ot[her]

A young Filipina mestiza searches for her racial identity among the women of color whom she admires.

CHARACTER STUDIES

Lola: an old woman, with silver-grey curls that hint black at the ends like youth that hangs on by its joy. She wears soft pinks and floral patterned dresses, worn slippers, and a large watch that fits her wrist almost as well as the veins that surround it. Lola has a thick Filipino accent, points with her lips, and reads her bible every night. Her glasses are large round frames, and she always wears diamond earrings and a string of pearls around her neck.

Mama: almost a carbon copy of Lola, but middle aged—fewer grey hairs and longer curls tied loosely back, square glasses and a focused brow. She is quiet and gentle but intimidating, though barely over five feet. She wears t-shirts and cargo pants and sneakers, but her hands are the same as Lola’s—the markings, the mannerisms, the creases in her palm all exact. After act one, she wears a necklace made of the same diamonds from Lola’s earrings, and she plays with it when she answers difficult questions.

Celine: the smallest version of the two women above—she is barely seven years old, with bigger, rounder eyes and bouncing pigtails but straighter hair. She is fidgety and curious, with a book and sometimes a stuffed animal in hand. Her clothes are a little too big (just enough that she can grow into them).

ACT ONE, SCENE ONE

A bedroom—a queen size bed in a bedframe that lifts it about three feet from the floor. A bedside table holds a lamp and next to it, a large bookshelf. It is morning; light streams in through the window and Mama sits in the bed, eyes closed and whispering her morning prayers.

Celine shuffles in, dragging a stuffed animal (a puppy) behind her. She stops at the bookshelf to pick out a copy of ‘Little Women,’ then takes a running start to jump onto the bed beside Mama. Mama quietly finishes her prayers.

MAMA: (whispers) Amen. (Then, louder) Good morning, cookie. (Sees book) Is it story time? ‘Little Women’ again? We just finished it!

CELINE: I want to read the part about their papa coming home!

MAMA: Okay, little one. What do you say?

CELINE: Please, mama?

MAMA: (Nods, then begins to read the story—in the book, the girls’ father comes home from the war and they gather around the fire to greet him. Celine interrupts her.)

CELINE: It’s like when papa comes home from work at night!

MAMA: Yes, he’s always happy to see you. But he’s never gone long.

CELINE: Mama?

MAMA: Yes?

CELINE: (Eyes wide) How come people look at papa funny when he holds my hand to cross the street?

MAMA: (Pauses) Oh honey. You and your brother have my eyes and hair, dark brown like mine. Your papa has blue eyes and he was blonde when he was your age. A long time ago, people would have looked at me funny too, for holding your papa’s hand.

CELINE: Mama?

MAMA: Yes, honey.

CELINE: How come we don’t look like papa? Is it because we come from your tummy?

MAMA: (Laughs) No, love. You get some things from your father and some from me. Your eyes may be brown like mine but they’re bigger than mine, better to see with, and you have his creative mind and his compassion. That’s why you paint watercolors together outside on the weekends.

CELINE: Mama?

MAMA: (Patiently) Yes, dear.

CELINE: What’s compassion?

MAMA: Caring about someone a great deal. The way he cares about you.

CELINE: (Sits up) I care about him, too! And I love the crepes he makes in the

morning. It means I get to have chocolate for breakfast.

MAMA: (Smiles) I know you do. Let’s go say good morning and get you some breakfast.

ACT ONE, SCENE TWO

Lights turn out in the bedroom and on in the kitchen, where Celine (older now, about thirteen) steps in to find Lola setting the table slowly, in her slippers. There is a large pot on the stove, filled with champorado, or Filipino chocolate rice porridge.

LOLA: Good morning, ang ganda ko. Did you sleep well?

CELINE: I did, but I smelled champorado and I had to get up.

LOLA: (Smiles) Your favorite.

CELINE: You remembered!

Lola begins to serve the champorado, putting a generous scoop in each bowl. Celine sits down eagerly to eat, and Lola stands while she drinks hot tea from a mug that reads “World’s Best Nurse.”

CELINE: Is this why you put chocolate chips in when I make you oatmeal? So that it tastes like champorado?

LOLA: (Nods) Next time I will teach you how to make it this way. It’s easy. Just rice instead of oats.

CELINE: Really?

LOLA: My lola taught me when I was your age. I was like you.

CELINE: (Eyes wide again) What were you like when you were my age?

LOLA: I didn’t have as many questions.

CELINE: What are the Philippines like? Why did you leave?

LOLA: Hot. Lots of mosquitos. My family was there, but there was a better life here for me and your lolo. And for your mama, and you too. So we left.

CELINE: I remember. You were a nurse and he was a sailor?

LOLA: Yes. In the Navy. (She says Navy with a Filipino accent, so that it sounds more like ‘Naby.’ Celine takes note.)

CELINE: Lola?

LOLA: Yes, ang ganda ko.

CELINE: How come you didn’t teach my mama how to speak Tagalog? Or my uncles or my aunties?

LOLA: It helped them fit in—they were American kids who speak English without accents. It was easier for them.

CELINE: Will you teach me some?

LOLA: You already know some.

CELINE: Do I?

LOLA: (Kisses Celine on the top of her head) Ang ganda ko—my beautiful.

CELINE: (Looks up at Lola) I guess I do.

LOLA: And all the foods I cook. You know those.

CELINE: Oh, of course. Adobo, pancit, lumpia…

LOLA: That’s your kuya’s favorite.

CELINE: Is that Tagalog, too? Kuya?

LOLA: (Nods) Kuya for brother, ate for sister.

CELINE: But Lola, I want to speak to you in Tagalog.

LOLA: I can speak English just fine. You and I will communicate best that way.

CELINE: But—

LOLA: Finish your breakfast, naman.

CELINE: (Looks down) Yes, Lola.

ACT ONE, SCENE THREE

Lights come up briefly on the bedroom, which is now a hospital room with an IV tube. They come back down and lights in the kitchen come on—Mama and Celine (now 18)—sit in the kitchen, drinking tea. They look tired—it is late, the light in the kitchen is no longer natural light, but dim and fluorescent.

CELINE: I miss her. It’s weird.

MAMA: I know, honey. I miss her too.

She plays with her necklace, absently.

CELINE: I don’t think it’s fully sunken in yet.

MAMA: Me either. But I’m here, if you need me. If you need to talk.

CELINE: Me too, mama.

MAMA: I’m not sure I have anything to say yet.

CELINE: It’s okay.

There is a brief silence.

CELINE: Who’s going to cook at holidays now?

MAMA: We’ll figure something out.

Lights dim further in the room and Celine addresses the audience from a spotlight.

CELINE: We haven’t quite figured it out yet. The pancit tastes almost the same as it used to, but nobody can julienne the vegetables quite the way Lola did. When she was in the hospital, everyone brought Filipino food for two weeks while we slept there, waiting. It was sweet, it was meant to be sweet.

She fiddles with her necklace.

But none of the food tasted like hers, and it sent me into this spiral of fear that I hadn’t learned enough about her culture. That I didn’t know enough about who I was, that I didn’t know how to respect those who came before me and the sacrifices they made. I didn’t have the trials they did—I took the privilege of my white side when it was convenient and I was a minority when the oppressors were convicted. I’m learning that I cannot just choose to be a woman of color when I want to, but I’m also learning that my own culture narrative is eating champorado in an American kitchen. The same kitchen I ate crepes in when I was seven, and the same kitchen I cook in with my mestizo cousins every Christmas. I cannot claim to be one or the other, but I must also take responsibility for both. I carry Lola’s accent with me. When I find myself passing through barriers she couldn’t, it helps me to remember what burdens she bore for my privilege. And I think of her every time I put chocolate in my American oatmeal.

Shuffles out of kitchen in worn slippers. Lights go out.