Balikbayan by Susan Evangelista
"What she really wanted, she often thought to herself, was someone to hug her, hold her tight, comfort her, shield her against the pain she felt from being so far from home."
When Jenny was visiting home in Lucena, she tried to push from her mind all thoughts of her “other life," her life in the land of dark shadows and cold, drizzly rain. When she was here in her province of Quezon, she basked in the sun, happy to be warm again, happy even to be too warm, to sweat. She gave in to total inertia, sitting with her feet up, accepting icy glasses of calamansi juice, squeezed fresh just for her because they knew she couldn't get the Filipino citrus in Belgium.
“Oh, well,” she’d say, “we can get lemonade; it even comes frozen. So, you just add water, but it's really not the same. No one else in the world has calamansi.”
She felt like a queen here at home, where she was known respectfully as Ate, the older sister. “Ate, shall I make some leche flan?” “Ate, shall I put the fan on?” One day, her brother Rico even offered to treat her to a massage; he could invite the neighborhood masseuse, Perla, the blind woman who lived nearby but usually went to work in the enclaves of the rich. Well, he had said, it really didn’t cost very much, and Jenny must be tired from her long trip, so maybe she'd like the woman to come.
Jenny winced. She knew Perla, but she didn't want to tell Rico that. She had tried to forget the hurt of that day long ago when they had met. Jenny had never told a soul about it.
It was nearly five years since she was walking home on a stormy morning from the club where she had been working — head aching and sinuses clogged. She had turned the last corner before heading down the narrow passage into her own neighborhood when she saw the frail masseuse, aged way beyond her 32 years, put her cane directly into a pothole, slip, and collapse into a heap on the dirty street. Jenny ran to help her up, collecting her belongings, the beat-up brown bag with a towel, the lotion, the oil, and the worn old wallet. She turned the blind woman towards her own house and had been ready to go on her way when Perla’s mother came bustling out the door.
“Ay," she shrilled, “what did she do to you, Perla? That puta, that whore?"
Is it a crime to help a blind woman? Jenny thought. Why wasn’t her busybody old mother out there to help her when she fell? Too delicate to come out in the rain? Jenny bristled and spat in the direction of the stupid old woman. What had she done to help Perla?
Jenny's eyes burned as she turned towards home. Puta! Well, that’s what she was, Jenny thought. Why not say it? Everybody else did. Even Rico had called her that to her face when they had fought over the money for the rent. She was a hostess, she would tell herself; paid for flirting, for keeping the drink orders coming. Sure, she went out with some of the customers after hours, and yes, she would have sex with them. But they would pay her, and had Rico ever been sorry to see her come home with extra money? The day they fought it was because she hadn’t had any extra! He had finally been angry and called her a whore and ran from the room in tears, shocked at his own audacity. Puta!
Jenny had cried and cried that afternoon, until the house darkened into evening. She promised herself she would find a better way to earn money to help her family.
And then of course the rest was history. One of the men at the club had invited her to a party. There were eight or nine men from Belgium, and they wanted to meet Filipinas, looking for women to marry. Since there were about twenty women present that night, it felt like a competition to Jenny. She was outgoing and friendly, and she knew enough English to flirt with the men. She considered herself ahead of the others.
She met Heinrik that night, and thought he seemed kind, if a little shy. He was old, of course, more than forty, she thought. He was in business, some kind of selling, and it seemed like he earned enough. He took her out to eat two days later. They enjoyed a gorgeous, expensive dinner right in his hotel, and she spent the night with him. He was very straightforward in his needs, nothing kinky like she heard the other girls describe foreigners wanting. If only they could have talked more easily, Jenny would have been completely comfortable.
When Jenny returned home the next morning, she asked her brother exactly where Belgium was.
In the end, she married Heinrik and went with him to his cold, rainy country. It was okay and she couldn’t complain. He didn’t beat her or anything. But he became taciturn, made no effort to help her learn Flemish, and seemed himself to have forgotten all his English except command words. She knew from the start that his mother and sister did not like her, and thought she was some whore he had picked up in Asia.
And that was strange because he never made love to her anymore, at least not anything she’d call “making love.” He “used” her two or three times a week. That was all. Jenny didn’t care; she didn’t even want “passion.” What she really wanted, she often thought to herself, was someone to hug her, hold her tight, comfort her, shield her against the pain she felt from being so far from home. She so missed the familiar voices, the chatting in her native Tagalog, the familiarity of her mother’s usual sour expression. Sometimes she really felt like a whore. Sometimes as she walked to the little market nearby, the neighbors she passed, the gossipy old housewives, looked so hostile toward her. She knew what they thought of her. Sometimes she even imagined she heard them taunting her in her own language: Puta.
Belgium was cold.
Heinrik gave her more household money than she really needed, and he allowed her to go to church on Sunday, where she met other Filipina wives and learned how to send money home. She started shopping, buying little gifts, jewelry, cosmetics, silk scarves, blouses and putting them away for a future trip home.
After nearly three years, when she knew Heinrik was feeling good and his business was doing well, she asked to visit her family. “Heinrik,” she pleaded, “my brother Rico is begging me to come home. Mama hasn’t been taking her meds and they think I am the only one she will listen to.”
“Really?” he asked. “I thought your mom gave up on you years ago.”
“Oh no, no. That’s just her way of acting. And she’s self-conscious because she doesn’t write well. She needs me, Heinrik!”
Heinrik looked like he’d been struck by lightning, like he’d never thought of such a thing. But two or three days later he told her yes, he thought she should do that, go and maybe stay for a month, no longer.
So here she was, home, with her mother and two sisters and two brothers. Home in her old neighborhood. Only the family house was not as she remembered—it had been remodeled, fixed bit by bit, a little more every time Jenny had sent money. She had her own room now, well, at least during her visit. Rico slept in it when she wasn't there. Of course, he was the eldest after her, and he was earning a bit now too, so that was his privilege. The two girls crowded in with their mother, and the youngest, a boy, either slept with Rico or out in the sala. Now, both boys were using the living room, but that was okay with them, they said, because they were so glad to have their Ate home! They were all glad, even Mama, who had regarded Jenny with such sad eyes every time she saw her, every day of her life, from when she had quit school to work at the club at the age of seventeen to when she married Heinrik at the age of twenty-four.
In fact, the whole neighborhood was glad to have her home. Children — she was sure there were more children now than when she left — came by the house, laughing and giggling and begging for chocolates. “Gimme chocolate, Joe!” Jenny wondered who they thought Joe was.
In the family, no one could do enough for Jenny – running to fetch things, cooking for her, turning the fan on, or playing music. Of course, they wouldn't own the sound system, or even the stove, if it hadn't been for her. She loved the food and the comfort, basked in the neighborhood gossip and in speaking Tagalog again. She wanted to feel whole-heartedly “at home.” But somehow her past and her other present far away in cold, rainy Belgium weighed her down.
In the end she decided to accept Rico's offer for Perla’s services, and thus on the seventh day of her visit, Perla came over to massage her. Perla looked haggard when she smiled towards Jenny. She said, “Yes, I remember you.” Jenny suspected Perla knew she knew now: Jenny had helped her once when she had fallen on the street. Perla’s voice seemed to catch, as if she wanted to say more, to apologize for the hurtful comments from her mother. For she must have understood.
Rico guided Perla into Jenny's small room and left. Jenny stripped to her panties. Never mind that Perla was blind, it still wouldn't do to be completely naked. She laid on her stomach on the banig, the handwoven mat covering her rattan bed. Perla puttered around, feeling for a tabletop to place her oil, and tucking her old brown bag into a corner. Then she approached Jenny gently, lining up her two hands on Jenny’s shoulders and running them straight down her back to just below her waist. She arranged Jenny's arms so that they laid straight alongside her body, poured oil on both her hands, and started in earnest. Jenny relaxed against the pressure and released a deep sigh. Perla's hands made long sweeps down the length of Jenny's torso, straightening her, aligning her muscles, warming her skin. Her fingers began probing the muscles of Jenny's neck and shoulders, pushing, smoothing, feeling for nodules of tension.
“There,” she said. “Oh my! So much tension. So many knots!”
Jenny felt defensive in spite of herself. Was she tense? Was that a fault? What did it mean?
“I think it's cold in Belgium,” ventured Perla after a few minutes. “Is that it? Is that why you are all pulled in, contracted?”
“Hmmm. Maybe,” said Jenny. She didn’t want to discuss it. All contracted? Could she explain what it was like to walk the streets of Heinrik’s neighborhood, their little town of Bruegel, feel the eyes upon her, hear the tongues wagging in that irritating, incomprehensible country Flemish? Could she ever explain that to anyone? Cold. Yes, she’d settle for that.
Jenny could never explain what happened next. Perla continued to work in silence, smoothing Jenny’s knots and muscles, plying her skin with sweet lavender oil. Then she said soothingly, “Relax, Jenny, relax. You’re home now.”
And cautiously, slowly, Jenny released some of her tension, relaxed her muscles, her hold on herself, and submitted herself. She started to weep, wordlessly, silently, but from her depths. She felt as if she would go on forever.
Perla didn’t speak for a long while, and then said, “It’s okay, Jenny, it’s okay.”
When Jenny’s tears stopped, she fell asleep, only half feeling, half appreciating the rest of the massage, the work Perla did on her lower back, legs, shoulders. She turned over to her back and slept again while Perla did her arms, upper chest, stomach. Perla moved to stand at the head of the bed and placed her hands on Jenny's face, which was slightly salty with the tears, but dry now. Jenny sighed again — her jaw loosened up and her forehead smoothed and relaxed.
“Sleep now,” said Perla, reaching for a light blanket folded next to Jenny’s head. She covered Jenny gently from her feet up to her breasts, and silently wiped the oil from her hands, put both the oil and the towel back in her bag, and left the room. Perla didn’t want Rico to pay her, telling him she owed it to Jenny. But Rico insisted, so she suggested a token amount. although truthfully what he finally gave her was not as much as she usually collected.
Jenny awoke in the semi-darkness of twilight. She felt as if she were on the bottom of an ocean, oppressed by water weight in the dim light. She laid with her eyes closed for some time, more feeling than thinking. She was home and she was warm. If she didn’t like her lot in life, well, she just had to keep doing the best she could, like everybody else. That was how life worked. But for now, she was home on vacation, she had come from far away with gifts for everyone, and she was queen of the household. That was something, at least.
She stretched as she sat up and reached for the house dress on the side of the bed as she stood. She felt a bit timid as she stepped into the sala, as if she were somehow changed, had a new hairstyle or something, and everyone would notice. The light assailed her eyes.
“Ate! Ah, good, you’re awake. Let’s eat!” said Rico. The two girls jumped up and started bustling around, setting places at the old wood table, scooping rice from the blackened pot on the stove, turning the heat on under the pork adobo.
“Ate,” said the youngest sister. “Shall I squeeze some calamansi for you?” The girl reached for a pile of the small green fruits and started cutting into them before Jenny had a chance to answer.
“Anak,” said her mother, calling from her old chair by the doorway. “Come, sit down, child. Uncle Max and the children want to see you. I told them maybe tomorrow. Your sisters can cook, but you tell us what you would like the most.”
“Okay, Ma,” she said, feeling for once that it really was okay. Her mother could accept her. She wasn't just happy about the gifts that Jenny brought or the money she sent. But her mother understood how hard her life was and why Jenny was choosing to live that life.
“Ate, come. It's ready now. Adobo and fish and fruit salad — your favorites.”
“Okay, okay," she said. Finally feeling a little spark of gratitude, she said, “Thanks.”
Author note: Balikbayan is a Filipino term meaning Return to Country, the home country. Filipinos who work overseas often make Balikbayan trips or yearn for them. At the other end, in the country, people welcome Balikbayans joyfully, and feel obligated to entertain them lavishly, just as the Balikbayans feel obligated to bring generous gifts.
Susan Evangelista was born in Michigan, studied Philosophy and Literature in Swarthmore College, joined the Peace Corps immediately after college, and was sent to the Philippines – where she has now felt at home for 60 years. She married Oscar Evangelista and mothered three remarkable children. She taught Literature and Writing in the Ateneo University for 30 years, guesting in schools in Nigeria, Japan, Cambodia, and more informally in a Burmese refugee center in Thailand. Her PhD work centered on Carlos Bulosan, and she published Carlos Bulosan and his Poetry (University of Washington/Ateneo University.) She and her husband retired to Palawan in the Philippines in 2000 and taught in Palawan State University. With her daughter, she founded an NGO which promotes Reproductive Health within a framework of human rights in schools and communities in Palawan. Her short stories and essays have been included in many anthologies, including her own book, Growing into Asia.