TESS CRESCINI

Introduction: Tropical Storm is the first chapter of Tess Crescini’s book in progress, Two Countries, One Ocean. This is a coming of age story of a young Filipina immigrant to the United States, who hopes to fulfill the American dream she had seen in the movies but finds instead her authentic self.

Tess adds, “Why am I writing this book? This is my personal story based on my memory of what it was like for me as a new immigrant which was fraught with many heartbreaking events that I hope no one will have to go through. I want to protect my family or the people involved in this story so I fictionalized it. At first, my goal was to discourage my other family members who are well off from immigrating to the US because I think we've been fed lies about the American dream. I didn't have a choice in my immigration since I was only a child and we were dirt poor. But then after writing, ‘Twilight at El Dorado Drive-In’ about my date rape experience at age 17 with a Filipino man, which I kept secret for over 10 years, I found the writing experience to be healing deep in my soul. I have several chapters done, but I think I need at least 3 more chapters to show Rosario's triumph of the spirit.”

Tropical Storm

            Rosario tried not to think of her impending immigration to America. Mama told her that a good provider is one who leaves, like her Tita Virgie and Tita Delia, Papa’s sisters. They are living in California now and sending money to the family. Tita Delia sponsored Papa to come to America so he could do the same for his family. Mama constantly reminds Rosario how lucky she is to be going with Papa. But Rosario doesn’t feel lucky at all. Papa scares her, especially when he’s drunk. She will have to leave Mama, her brothers and sisters, her extended family and friends that she had known all her life. Mama told her that it is very important to keep a good attitude, bahala na (what will be, will be) as the saying goes. Rosario’s job is to take care of Papa while in America. He will need help with cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, and most importantly, reminding him to send money back home. As a 14 year old, she felt the weight of responsibility on her shoulders, but this is nothing new to her. She helps Mama with the care and feeding of her 4 brothers and 2 sisters ever since she was a child. She imagined her new life in America to make herself feel better. She wondered about the taste of cereal or sandwich as she had seen on television Americans eat them. She could only watch television while visiting her grandmother. Someday, Rosario thought, she will live in a house with their own television in the living room, when they live in America. As a dutiful daughter, she would do whatever it takes to support her family. She sighed, “bahala na, or was it bathala na (God willing) that Mama said?”

 Rosario lay on the mat with her brothers and sisters listening to the rain like liquid bullets hitting the tin roof.  Unable to go to sleep, she turned to her side and faced Mama who was breastfeeding Lila, the youngest child.  Mama's skin seemed translucent, showing the blue veins underneath like broken spider webs.  Lila sucked the milk.  Warm comfort glowed on her face.  Rosario felt jealous. She ignored the growling of her stomach by looking up at the exposed beams and the dull silver underside of the roof.  Like gossamer wings over them, the mosquito net made everything look soft, the serrated edges gone.  A bare light bulb strung over the cross members glowed down at the center of the room.  A small transistor radio broadcast updates of the typhoon, which blew so hard that it ripped the roof off a nearby house and the flying tin had sliced a man to death.  Rosario made the sign of the cross.  The walls of their own house quivered from the gusts of rain pounding against it.  A chill went up her spine.  She snuggled her sister, Sonia, who was sound asleep.  Music came on the radio and soothed the fear that their house might not be able to stand against this storm.  She breathed in the warmth of her little sister and held her, smelling the sunbaked skin.  

            The ballad, Dahil Sa Iyo, about happiness found in the arms of a loved one, crooned from the transistor radio. Dahil sa iyo, ako'y lumigaya.  Pagmamahal ay alayan ka.  (Because of you, I'm happy.  Love is the gift I offer you.)  Mama hummed along on those parts she couldn't remember the words to.  Rosario listened to the sweetness of her voice and smiled.  The rumbling thunder, the flashing lightning luminous through the holes and cracks of the thin walls seemed distant. Rosario harmonized the song with Mama, drifting in and out of the words about dreams and waking landscape amid the chaos of the rain and the terrible wind. 

            Rosario thought Mama looked beautiful:  skin the color of two continents, not yet old, except when crying her face went gray.  Her short, reddish-brown hair framed her delicate face and the thick glasses that magnified her eyes like sharp knives.   Mama sang, eyes closed, as if a spirit was calling her to sing an unspoken magic.  Something about the song stirred Rosario inside, moved her like holiness that could save her from harm.  

            The storm raged on.  Ripe mangoes falling with a thud-thud-thudding on the roof and occasionally the wind threw the mangoes against the side of their house, yet Rosario felt like a moth cocooned within the song.  Her ears drank it all.  Just like the way she paid attention to Mama when she talked about Rosario’s luck.  She was not only lucky having been chosen to go to America with Papa, but she also had the greatest chance to succeed than anybody.  Her fluency in English would make fitting in there easy and when Rosario becomes the big shot from America, the whole family would be, too.   Mama reassured her, singing softly in Rosario's ears of bright, sunny days ahead.  

            As the song on the radio ended, the time was announced.  Mama's face changed to concern.  "Papa's going to be home soon.  Hurry, heat the fish stew and set the table."

            Rosario sensed the urgency, so without complaint crept out of the mosquito netting leaving the warmth of her sleeping brothers and sisters.  The wind whistled in between the holes of the thin wooden wall.  She rubbed her shoulders and arms with a fast friction-producing-motion.

            "I think there's still some fuel left in the kerosene stove.  Try using it first. It'll be faster than using the clay stove," Mama instructed.

            "Opo. Yes, mother," Rosario answered, shivering slightly from the current of air that touched her skin.  Walking a few steps through a gauze-thin floral cotton sheet, Rosario entered the kitchen. She poured water from a red clay jug to a plastic cup and drank without pause. Her stomach quit growling.  The bamboo curtain on the kitchen veranda slapped the wet walls allowing rain to come in through the window.  Her bladder suddenly feeling full, she lifted the hem of her dress, pulled down her white cotton panties, and went down in a squat.   She winced at the feel of her pubic hair, still not sure about the hormonal changes going on, feeling hot and cold surges of energy.  Through the slatted floor, she tried to pee out in dignified little squirts, but finally let it flood out of her, then sighed with relief.  Giggling, she shook herself, pretending like a boy shaking his thingy.  She washed herself with a cup of water and watched her urine blend with the rainwater flowing underneath their house.  

            Finding the kerosene stove under the sink, she placed it on top of the kitchen table, then pumped it with as much vigor as she could muster, until she felt the pressure inside the canister.  Then slowly turning the valve, she released the gas that hissed into flames as it invisibly kissed the lit match.  Placing the clay pot carefully on the wobbly stove, she held the pot as she stirred the white miso broth with mustard greens and the meatiest part of the fish, its back and belly.  Her stomach growled again from hunger.  It had been at least three to four hours ago when she had shared this same meal with her brothers and sisters, splitting one small fish between all seven of them.  

            The best part of the meal was always saved for Papa.  The table had to be set as if a king were sitting down for dinner.  She wondered if he knew how Mama and Rosario went to the market early this morning to buy a live milkfish and picked the freshest greens and the ripest guavas for this stew.  And how her eleven-year-old brother, Jose, had to stand in line for well-water with a five-gallon tin can and carried it at least five blocks home.  She only hoped that it would make Papa smile deliciously after eating it. 

             Mama had talked about Papa and how hard his job as a truck driver for Esso must be, what with all the deep cliffs, and hours upon hours on the hardly maintained narrow roads, through heat and rain, driving on and on.  How they hardly saw him around because of that.  Rosario could tell that Mama must have once loved Papa.  

            "Where did you meet Papa, Ma?"  She couldn't help herself anymore.  She must know more about him.  Soon she would travel with Papa to America.

            A smile grew out of Mama's face as she spoke, "Oh, he lived a few houses down from my family.  He was in the U.S. Navy at the time and he looked really handsome in his uniform.  His eyes deep and dark.  His smile melted my heart.  He reminded me of Frank Sinatra, you know, the American crooner.  Must be that Italian blood in your Papa.  That's why our last name is Francini, you know."  Rosario felt Mama's surge of pride for marrying someone of European heritage.  The Europeans, the conquerors of this island country who mixed their blood with the brown skinned natives, civilized their primitive, warring tribal ways and united them into one central government -- Rosario learned that in history class.  Mama herself got Spanish lineage.  Her maiden name was del Prado.   Rosario considered the Spaniards the masters in the art of God.  Everywhere they went, they erected churches stressing God's unlimited power.  

            Rosario also knew about the fifty-year-American rule, and how when the American soldiers left them to govern themselves, the American teachers stayed behind to educate them and to teach them to speak English.  English, the international language of money.  Speak English or else was drummed into her head.  Fined by the nuns several times for slipping and speaking Tagalog at school, but Rosario didn't mind.  She wanted to be fluent in English--for that day when she'd be in California.  If one were allowed to have a favorite conqueror, the American would be hers.  Ever since she could remember, Rosario had always wanted to be like an American.  The Americans made movies, walked on the moon just this year, 1969.  She desired, not some boy to love or marry, but to be a part of the greatest country in the world.  The greatest.  

            Rosario believed that her oncoming trip was a gift from God, a miracle bestowed upon her as a reward for her vigilant praying on her knees to the Blessed Mother.  Or perhaps, a stroke of luck.  Papa's sister, Delia, who lived in California had petitioned for all her brothers and sisters to come and live near her.  Rosario heard gossip that Papa's drinking buddies pushed their papers faster and put them in the right places as a return favor for his generosity.  Payback time for all those San Miguel beers they shared in the corner store.  Sometimes forgetting to hold some money back for his family.  Tomorrow always took care of itself. Bahala na, as the saying goes. 

            Mama's voice trailed back in Rosario's consciousness.  "I used to wait for him to walk by.  I'd sit by the window with a fan to hide my delight when he looked at me.  Him walking with a sway, a sexy grin on his face.  He serenaded me at night, strummed his guitar, and sang songs so sweet."  Mama's voice turned warm pink.  After a pause, she sighed.  "Those were the days when a song had real melody, harmony, and romance. "     

            Rosario couldn’t remember the last time Papa sang.  

“We’re singing fools.  We, Filipinos.”  Mama continued, "We also love our food.  Even when we know it's bad for us.  My own father died of high blood pressure.  He wouldn't give up his pork roast for anything.  He said it didn't matter.  We're laid-back people.  Except when drunk."

            The door blew open and Papa walked in bringing a big gust of wind with him.  The mosquito net billowed and dampness settled in the fabric.  Almost stepping on the sleeping children lined up like crayons stuffed in a box, he cussed,  "Putangina!."   He shook the rain off his shirt and pants and took two steps to the right where a cot, a dresser, and piles of folded clothes in boxes stood.  "Where are my clothes?  I can't find anything in this stupid mess."  

            Rosario could hear the slurring of his words as he fished clothes out of boxes.  She felt as if a heavy weight pressed down on her chest.  Rain pounded the tin roof.  The light bulb flickered and blackness followed for what seemed like eternity before it came on again.    

            "It's in the dresser where it belongs," Mama answered with an edge to her voice.  She unhooked Lila from her breast.      

            "Oh, it's in the dresser, huh?  You mean in here?"  He pulled out the dresser drawer all the way and dumped the contents on the floor mats. 

            The children woke up from the noise and the baby whined.  Rosario felt her knees go rubbery as Papa emptied more drawers.  The noise of glass breaking, the lightning crackling, and the rain beating against the house made her heart pound.  She watched her brothers and sisters huddling in the corner:  Lila crawling after Mama, Sonia holding on to Jose, suppressing a cry, making faces of a child drowning in the sea. 

            Frozen in the kitchen, Rosario could only witness Mama pulling up the mosquito net to attend to Papa's needs. She picked up the clothes and handed him a clean shirt, pants, and underwear, without saying a word yet looking at him like a drawn switchblade.  Rosario remembered Mama saying, "Peace at any cost.  Storms don't last forever.  Just learn to ride it through."  She thought of Mama as a courageous woman.      

            "Don't ever talk to me like that again."  He aimed his index finger inches away from Mama's face.  Rosario grew afraid.  She had heard that tone of voice from Papa before, when he was itching for a fight. 

            "You're probably hungry.  Why don't you eat something?  Rosario's warmed up the food.  It'll make you feel better," she said, clenching her jaw.  She picked up more clothes off the floor and stuffed them in the drawers.

            At the sound of her name, Rosario quickly set the table:  a plate of rice, a bowl of fish stew, a glass of water, fork and spoon.  Her heart seemed to beat faster than usual and her knees felt rubbery again when she heard him coming closer.  She kept her eyes down as a sign of respect.  The scent of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke overpowered the aroma of the fish stew and white rice.  The bamboo curtain rattled against the window.  Through the slatted floor, she stared at the muddy waters collecting the thrash floating by.  

            Papa stood across the table from Rosario who was standing, waiting for his command.  He seemed pleased with her manners.  From the corner of her downcast eyes, Rosario watched a twisted smile surface on his lips.  Daring not to move a muscle, she stayed alert for a sign that would allow her to breathe easy:  a kind word, a pat on the back to run along and play.  Her stomach growled loud.  But the cacophony of the wind, rain, thunder, lightning, mangoes falling on the ground drowned out her body noises.  

            It seemed that she stood there forever with the fear of offending him before she heard him speak.  Or was it the thunder she heard first, she thought, confused. 

            "What the hell is this?  How many times am I going to tell you people that I HATE FISH!"  With one swift motion, he pushed the food off the table with the back of his hand, splattering most of it on Rosario.  She screamed as she felt the hot liquid against her skin.  The white mosquito netting caught the rest of it, sparing the younger children from getting it on them.

            Papa reached across the table and slapped her face.  "Ang arte-arte mo.  What the hell are you over-acting for!  This food's not even hot!"  His jaw moved back and forth with a furious force, grinding his teeth.  His arms coiled back.  Before he could make a fist, she ran outside to the rain, taking off her clothes soaked with hot food.  Tears fell, warm as the rain, but the blood running through her veins felt cold as steel.  She ignored the cries issuing from the house.  She pretended not to hear the screams to come back attached to her name.  Tasting the blood in her mouth like a sacred poison, she took shelter under the banana leaves, torn at the roots. 

            A frightened green, luminescent frog with bulging celadon eyes leaped on Rosario’s shoulders.  A succession of brief, amazing movements each one making possible the next.  Escape.  America.  Freedom. Tomorrow always took care of itself.  Bahala na. Bathala na.   

~~

Tess Crescini was born and raised in Pasay City, Philippines. She graduated from San Jose State University with a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature and a Masters in Engaged Humanities with emphasis in Depth Psychology at Pacifica Graduate Institute. Her poetry can be found in Reed Magazine, Maganda Magazine, Stay Awhile: Poetic Narratives on Multiculturalism and Diversity, Hay(na)Ku15 anthology, among others. Her fiction and nonfiction work has appeared in many anthologies: Three: An Anthology of Flash Nonfiction, Philippine American Short Story anthology, Field of Mirrors anthology, and Beyond Lumpia, Pansit and Seven Manangs Wild anthology. The main subject of her poetry, short stories, and nonfiction are about the role of a woman of color straddling the identities of her Filipino and American culture.  She writes to heighten the awareness of writing as a political, social, and literary tool in her community. Tropical Storm is the first chapter of her book in progress, Two Countries, One Ocean.