Is your home mine too? by Inez Dumaop

Between the ages 7 and 18, my grandparents lived with me and my family. Although it may seem like a small part of my life story, I remember so much of it. So much of it is me. I remember Papa’s sparse hair, which Mama would make fun of him for and said that the only reason there is any hair left is cause the doctors took some from his butt and planted it there. She would throw her whole head back and laugh at her own joke and smack my arm so hard cause she couldn’t take how funny she was. I remember Mama’s nails, always fresh and never grown out, always with different colors to match the season. She’d come back from the nail salon and say, “Look Nez! This time I got pink and purple set for Easter.” I remember my Papa trying to teach me how to sit like a lady because I always sat with my legs open, he’d say, “You cannot sit like that! That’s for boys!”

I remember the smell of Mama’s cooking and how it would carry to every part of our home, and how when I helped her my hand would smell for days like onions and garlic.

When Mama cooked, it was the only time she was silent. No yelling, no loud, ringing laughter. All you could hear was the sizzling pork or boiling vegetables. The sounds of home. It was when she wanted to be alone the most. Where she had every control. My stepdad, not knowing this, accidentally asked her if she needed some vegetables from the store one day and he almost lost a hand. My mom yelled at him after for not leaving her alone.

But Mama didn’t mind me there. In fact she liked having me there to watch. I think she hoped it was something she could pass on, but she never really taught me how to do anything. I think she thought some sort of switch would click inside me, maybe like hers did, and I would instantly know all my ancestors' secrets on how to make the most amazing Adobo.

I think I hoped it would too.

Years went by of me watching and eventually my brothers wanted to come watch too, but they were sent away like the rest of them. They went to go play video games or catch and I helped Mama set the table when her cooking was done. My fascination was replaced by boredom, and the sounds and smells of home didn’t pull me in like they used to. I begrudgingly cleaned the table when my brothers were done eating and they went back to their video games and catch. My little brother looked back and gave me a look I still think about till this day. I think we were both somewhat jealous of each other.

One day I asked my mom why they got to play and I had to stay and clean. She blamed it on the fact that I was the oldest and that it was my responsibility. I remember wondering If my brother had been born first, would he have to clean?

I immediately knew she was leaving one part out. I was the oldest girl.

Back then, being the age I was, I grew to resent those spaces with the invisible lines, with the unspoken rules that are meant to keep me here and them there.

Never did I think I would grow an appreciation for them. The fact that I was born a woman allowed me into those spaces where I got to attach to that part of my culture in a way my brothers never will. To this day, they still ask my grandparents questions about their life before here. You can see the genuine curiosity, this inherent need to want to connect with their culture.

My grandparents are thankfully still healthy enough to come visit and pass on to us as much as they can. But there’s a thought that keeps eating me away. And it’s that from us on out, our culture will look different. What I pass down to my kids would a watered down version of anything I learned from my grandparents. It fills me with sadness to think that no matter how much I try, the culture will die with them. Maybe that’s morbid or wrong to think, but I’m scared.

For now, I try to keep the memories alive, hoping that if they are present within me, they will stay present within others.

Vivid still are the sizzling sounds, the ringing laughter, and the suffocating but safe space with the invisible lines that held my grandma and I tight.

My name is Inez Dumaop. I am a storyteller and student. I have recently rekindled my love for writing when I took this creative writing class, and I want to keep tending to that fire. I am Filipino American, born in San Jose and raised partially there and partially here in Gilroy. My favorite pastimes include hanging out with my animals, my family and friends, and watching movies.