Writers Note: As with all my pieces, this one is meant to be personal and humorous. I have no interest in news or documentary style writing. I make no universal proclamations; that is other than the fact I like Filipinas! DW
I’ve already written that many Filipinas are very interested in having a baby with a Westerner. There’s just something about white skin, blue eyes and a long nose that drives them wild.
Janet agrees with this sentiment, though still has a hard time understanding why genetically I can’t give her a blue-eyed baby. “Not every race produces blue eyes. After all, there aren’t any blue-eyed Filipinos either,” I said.
“Sure there are. Ones with a foreigner father.”
“But not this foreigner father,” I said.
She eventually understood well enough to giggle and said, “So if I ever have a blue-eyed baby, I would be in trouble?”
“Big time,” I agreed.
But it was her other core genetic belief that really threw me. Driving in the car we were having a discussion on just this subject when I mentioned, “Of course, even if we have a child, it’s just as likely that he or she will have dark skin and a small, cute, flat nose like yours.”
“No, I don’t think so. She will be white with a long nose. I’m positive.”
I tried to be mature and reasonable; that’s what you do at 61. “But you wouldn’t be disappointed if a child turned out looking more Filipino than Caucasian?”
“That’s not possible. The white always overcomes the brown.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Estrogen supplements like Estrace buy levitra from india or Estradiol are also given. So next time, give the herbals a miss and tadalafil india price. Good luck with the writing! Top marketers have “ripped off” his stuff… have you? For nearly a decade, top marketers and business owners have been quietly “stealing” from this guy. buy viagra without Now you do not need to purchase hard and bitter tablets cialis without prescription for the treatment of erectile dysfunction. “No, everyone knows that. When a Filipina has a child with a foreigner the child looks like the foreigner.”
“Right now Darwin is rolling over in his grave.”
“Who?”
Darwin was pretty white and long nosed himself
“When a Filipina has a child with a foreigner the child looks like the foreigner.”
I tried reasoning with her, “But look at my kids.”
Now, I have two teenagers whose mother’s heritage is from the Carribbean; a mix of several races but certainly leaning mostly toward African-American.
Janet agreed that while my kids had some of their mother’s qualities, they were mostly me. No matter how much I argued logically, quoted law of averages, genetic theory, and all that crap, Janet is convinced of her position. Not only does she believe, as I already knew, that white skin and a long nose are better qualities to have, she believes that genetically they are superior qualities. In other words white trumps brown.
I approached a mutual Filipina friend. A medical professional, I figured she would certainly be able to set Janet straight. She listened to my dilemma and thoughtfully answered, “Dave, everyone knows that when a foreigner and a Pinay have a baby, the baby looks like the foreigner. That’s why we want you.”
“What about genetics?” I asked.
“Everyone knows the white genes are stronger than the weaker brown ones.”
“I musta missed that chapter when I studied Darwin.”
Janet and I were preparing for our first meeting. We’d known each other online for nearly a year but hadn’t met. I’d proposed that she meet me in Cebu City the previous December when I was preparing my first trip to the Philippines but she turned me down cold. I was honest and told her I intended to meet several of my chatmates during the trip.
Her response was right to the point. “I don’t want someone who just wants to ‘collect and select.’” Frankly, up until that conversation the notion of “collecting and selecting” sounded like a pretty good thing but I understood and respected her point of view. Unlike some Filipinas, she was not willing to give up her values just to meet a foreigner, no matter how guapo.
In another posting I’ll get into the details, sordid as they are, about how that all turned around. The main point is that by the summer of 2012 we’d decided to meet. By then I knew enough about the culture of the Philippines to be unsurprised when Janet proposed that we spend part of our time together traveling to the small town of Alcoy, Cebu and meet her family.
I’d been in Cebu City before. A metro area of about 3 million I liked it, despite the pollution and mad traffic. But Alcoy had nothing in common with Cebu City, other than the provincial address. From Cebu City, Janet and I took a non-aircon bus for the three hour drive south to Alcoy. It seemed to take most of that time just to get out of the metro area, but once we did it was a different world. The highway hugged the coastline and many of the towns that we passed had wonderful views of the ocean. But none were as beautiful as Alcoy. The further we traveled south, the more I saw what I viewed as “real” Filipinos, with the attendant chickens, roosters, cows, and goats on the side of the road. Vendors constantly climbed on the bus, carrying Costco-sized bundles, hawking their food treats. Janet munched on a bag of chicharon; pork rinds. It was a different world from Manila and Cebu City.
Prior to arriving, Janet and I suggested to her parents that we take the family to a local restaurant for a meet and greet. Janet’s mom would have none of that, insisting we meet at the family home. This terrified Janet. “My home is very poor,” she repeated dozens of times over the weeks. “Are you sure you want to go there?”
“Of course I want to go there and of course I want to meet your family,” I told her, loving the fact that she was being both protective of me and her family. But as a traveler who loves the road less traveled I built in my mind an image of poor, provincial Philippines and couldn’t wait to experience it.
Her fear about my meeting her parents was equally intense. “They are very old,” she’d say often.
“But you told me they’re younger than me,” I reminder her.
“Yes, but they look much older. They are just poor Filipinos. You’re a very guapo foreigner,” she threw in, already knowing how to divert my attention.
Once in Alcoy, getting to her ancestral home takes a little doing. We found a motorized trike willing to take us there easily enough; he probably sized up the rich kano and figured a big payday. We exited the highway and bumped downward along a dirt road, passing gaping children, not used to foreigners in their neighborhood, cows, pigs, and the ubiquitous roosters. Even at my small size, I banged my head on the tiny trike’s crossbeam several times as we hopped along. All the while I wondered to myself, “just how bad will the house be and what will the family be like and how should I react.” I reminded myself that I’d spent time in a mud hut in Kenya and shanties in Tobago, so I could take anything.
Lechon anyone? The sign was made to welcome me the 1st time I visited Janet’s family.
The trike stopped with a jolt. On the side of the house we were facing was a large banner, “Welcome Dave Weisbord,” with photos of me and my family. Many of Janet’s family members were outside waiting for us. In a blur I was introduced to everyone. All I could think of was how touched I was by the welcoming banner. Lunch was already set up with the pig next to the table and chairs. The banner was magically whisked inside and hung over the soon to be devoured pig.
The Spread
Wave after wave of people came in for the food; the adults including the guest of honor first, followed by kids, neighbors, neighbor kids. Janet is one of ten children and I was amazed at how efficiently people came in and out and were fed. I am sure 60 people came to eat and gawk at the foreigner.
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I am sure 60 people came to eat and gawk at the foreigner.
As for the house that I had built up in my mind as part of a shanty town; it was modest but clean and comfortable. It wasn’t really that different from an American home; a couch and chairs in the living room, as well as a small TV and videoke system. The dining room was well set up. There were several electric fans which actually made the home cool, despite the mid-day heat. The porch was the main hangout for the kids and young adults and each time I was invited to sit there a flurry of pictures were snapped, everyone wanting to be photographed next to the kano.
Of course there was no indoor plumbing and I was told by Janet to avoid using the outhouse. Thanks goodness that at my advanced age bladder retention is still – well retained.
And what about Janet’s elderly parents that I’d been led to imagine were on death’s door? Both looked healthy and vital. I took Janet aside.
“I don’t know what you were talking about. Your home is perfectly nice.”
“But it’s poor.”
“And your parents. You made it sound like they were on their last legs. They look their age; younger than me.”
“But you’re more guapo.”
“Anyway, I like it here.”
After everyone had been fed, her dad brought out the Red Horse and we had a glass or two together. I asked to talk to her parents. With Janet and her younger sister translating I explained to them where we would be going on our trip and what we would be doing. I assured them over and over I would take very good care of their daughter. While they did not speak much English it was also clear that they understood it well enough. I asked if they had any questions. By now I wasn’t just talking to the parents. The entire family had gathered, neighbors were leaning in through windows. At least 40 people were listening intently. It was like one of those old Paine Webber commercials; when I talked – Filipinos listened.
Her dad calmly asked about how I would handle the differences, the difference between my being rich and Janet being poor. He had clearly thought out what was his greatest concern. I started out by gently correcting him. “Well, the truth is I am not rich.” But I immediately realized the foolishness of such a statement. Any way you look at it, by their standards, I am rich. All I could do was assure her dad that like all couples we would talk and resolve any differences.
Her parents seemed satisfied so I looked around and asked if anyone else had any questions. They all giggled and the Visayan flew. Finally, her brother asked in English the $64,000 question, “So, are you getting married?” Everyone laughed and cheered.
I asked him, already knowing the answer, “Are you a gambling man?” He nodded. “Well, there are no guarantees yet but in my country we would say that it was a good bet.”
More cheering and laughter. I had passed the first test!
Filipinas nearly universally love dried fish. Their foreign husbands universally hate it. The smell of cooking dried fish is worse than that rodent that died under the hood of my car decades ago, and since in those days I never popped the hood until the oil light came on, I didn’t discover it until the stench was so great I nearly passed out driving.
The smell of cooking dried fish is worse than that rodent that died under the hood of my car decades ago…
I asked Janet why dried fish smells the way it does. “They dry it in the hot sun.” And probably don’t bring it in from the hot sun until it’s turned to leather, I thought. OK, so now I understand why it stinks though not why Filipinos dry it that way.
Even more interesting to me is Filipinas husbands’ hatred of the dried stuff. Every culture has stinky and disgusting foods. Certainly the origins of haggis are far more nauseating than dried fish. Kimchee brings me near to barfing. Among many stinky cheeses, the king is Limburger, a cheese which only Curly of the Three Stooges could love. From my own culture, there’s gefilte fish, which I love though it’s basically made from the cheapest, nastiest fish that can be obtained.
Let’s not even talk about liver, a stomach churner when cooking if ever there was one. Yet my mother made chopped chicken liver on holidays and I could consume any given quantity spread on crackers, as if it were candy.
Durian
In fact, dried fish is not even the worst smelling food in the Philippines. First there’s durian, the only food illegal to transport in some Southeast Asian countries due to it’s odor; a fresh fruit, not fermented or dried, durian’s stench is such that it can hit me in a large market hundreds of feet away and knock me flat. I’ve tried it and all I can say is that it does taste better than it smells, but so probably did that dead rodent in my engine compartment.
Then there’s balut, considered a delicacy in the Philippines. A duck embryo, it’s boiled alive and eaten in the shell. Yum. I don’t know how it smells since I’ve never gotten close enough to find out – and I’m keeping it that way.
So really, dried fish has a long way to go in the disgusting department. Yet the guys always are repulsed. I know many who won’t let their wives cook it even if they aren’t around. Two of my friends decided they would be men about it; meaning problem solvers. Like me, they’re engineers (of sorts) so I’d expect nothing less. They bought their wives electric frying pans, so the wives could cook their dried fish outside. They figured if the women want the dried fish badly enough, cooking out on the porch in zero degree winter weather is a small price to pay. I questioned the knight-like qualities of one of the princely husbands, who said, “I told her when we married that there would be no dried fish cooked in the house. Hey, I bought the electric frying pan, didn’t I?” Good point; perhaps I’m being too hard on my friends.
Janet understands our Westerner view of dried fish and tries to accommodate me. She opens the windows and doors and turns on the kitchen fan when she cooks her fave dried fish, to no avail. My teenage kids complain. “Go play in the backyard if it bothers you,” I tell them, knowing that as modern teenagers they haven’t played in the backyard since the Bush administration.
As a fish lover, I’ve tasted dried fish and it’s not as terrible as it smells. So really, I don’t mind too much when Janet wants to cook it. I’m only appalled when Filipinas eat it for breakfast. How, I wonder, can you possibly start the day with such a stink. On the other hand, Filipinas consume pork for breakfast, hot dogs, and spam, so dried fish isn’t too far of a reach.
I had figured my friends as unusually tough on their wives until we returned to Alcoy this spring. I rented a small apartment from a German man. He’d built two apartments behind his very nice home. And at 500 pesos/night ($12) the price was certainly right. But upon entering the apartment’s kitchen, the sign said it all…”Sorry, we cannot allow cooking Dried fish!”
No dried fish
Apparently, I’m a bit of a pansy when it comes to the dried fish issue.
Janet wants to learn an American card game and I am teaching her Cribbage. OK, Cribbage is English but we’re basically all Kanos.
We’re sitting at the coffee table in our living room. “Music,” she commands. I fire up the Apple TV which streams my iTunes library. I select Shuffle Mode. Now, I have about 6,000 songs in my library: 90% jazz and 10% old rock and pop from my misspent youth. I also have about 20 songs I downloaded for Janet. What are the odds that the first song that plays over the TV and music system is by Katy Perry?
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Clearly I need to have a conversation with my son about what men will do for women.
Humorous, irreverent, occasionally informative look at a no longer newly wedded Fil-Am couple
