jessica hagedorn 2 

It's an entirely different story when you're paid by an American company to work in America. It's a different story when upon arriving in America there is a car and an apartment (courtesy of your company) waiting for you. That was my experience. I came to America when my profession was badly needed. That's one side of the coin. The other side of it is this: Since I arrived in America, all I did was come to a hospital, greet a patient, treat him/er and finish my work at five p.m. 

I did not experience the life of Bulosan. I did not experience the characters' lives in the stories of Bienvenido Santos. I did not experience the Manong stories of Peter Bacho. I didn't experience the gut wrenching story of Rocky Rivera in The Gangster of Love. 

In fact, I have a very sheltered life in America. I know this because I find time to read Filipino authors right before I sleep, through reading, I become acutely aware of a different Filipino immigrant experience, I get to live the lives of the earlier Pinoys, the Pinoys who made it possible for me to be sheltered and protected in America nowadays. 

I often wonder about them. Before I sleep, I stay awake a little longer in the darkness of my room and imagine... 

If I were Carlos Bulosan, I'd probably be hacking and coughing tonight, sweating and dead-worried getting up early to pack oranges and apples tomorrow. If I were one of the Manongs in Peter Bacho's Dark Blue Suit, I'd be in a little bar exclusively for Filipinos because most bars don't allow Filipinos, looking for a salmon fishing expedition in Alaska. And if I were Rocky Rivera, I'd be donning a blond wig, screaming my lungs out to an American audience who boo me for being a fake and an imitator. 

It is important for me to know these stories, not because I want to get hurt but because I want to claim them as my own, my unique Filipino experience. There is no nationality in America that can claim these experiences other than the Filipino. These are the reflection of myself. And they will be repeated over and over again for the rest of time. Someday, these stories will be as important to a Filipino as the Trail of Wounded Knee to an American. These are stories I'm never ashamed of, I'm rather proud of them. They keep my feet, as the new immigrant, planted on the ground. They are humbling pieces of information. And without them, I risk forgetting what make me a Pinoy in America. 

I say this because this is what I'm discovering lately: the more I read Filipino authored books the clearer the synthesis I form about myself. I progressively become whole. It is fine to come to America and start comparing with other Filipinos my salary and car and property but where does that get me? How does that comparison form me? How do my material goods make me whole? We are always bombarded by 'studies': studies about migration and studies about race relations and studies about this and that....I never read them. I don't want to rely on academic papers to describe my self. 

Here is how I learned about my immigrant self: I first read the short stories of Bulosan and his biography; then I read the stories written by Bienvenido Santos; then I read the books written by Bacho, Manguerra-Brainard, some essays by San Juan, and The gangster of Love by Hagedorn. They helped me form my self concept as Filipino in America. Reading these books makes me grateful and sincerely concerned about Pinoy immigrants everyday. 

Failing to read our Pinoy authors in America will prolong out guideless march. We're not recognized because we fail to recognize ourselves. Two million Filipinos in America : we've forgotten our past; we're more concerned who among us pay the bigger taxes, have the more expensive cars, the bigger organizations etc (now I sound preach-y, I hate to do this) What I'm driving at is this: we can never succeed as immigrants in America if we don't know our origins and our stories. 

I am suggesting, as I have done before, that we keep reading Filipino authors to achieve our Filipino whole-ness. 

Along these lines, I'd like to proceed with my review of the Gangster of Love by Hagedorn. After two novels, Hagedorn has pretty much established her personal writing style which to me is like writing stories on pieces of paper then letting these papers fly in the air and then picking them up again to form a book without a care about their continuity. Almost non-conformist to the 'standard' novel writing, Hagedorn creates books that surprises you. If you're expecting smooth-flow novels like the ones written by Bacho, Manguerra, Ty-Casper, Jose and others, Hagedorn will dash your hopes. She cooks as if remembering ingredients only when she needs them. And when the book segment gets a little taxing, she inserts a joke, or a historical truth, or a meaning - then you realize Hagedorn was first a poet before she became the Diva fictionist she is today. Unlike the panoramic rural novel writing of Sionil Jose, Hagedorn talks urban life the way urban talks - quick, dirty, careless, fast, deteriorating, graffiti-based, screaming, singing, trying, succeding, failing, smoking, fucking, getting pregnant, rebelling, inquiring....along the way, you see your Filipino self the way you never saw it before. 

When I was in the Philippines I envied the Fil-Am kids who were born and raised in America. They  speak fluent American English, have the opportunity of living the great American lifestyle manifested on Philippine re-runs of American TV programs. Or films. I thought America was this lovely world of sports and Hollywood people, white red and blue backgrounds and very agile young boys and girls, and....I thought if I'd be in America, I'd be a part of that beautiful life. 

It was so stupid of me to think that way. I never questioned why there were no Filipinos appearing in those TV shows and films. Why there were no browns in those wonderful red white blue backgrounds? Why there were no Filipinos on the great American novels I've read? I asked myself: Did I find America beautiful because there were no Filipinos in it? Or was I blinded by the beauty that I didn't care? 

I learned my lessons well when I came to America. I came unprepared and I had to fight to secure myself a place under the American sun. The way Rocky Rivera fought for hers. But her experience was hell compared to mine. There were passages in The Gangster of Love that increased my pulse: 

"Sister Mercy dismisses my band as postmodern. Monkey see, monkey do. We F(P)ilipinos can imitate, but this audience prefers the real thing. She pities me. The audience clamors for Madonna and Sting. Their brand of blond exotic, without gravity. They throw rotting bananas at me. I am pregnant, stuffed into a black Maidenform corset, gasping for breath. A screeching spider monkey crouches on my left shoulder, with a face more human and poignant than mine. To appease the restless mob, B.Goode introduces me, in desperation as "Madonna Demivida, fresh from Motor City, Detroit. You remember Motor City, don't you?" He's suffering from malaria, drunk too much quinine... 

"I packed all our tapes in boxes, copies of the one record we made in another. Sealed the boxes, pushed it all into the back of a closet. Fifteen years or so worth of shit." 

Rocky Rivera could be my sister and if my sister had to go through what she went through...

America may open its house for you but you've got to work hard in the kitchen, especially if you carry a working visa. And you must know how to hide if you're illegal. If you come here as a kid, like Rocky Rivera, and deal with a broken family and poverty and sudden uprooting while dealing with America's complications - be ready to live a total vida loca. 

I am always asked how I'd like my country the Philippines to be - I say, I'd like it to be so rich that one day I'd come back here in the US just to shop and not to greet and lift and be verbally abused by a patient. 

Still, I'm lucky because when I came to America I already self-established a stable concept of being Filipino. I came as a man who offers my Philippine talent to America expecting to be paid back for my services. It was a pure business deal. I still think that way - I work, get paid, pay taxes. 

Still at nights, I feel like a man suspended somewhere, abandoned by the bed my mother fixed for me at home, unaware of the beautiful bed I'm lying on. 

My reality is sustained only by the Pinoy authors I read. 

Rocky Rivera is a sis, bro.

Alex Maskara is Pinoy

Volume 1