heaved a sigh of relief, revealing that his wife had already fallen in love with the cat anyway. However, he graciously informed me that I was welcome to come and visit Boris anytime I wanted. Since he barely lived a block away from me, I decided to take him up on his offer right then and there.
I took the kids, who were excited to go to Gary Potter's house, thinking I was saying "Harry Potter" all along. I was thrilled at the prospect of seeing Boris again, after having given him up for dead. I was not disappointed. It was still the same old Boris, packing on a few more pounds than usual. He quickly recognized me, and ran to me, purring. This was the same cat that used to lie across my chest. The same cat who kept me company in front of my computer. And he was alive! Gloriously alive!
When it was time to say goodbye, I gathered my two boys and herded them to the van. Boris was nowhere to be found. I was a little sad, but piled my two rugrats into the van anyway. When it was time to pull out of the Potter's circular drive, I spotted a familiar figure sitting in front of the house, barely two meters away. My cat had come to say goodbye after all.
He sat there, as still as a statue, until we were out of sight. I know, because I doubled right back and drove past the house again, and he was still sitting there. Still unable to resist, I turned back again for just one last glance, and saw Boris walking toward the house, sniffing curiously at the bushes in front. I waved my last goodbye, yelling "Bye, Boris, I love you!"
And we rode off into the sunset.
Got a strange message on my voice mail today...some man named Gary Potter called to say he had my cat, Boris, and "did I want him back?". I had lost Boris, my Russian Blue, some ten months ago, when I exiled him to the backyard for chewing the molding around my powder room door. When I was ready to make friends again (after having sufficiently cooled off), I looked for him in my backyard and he was gone.
Of course, this being the dead of winter, I expected the worst. Boris was the biggest fraidy-cat you could ever imagine. He was also de-clawed, which meant he had no way to defend himself against territorial cats, predatory dogs, and the elements besides.
We had gotten Boris shortly after moving into our house in Modesto. My husband came home from fishing one night to find me almost beside myself, hysterical after seeing a big frog hopping around in my laundry room. I have always had an irrational fear of frogs, which was exacerbated when a tiny one landed on my head when I was a teenager.
Lorenzo took stock of the situation and promised to get me a cat for our anniversary. This took a lot for my husband to say, since he was never a cat person. I had always pleaded and entreated for a cat, but we would always get stuck in the negotiation process, because Lorenzo was seriously lobbying for a dog.
We went to the animal shelter the very next day. A Morris lookalike, a huge orange tabby named Old Yeller, first caught my eye, but when they took him out of the cage for us to examine, I didn't like the way he smelled. Good thing, because I really had my heart set on getting a big Russian Blue anyway.
Boris was a personality right from the start. When I first saw him, he was sleeping in his cage. I woke him up and he came to the front so I started petting him through the wire. The animal worker then called me to show me another Russian Blue that was already available for adoption. When I saw the other Blue, I wasn't too interested because it was a female and quite small, so I went back to Boris. He was lying at the back of his cage again, but when I called him this time, he wouldn't come to me, as if to say "I've already wasted my time on you once, I'm not about to do it again." I did everything to lure him to the front of the cage, because by then I had already seen that he was a beauty. Still he wouldn't come. Finally, when I said, "Please?", he stood up as if he understood, came to the front of the cage to be petted, and I was hooked for life.
We couldn't adopt Boris that day because the 4-day waiting period wasn't over, so he wasn't available for adoption until the next day. I spent the whole night thinking about my cat and praying that no one else would grab him from under my nose. I was afraid his owner would come for him before I came back. I was delighted to find Boris still there the next morning, and we took him home!
Unfortunately, my cat's glorious homecoming was short-lived. We soon found out that Boris was perfectly capable of ignoring vermin. If Mickey ever held a diminutive Thanksgiving Parade right under his nose, he would probably yawn, face the other way and pointedly look bored, the very picture of contempt. There would be no mistaking his message: "Is that all you can come up with?".
The seeds of discontent were again taking root at the Sereno household. To quiet my husband's accusations of "false advertisement", I decided to hire an exterminator to get rid of mice and frogs alike. But I was determined that someone else would take the fall along with me, so I wrote the following letter to my (then) landlord:
February 20, 2002
Dear Jim,
If you remember, shortly after we moved into your house, I informed you that I saw a mouse in the kitchen. I also told you then that I had gotten a cat, and was hopeful that this would take care of the problem.
Unfortunately, it was soon obvious that my cat was more interested in finding new and more creative ways to take cat naps, and the mice (savvy creatures that they were) had taken full advantage of this fact. The wee creatures were getting bolder by the day. One even took it upon himself to entertain me by frolicking in my dish drainer. The fact that it was stacked full of newly washed dishes (that eventually had to be washed again) did not amuse me one bit.
The final straw was when Lorenzo discovered little spots of moisture in our new family room couch. At first, we couldn’t figure out what it was, until we looked again at a later time and saw mouse droppings in the same area. This was the same piece of furniture that was delivered the day you came here, barely three weeks ago. The enterprising little things had found a way into my couch before I could even send Levitz my first payment.
Perhaps the mice would have shown us a little more respect if we had a snake like you guys. Unfortunately, with Boris the Amazing Sleeping Cat to take over the cudgels, we were pushovers. I had to take matters into my own hands, so I hired Step Aside Exterminators to take care of the dirty little details. So far, we have trapped nine of the pesky critters.
I would like to request that the initial payment of $70 be taken out of next month’s rent, if that’s all right with you. This covers the initial treatment of the house. We will, of course, take care of the $35 monthly fee. I am enclosing a copy of the Service Agreement for your records.
I hope everything is well with you. Please call if you have any questions.
Best Regards, Renee Sereno
My landlord knew better than to argue the issue, and we got our $70 back.
Flash back to the present: I returned Gary Potter's call, and got the full details of Boris' Incredible Journey. They were in the middle of renovating their place when Boris arrived. According to Mr. Potter, he looked like the cat in "Pet Sematary", only worse because he had fallen into a can of paint. He would also guard his food so ferociously, spitting like a firecracker when the other cats came near, even chasing after the family German Shepherd on more than one occasion. In fact, he was so wild they called him "Hell Cat". I couldn't believe my ears...Boris, my proper, respectable, mild-mannered Dr. Jekyll, had a hidden Mr. Hyde unbeknownst to all!
Anyway, to make a long story short, Boris found his way to Mrs. Potter's heart, and some 10 months later, she told her husband to take him to the vet to make sure his shots were current. Of course, at the vet's they scanned him for a microchip and voila! my name came up as his rightful owner.
I explained to Mr. Potter that I had already adopted a Pit Bull in the interim, and Spot would end up having Boris for lunch. He heaved a sigh of relief, revealing that his wife had already fallen in love with the cat anyway. However, he graciously informed me that I was welcome to come and visit Boris anytime I wanted. Since he barely lived a block away from me, I decided to take him up on his offer right then and there.
I took the kids, who were excited to go to Gary Potter's house, thinking I was saying "Harry Potter" all along. I was thrilled at the prospect of seeing Boris again, after having given him up for dead. I was not disappointed. It was still the same old Boris, packing on a few more pounds than usual. He quickly recognized me, and ran to me, purring. This was the same cat that used to lie across my chest. The same cat who kept me company in front of my computer. And he was alive! Gloriously alive!
When it was time to say goodbye, I gathered my two boys and herded them to the van. Boris was nowhere to be found. I was a little sad, but piled my two rugrats into the van anyway. When it was time to pull out of the Potter's circular drive, I spotted a familiar figure sitting in front of the house, barely two meters away. My cat had come to say goodbye after all.
He sat there, as still as a statue, until we were out of sight. I know, because I doubled right back and drove past the house again, and he was still sitting there. Still unable to resist, I turned back again for just one last glance, and saw Boris walking toward the house, sniffing curiously at the bushes in front. I waved my last goodbye, yelling "Bye, Boris, I love you!"
And we rode off into the sunset.
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