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I weave around Mom and grab a piece of jackfruit, then bite into its sticky flesh, letting the sweet juice linger on my tongue. She shoos me away from the kitchen, pretending she’s annoyed at me. I can’t wait to tell everyone my big announcement but decide to hold off until dinner is over so I have everyone’s full attention. I want my brothers to hear too. I love them almost like they’re my kids and not just my brothers. It’s funny. When they were really little, when we first moved to America, my mother’s pinay—and closest—girlfriends would call me maliit na ina—little mother—because I was so protective of the boys.
My brothers and I are very different though. Not only because I’m a girl. It goes deeper. Since I’m the oldest, I’ve always felt more pressure to be successful. I have to show them the way. And I also have to act like a bridge between them and my parents. Danny and Isko are pretty much 100 percent American. It’s as if my parents are first-generation immigrants and they’re second generation. But I’m stuck somewhere between both of them, trying to figure out how to help them understand each other.
The sounds of my brothers playing video games in the back of the house float down the hallway. Dad is watching the local news. I kiss him hello on the cheek and sit on the couch to watch with him. The anchor introduces a video clip of a politician from Los Angeles slamming an immigration reform bill that’s just been introduced in the Senate.
Suddenly, I recognize the man on-screen from the hospital.
It’s Congressman Blakely. Royce’s father. He’s talking about how a path to citizenship shouldn’t be granted to undocumented immigrants at all. If they entered the country illegally, he says, then they don’t deserve to be Americans. Oh great, he’s one of those politicians who think illegal aliens are as good as criminals, and deserve punishment rather than mercy. I shift in my seat, thinking of Royce, and wonder if he agrees with his father. I sort of hope not.
My family got their green cards when we moved to America, but none of us are American citizens yet. I don’t think I can apply to become a citizen until I turn eighteen next year. But the minute I do, you can bet I’m taking the oath. I can’t wait to vote.
Dad shakes his head and starts pontificating to the air. “If that congressman had to grow up in a different country, he would understand better why people come here. These politicians know nothing of true hardship.”
“Easy lang, Dad,” I say, meaning take it easy. “Don’t get too riled up. It’s bad for your heart.”
He looks up at me and clicks his tongue. “O-o na. Have you done your homework yet?”
“I just got home! You know I do my homework after dinner.” My parents. I swear, school is all they care about. They never ask about Kayla, or cheer, or my hospital project. It’s always, how did you do on your test, did you get an A, did you get all your work done?
Dad turns off the television. “As long as you know your job. You’re lucky to not have to get up at five in the morning to do chores, then walk three miles to school or swim half a mile in the monsoon season like I did when I was a boy.” This is my Filipino dad’s version of the classic American dad tale of “walking home for miles in the snow uphill.”
Before I can tease him for repeating the same story over and over again, Mom yells at me, “Neneng! Take your shower and tell your brothers to set the table. The adobo’s almost ready.”
I walk down to my room, toss my backpack onto the ground, and flop onto the bedspread. It’s fluffy and off-white with textured fabric in the shapes of flowers. It looks like a bed for a princess without the fussiness. Mom and Dad let me redecorate my room for my birthday present one year. I researched what I wanted for months. Dad complained about how long I took to choose everything, but I think Mom enjoyed the redecorating. She never had her own room in Manila, so I didn’t mind letting her give me her opinion on just about everything. Even though there were times when she drove me completely crazy.
No, Mom, I know it’s hard to believe, but I don’t want yellow bamboo floor mats to go on top of the carpet.
Anything we couldn’t afford to buy, Mom either made herself or got help from her crafty girlfriends. I decided on a creamy light pink and off-white color scheme with black accents. I hung pictures of my family’s last vacation to the Philippines, and shadow boxes with pretty colored-glass bottles inside them on the walls. I keep my sand and rock collection inside the bottles. They’re filled with little pieces of places I’ve been since I was a young girl. There are red lava rocks from Taal Volcano near Manila, where Dad and I fished for giant maliputo. In a light pink bottle, there’s a clump of regular everyday dirt, the first soil I stepped on in California. The newest one, a turquoise green bottle, holds white sand from Boracay Island.
Dad didn’t want to spend the money to go to the fancy beach, one of the most popular in the Philippines, but Mom insisted that all of us go for a few days the last time we were there. I remember her making a big deal about the trip, almost like she thought we would never get the chance to go again.
Then I have a pin board where I write down inspirational quotes I’ve discovered in books or online. My favorite is the one from President Roosevelt about how we’re all descended from immigrants and revolutionaries.
But the most important thing in my room, the thing I could never travel anywhere without, my secret good-luck charm, my talisman, is a small piece of amber-colored glass my grandmother found inside a big balete tree when she was a young girl. She gave me the glass for good luck before I left for America. It was a secret between us, because Mom doesn’t like her mother’s superstitions. I love the story Dad tells about how Lola Baby demanded that Mom and her entire family travel to Dad’s village a whole month before their wedding because she was convinced that couples who are about to get married are prone to accidents, so they shouldn’t travel before the wedding.
I hear my brothers shouting, barely muffled by the thin walls. Rolling off my bed, I get up and walk into the hallway. They’re still yelling as I open the door to the room next to mine, which they’ve shared ever since we moved to California. They’re playing Call of Duty. The bullets are ripping through the television speakers. It’s so loud I can barely hear myself think.
“Danny! Isko!”
They can’t hear me, or are pretending not to.
I quietly sneak up behind Isko and pinch his neck.
“Ack! Ate!” Isko complains. They both call me “big sister.” Mom and Dad do too—it’s another Filipino thing.
Not wanting to take his hands off the controller, Isko twists his neck to try to get me to stop while Danny laughs at him. On the screen, I watch Danny shoot Isko—his side of the screen turns red with blood. Isko throws down his controller, whining, “You made him kill me. He always wins anyway.”
Isko’s only nine years old. He’s the baby and the one who takes after Dad. He’s skinny and has little chicken arms and legs. Danny and I tease him sometimes, calling him our little runt, but Isko isn’t just short. He’s short even for a little pinoy boy. What he doesn’t have in height, Isko definitely makes up for in personality. If he enters or exits a room, you’ll always know. He’s louder and more dramatic than anybody else, which really means something when you come from a Filipino family.
“Thanks, Ate.” Danny grabs the controller from Isko. “You should do that more often.”
I smile at them with fake sweetness. “You guys need to help Mommy set the table. Dinner is ready.”
“I thought it was your turn.” Isko pouts.
“I still need a shower. Get going. She’s about to start calling for you.”
Danny switches off the television and both boys sulk down the hallway, pinching and punching each other, as they head to the kitchen.
Danny’s the classic middle child. I know he feels like he can’t live up to the same expectations my parents have for me. He’s smart, but Dad gets down on him because Danny’s always drawing and doodling instead of doing schoolwork. He’s really good though. Way better than you would expect. You’d never believe he’s only eleven years old by looking at his drawings.
“Ate! Go take your shower. I don’t want to wait for you to eat my dinner,” Dad shouts from down the hallway.
“All right! I’m going, Daddy!”
Heading toward the bathroom, I think about the day our family moved to California. We boarded a big jet plane at the Manila airport. Daddy was worried sick about our belongings not showing up in Los Angeles. It’s crazy how much our lives have changed since that day. I don’t remember much about life there now, mostly that we were hot all the time, and sweaty, since the Philippines is near the equator. I take my shower, washing off all the sweat from practice, letting the water fall over my face and shoulders, warming my skin, relaxing my muscles. The shower is my sanctuary, the one place I can be alone and think without interruptions.
I think about the National Scholarship, how it means I can most likely go to any college now—and the reception will be the first time I’m away from home and on my own. I’ve traveled with the cheer team, but we’re always together. I imagine Washington, D.C., and the fancy reception and all the people who will be there—diplomats, activists, congressmen and women, scientists, artists, the president and the first lady. I’ll be around people who actually run the country, people who influence history and who have the power to make other people’s lives better. I hope I’ll be one of them someday. I don’t really know what I want to do yet—something to do with medicine or law, but I’m still unsure.
I decide I’ll tell my parents my good news by showing them the letter and letting it speak for itself. Then I’ll ask them to fill out the acceptance form with me tonight, so that I can send my information back as soon as possible.
* * *
As I’m brushing my hair, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Royce.
royceb: hey good-looking.
So cheesy! But I’m charmed anyway. I can’t help but grin as I text back. I forget about seeing his dad rail against illegal immigrants on TV.
jasmindls: Hey yourself.
royceb: are you around this weekend?
royceb: wanna hang out?
jasmindls: Maybe.
It’s not that I’m playing hard to get—I do have a lot of studying to do, and Kayla wants to go to Lo’s party, so that doesn’t really leave me with a lot of free time. I feel a flutter in my heart at the thought of seeing him again. Weekends are difficult, but maybe there’s another way.
royceb: maybe?
royceb: did you google me or something?
royceb: i swear that wasn’t me in the angry bird costume scaring the children.
jasmindls: LOL are you sure?
royceb: Okay, okay, that was me. The pigs made me do it.
He’s funny, I think as I type back.
jasmindls: Weekend’s tough but I volunteer at the hospital on Mondays and Wednesdays.
royceb: okayyyy. Not quite what I was hoping.
royceb: But I do hear the hospital cafeteria is delightful.
That makes me giggle out loud.
jasmindls:
Glowing, I head to the kitchen. Everyone is gathered around the stove, spooning rice and adobo into their bowls. I slip the scholarship letter under a book on the counter and grab a bowl of adobo for myself.
Mom notices I filled the bowl only a little. “What? You don’t like my cooking?”
Isko perks up. “Don’t you know, Ma? Jasmine is on a diet,” he says. “So she won’t get taba like you.”
“How can such a little boy have such a big personality?” Mom says, pretending to be annoyed that he called her fat, even if it’s an endearment. Filipinos don’t think being fat is the worst thing in the world, probably because it’s a Third World country where many people are starving.
I pat Isko on the head, which I know he hates more than anything. Isn’t that a big sister’s job? To drive her little brothers crazy?
Danny doesn’t say anything to back me up. He’s at the table sketching some kind of magical beast. Dad doesn’t even look up from his bowl.
“Mommy, I told you, I have to watch what I eat during the season. Otherwise they won’t be able to throw me up in the air.”
“I don’t understand you girls and your diets. In the Philippines, I never had to watch what I ate and I stayed skinny as a stick. I guess you think our kind of food will make you fat, but look at the Filipinos you know. We’re skinnier than Americans!”
Danny sighs. “In the Philippines...”
Mom ignores him. “When I was growing up, all of the children played outside all the time. We made up outside games and ran around our compound and climbed trees. At least Jasmine dances,” she says to the boys. “You’re always glued to the television.”
She always calls cheer “dancing” even though she knows better. I don’t think she ever got over the fact that I stopped doing the traditional Filipino dance classes in junior high. But I had to drop something to be able to keep my other extracurricular activities and still get all my homework done.
She walks over to Danny and grabs his sketch pad. “Tsk. And you. No drawing at the table during dinner. You’re as bad as your sister with her phone.”
I self-consciously check my pocket, to see if Royce has sent a new text, but he hasn’t. The thought of seeing him at the hospital next Monday gives me serious butterflies. I’ve had crushes before, and I can already tell this is the worst one yet. I’m really into him and I’ve only known him for, like, five seconds.
Isko stuffs a pork chunk into his mouth. “I like hearing about the Philippines,” he says, nudging Dad with his elbow. “Tell us the story about how you and Tito Boy used to fight spiders!”
Dad puts down his empty bowl and leans back in his chair. He loves telling this story. Tito Boy died a few years ago at his construction job in Manila, so I think talking about him helps Daddy remember his brother.
“Tito Boy and I would stay up all night before spider-hunting season opened. As soon as the first light came up, we hunted for El Tigre spiders in the jungle. They’re the best ones. We’d keep them in little boxes, any kind of small container, and let them out to crawl on our hands. Then we’d put them on long sticks, watch them crawl toward each other, knock each other off or fight to the death. We’d yell and scream for our favorite. Mine had only seven legs from a fight it survived. But let me tell you, that spider beat a hundred other spiders before I released it into a tree, retired to a new life. If only we could all escape this life with so few scars.”
By the time Dad is done with the story, Mom has brought over the turon for dessert. Danny and Isko swarm over the plate, grabbing two for each of them. Despite the warm sweet smell of burned caramel, I’m too excited about the scholarship to eat any dessert. I can’t wait any longer.
“Mommy, Daddy, I want to show you something,” I say, standing up and walking over to the book on the counter. I slip the envelope from underneath and hand the letter to my father. I’m grinning ear to ear. I’m so proud of myself, of my parents, of my entire family right now.
I can’t wait to hear them cry and scream and cheer when they read it.
I did it! I want to shout. I did it! I’m a National Scholar! And I couldn’t have done it without you!
5 (#u4afabb2e-99d7-5a54-a074-ee1622a50d47)
I take issue with many people’s description of people being illegal immigrants. There aren’t any illegal human beings as far as I’m concerned.
—DENNIS KUCINICH
DAD OPENS THE envelope slowly. Mom leans over his shoulder. They are completely silent as they read the letter. I expected my father to jump up from the table and hug me, and my mother to scream and start calling all my aunties to brag about me. But neither of them say anything.
In fact, they look like they just received the worst kind of news instead of the best news ever.
Okay.
Maybe they’re so happy they’re shocked into silence?
“Isn’t it amazing?” I reach over and pull the acceptance form from the envelope. “Don’t worry, I can fill everything else out myself, but I need a copy of my green card. Mrs. Garcia will let me use the copier at school, but I have to get it done soon so they know I’m accepting the scholarship and going to D.C. for the reception.”
They look at each other with concern. I’m so confused by their silence. Isn’t this the moment they’ve been waiting for my whole life?
What’s going on?
“Danny, Isko. Out! We need to talk to Jasmine alone,” Mom says. “Take the turon with you.”
I feel a chill down the back of my neck. Something must really be wrong. Mom never allows the boys to eat in their room, let alone play games after dinner before their homework is done. I suddenly feel outnumbered. I want to call them back to stay with me.
What is it? Are they worried about the plane fare to D.C.? But the letter says the program will cover all hotel and transportation costs for the weekend trip. Oh, maybe they don’t want to allow me to go to D.C. alone? Is that it?
Mom pushes the dishes to the side of the table, not meeting my gaze. “We have something to tell you, neneng, and you have to believe us when we say we’ve always wanted the best for you,” she says. “We’ve tried to do everything right.”
Dad just keeps staring at the letter like the words don’t make any sense. I thought he would be the proudest of me, of what I’ve done for our family. With this opportunity, I’ll be able to take care of my parents someday. I’ll be able to give them the lives they wanted to give me.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“We should have told you sooner, but we didn’t know how,” she says.
I sense a glimmer of what my mom is trying to tell me, and I feel a cold shock all over my body. This isn’t just about letting me go to another city on my own.
“What are you saying?” I ask. “What do you mean tried?”
“I don’t like your tone, young lady,” Mom says.
“Sorry, Mom, I just don’t know what’s going on. Aren’t you happy for me?” I don’t understand why she’s reacting this way. Almost as if she’s annoyed that I won this scholarship. She’s the one who pushed me so hard—they both did—but the way they’re reacting isn’t making any sense.
“Are you mad that I didn’t make the top-ten list?” The accompanying paperwork mentioned that the top ten scholars were invited to spend the summer interning at the White House. Maybe Mom is disappointed I wasn’t one of them? “Nothing will ever be good enough for you,” I say, almost on the verge of tears. “It’s not fair!”
“You don’t know what fair is!” she retorts.
Dad doesn’t want any of this. “Stop fighting! Right now.” His eyes have tears in them. “Jasmine, it’s not about you not making the top ten. This is an amazing achievement. We’re incredibly proud of you. You know that.”
