Philly 2019: At home in America

I began to write this on the eve of the US elections, not imagining that three days after, there would be protesters dressed as dancing mail boxes on the streets of Philly.

‘Murica.

‘Murica, we said gleefully, chomping on Shake Shack burgers and Chipotle takeaway and Olive Garden bread sticks and Philly cheesesteak from Pat’s King of Steaks and turkey wraps at Reading Terminal Market.

‘Murica, we nodded as we drove past yards festooned with spooktacular Halloween kitsch and the ubiquitous Stars and Stripes, on our way to Lower Merion High School for my brother’s Kobe Bryant pilgrimage.

‘Murica, we observed in the grimy subway stations and – looking around at the colorful collection of commuters – on the train.

‘Murica! we exclaimed as we got on the hayride that bright autumn morning, a crisp and cheerful prelude to clowning around in apple orchards and cider and pumpkin pies.

But it was America that we murmured respectfully in front of the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall, birthplace of the United States.

America the great (red baseball caps notwithstanding and also fun fact! I did not spot a single one in two weeks), America the beautiful, America of green cards and greener pastures. America is a word that comes with all the weight of colonial history, and for countless Filipino households (mine included), a word that means balikbayan boxes stuffed with handbags and perfume from the latest Black Friday sale; Christmas newsletters about over-achieving cousins – she’s captain of the tennis team, he got into an Ivy; always that sense of distance, of faraway exotic names you could claim a personal connection to simply by virtue of being related to somebody living there.

California. Illinois. North Carolina. New York. The kind of places you could only visit after undergoing the ritual humiliation of the visa application process (if you were very lucky, and had prayed to all the saints and anito on the day of the embassy interview that you had to take a plane to, you would even be granted a ten-year, multiple-entry visa).

I remember how my brother once excitedly demonstrated how Google Earth worked by zooming into the Philly suburbs where a branch of the family had relocated – we all knew their street address by heart – and now, here we were in the actual house, barely settling in, when –

“Let’s go to King of Prussia!” the cousins chirped. It’s only the second-biggest mall in the United States. Consumerism is so all-American and I am very much here for it.

But the old homeland endures, never fear. Family flew in from Europe and Asia, drove in from other states. The rehearsal dinner featured caldereta, menudo, lumpia and chop suey on the menu. The bride had planned a gorgeous fall-themed wedding (with the prettiest bridesmaid bouquets) and had the dress to match with a bow from her late mother’s own dress sewn into it. *sniffs* There was a money dance.

And then the inevitable highlight (lowlight?) of every large family gathering:

At one point in the otherwise very white-people country club reception, I suddenly find myself in a Filipinx corner. “Do you have a boyfriend ba? No? Well, here is ____, he’s doing his medical residency! Or we can introduce you to ____, he’s a doctor also, and he’s single. Mabait ‘yon.“

Years and years of dealing with rudely put and intrusive questions back in the PI have equipped me with the politeness required to shut this down. “I’m only here for a couple more days before we head to D.C.,” I demur. “But thank you po.”

How strange to feel so at home, for better or for worse, here in America.