My Lola loves me
She left the Philippines
Her three kids
Her home
Her life
To cut sugar cane on the plantations of Hawaii
To provide for her family
After her husband passed away.
My memories of my Lola during my childhood are matamis
As matamis as the calamansi juice she hand-squeezed
From my neighbor’s tree
I have an older brother
Whom I would always fight with
To taste her calamansi juice first
She spoke to me in Tagalog growing up
Her Filipino accent as thick as the sabao of kare kare
My favorite Filipino dish
Fed me the Filipino food she cooked
Sinigang, tinola, lumpia, adobo
Giving me a taste of my identity
Every time I left the house,
She would say, “Ingat ka!”
Stand outside
And wait there until I was no longer in sight
When I came back
She would always be the one to open the door
To the tune of my “Tao po!”
I gently took her brown and callused hand
Pressing it against my forehead
While I was away for college
The calamansi juice became maasim
I no longer argue with my kuya
Over who gets to try it first
She only asks my kuya to taste it.
She shouldn’t pick the calamansi anyways
It is full of trauma
Trauma pushing against the skin of the fruit
Begging to be released
Trauma that my family refuses to talk about
Instead the calamansi sits on the counter,
Unsqueezed
Becoming brown
and rotten
and mushy.
Yet my family doesn’t bother to throw it away
Because they cling onto any material thing that
Being in America has brought them
Cluttering our home
With reminders that
We. Are. American.
American
Once I cut open the calamansi
The juice stings my wounds
If you taste it
Your tongue will retreat to the back of your throat
Where phrases like “I love you.”
Or “How are you doing?”
Or “Take care of yourself.”
Are ghosts
That have never been invited in our household.
The people that are invited though
Are titas that exclaim, “Tumaba ka ba?”
And ask, “Meron ka na bang boyfriend?”
Being nosy and judgmental
Being met with stiff smiles from my parents
Whenever a family member comments,
“Maganda ang boses mo Sophia!”
My parents are full of pride
Tell me to perform
To entertain
To show off
To care about what others think.
When it came time to apply for college
My parents planted this love for singing
For seventeen years
For using my voice
For flowing feelings freely
Feelings that could not be expressed at home
And dug it right out
“Don’t tell me you’re applying to music school,” they said.
So I didn’t.
Now, when I go back home for break
I don’t drink the calamansi juice my Lola makes
There’s not enough sugar
My Lola adds water to lessen the sourness
Watering down my experience
With words she won’t own up to
With bible verses and hymns of praise
With lies she whispers to my parents
Just like the calamansi sitting on the counter,
My memories of my Lola have become
Untouched
Brown
Rotten
Mushy.
My Lola hates me now
I left Hawaii
My friends
My home
My life
To cut my connection, my lineage, my culture from her
To provide myself my own identity
After her love passed away.