Lukso ng Dugo
WHEN my aunt saw her long lost son for the first time after more than 20 years, she knew it was her very own Ashley. She said she could feel it in her bones and she felt her pulse quicken.
Lukso ng dugo, ika nga.
When I saw that a 60-ish Asian man at the Oriental Grocery on Fourth Street, lumukso rin ang dugo ko. I knew he was Filipino. He had that soft-skinned look that many long-time Asian immigrants have here. But the way his hands were snug in his trouser pockets, the way he padded, shuffled into the store in his slippers told me he was Pinoy. He reminded me of my fourth grade math teacher, Mr. Naguit. I also saw in him the Chinoy owner of Johnny's Grocery in Angeles City. Or the red-nosed cook of Orchids Canteen on Sto. Rosario Street, who was always dressed in checkered pants and white, Crispa-brand sandos.
Later on, as C. was paying for our tocino and longanisa I confirmed that the old man was indeed Pinoy. He leisurely regarded the bottles of masala, cumin, fennel and fenugreek. But when when he came to the bottles of Rufino patis, Maggie Seasoning and bottled bagoong, he could barely conceal the glee on his face.
"Pinoy ho kayo ano?" I said to him.
"Oo iha, taga saan ka?" he smiled at me.
He called me "iha". It has been a long time since I have been called this. All at once, I was ten years old again and my life was simpler. A math test the scariest thing I had ever to face on a regular basis. There were no mistakes to pay for and all of my heroes still stood on their pedestals: proud, just and shinning with hope. It gave me a curious, conflicting sensation of being lonesome for home but also of finding home. A warm tropical breeze had brushed my face right there on Fourth Street, in the nippy Autumn air of Duluth, Minnesota.
Lukso ng dugo, ika nga.
When I saw that a 60-ish Asian man at the Oriental Grocery on Fourth Street, lumukso rin ang dugo ko. I knew he was Filipino. He had that soft-skinned look that many long-time Asian immigrants have here. But the way his hands were snug in his trouser pockets, the way he padded, shuffled into the store in his slippers told me he was Pinoy. He reminded me of my fourth grade math teacher, Mr. Naguit. I also saw in him the Chinoy owner of Johnny's Grocery in Angeles City. Or the red-nosed cook of Orchids Canteen on Sto. Rosario Street, who was always dressed in checkered pants and white, Crispa-brand sandos.
Later on, as C. was paying for our tocino and longanisa I confirmed that the old man was indeed Pinoy. He leisurely regarded the bottles of masala, cumin, fennel and fenugreek. But when when he came to the bottles of Rufino patis, Maggie Seasoning and bottled bagoong, he could barely conceal the glee on his face.
"Pinoy ho kayo ano?" I said to him.
"Oo iha, taga saan ka?" he smiled at me.
He called me "iha". It has been a long time since I have been called this. All at once, I was ten years old again and my life was simpler. A math test the scariest thing I had ever to face on a regular basis. There were no mistakes to pay for and all of my heroes still stood on their pedestals: proud, just and shinning with hope. It gave me a curious, conflicting sensation of being lonesome for home but also of finding home. A warm tropical breeze had brushed my face right there on Fourth Street, in the nippy Autumn air of Duluth, Minnesota.
posted by Natasha Vizcarra at 10:31 AM
2 Comments:
ang ganda ganda ganda ganda ng eksenang yan! - Ouie
Salamat Ouie!
Pagbalik ko sa Oriental Grocery, sana andoon uli siya :)
-N
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