I told Tatay at dinner, and he said it was stupid, that everyone knows the Philippines has no space program. Maybe it will one day, I said. Then I pointed out how we were some of the first people to cross the oceans, so why couldn’t we be among the first to cross space? He shook his head and said I have been watching too many American movies. The Philippines will never have a space program, he said. When I told him that I will move to a country that has one, he said no, that I was born here and I would die here.
After dinner, Grace told me she did not think my idea was stupid. She said she would like to visit Neptune. But when I told her how cold Neptune is, she switched her answer to Venus.
It is fun to dream about, but I think Tatay is right. So maybe you could become the astronaut instead. And if you’re a very good astronaut, maybe they will let you take someone along and you could choose me. We could go to Jupiter, or we could go wherever you want. Anywhere but this planet.
Sincerely,
Jun
* * *
I am on the floor next to my bed rereading one of Jun’s letters after dinner—still in disbelief that my parents have agreed to let me go on the trip—when there’s a knock on my door.
“Can I come in?” Dad says from the other side.
I put the letter away and slide the box back under my bed, wondering if he’s here because they’ve changed their mind. “Sure.”
Dad enters, pushes aside some clothes draped over my desk chair, and takes a seat. He leans back and looks around. I wait for him to say something. Finally, he points with his lips at the poster of Allen Iverson on the wall above my bed—one of the very few recognizable Filipino habits he’s retained. “That’s new, yes?”
I shake my head. Iverson’s still wearing a Sixers jersey in the picture. He used to be Jun’s and my favorite player.
“Oh,” he says. He looks around. Taps the statuette of the Forsaken Queen from World of Warcraft that’s on my desk. “But this is, right?”
“Sure,” I say, even though it was a Christmas gift from him and Mom three years ago. Another thing shaded with Jun’s ghost because when we were in middle school, he snuck out to an Internet café so we could play online together a few times. He was terrible, of course, but I didn’t care.
“I knew it.” Dad goes back to letting his gaze wander, and I go back to waiting for him to say why he’s here.
Eventually, I can’t take it anymore. “So what’s up, Dad?”
“‘What’s up?’” he repeats. “That’s a very American phrase, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“You’re very American. Like your mother. No accent like me.”
I shrug.
“That’s why I moved us here. I wanted you, your brother, and your sister to be American.”
“Mission: accomplished.” I draw my knees to my chest, seeing this for what it is.
“You may not speak Tagalog or know as much as you would like about the Philippines, but if we’d stayed, you wouldn’t have had all the opportunities that you’ve had here.”
I don’t say anything, but I wonder if Jun would still be alive if our family had remained or if his family had joined us in the US.
“It’s easy to romanticize a place when it’s far away,” he goes on, making this officially the most I’ve heard him speak at once in a long time. “Filipino Americans have a tendency to do that. Even me. Sometimes I miss it so much. The beaches. The water. The rice paddies. The carabao. The food. Most of all, my family.” He closes his eyes, and I wonder if he’s imagining himself there right now. After a few moments, he opens them again, but he stares at his hands. “But as many good things as there are, there are many bad things, things not so easy to see from far away. When you are close, though, they are sometimes all you see.”
I want to tell him that I understand, but I don’t because I don’t. Instead, I ask, “Like what?”
“Just be careful and keep that in mind,” is all he says, rising to leave. “I forwarded the flight info to your email. You’ll be there for ten days. You’ll spend three with Tito Maning, three with Tita Chato, three with your lolo and lola, and then one more with Tito Maning since he’ll take you back to the airport.”
“What about Tito Danilo?” I ask.
“He was assigned to a parish in Bicol a few years ago, so you’ll see him when you are with your lolo and lola.”
“Thank you, Dad,” I say. “I really do appreciate it.”
He stops in the doorway. “But, Jason, you must promise one thing.”
“I know,” I say, “stay with family at all times.”
“Well, yes, but that’s not what I was going to say. You must promise not to bring up your cousin while you’re there. It will be too painful for them. Too shameful. They want to forget. To move on. Honor that.”
“Of course, Dad,” I say. “No problem.”
He searches my face for the truth. Satisfied, he nods and leaves.
I may not have learned to speak my native language from him, but I learned to keep the most important things inside.
LIKE A FOG
I stay home from school again on Wednesday to prepare for a trip that does not feel real. I message my teachers to let them know I’ll be out and to ask for work, and then I make a checklist of all that I need to bring. I select books; charge my electronics; and download music, TV shows, and movies onto my phone for the long-ass plane ride. I text Seth to let him know what’s up. I DM Jun’s friend again, but he’s still MIA.
When Dad comes home from work, his car is loaded with stuff he picked up from Costco. I help him unload everything.
“Pasalubong for the balikbayan boxes,” he explains.
“Huh?”
“Pasalubong: Gifts for the family. Balikbayan: One returning home.”
I nod, vaguely remembering this happening before our last trip to the Philippines.
He sets up two cardboard boxes in the living room and then lays out everything he bought: clothing, medicine, toiletries, SPAM, ginormous tins of coffee, toys, school supplies, a couple pairs of shoes, and more. There’s no way it’s all going to fit in two of those boxes.
He starts methodically filling the first one, and I wander over and start with the second. He keeps glancing over and frowning. After a couple minutes, he stops what he’s doing and tells me, “Like this.” He gestures toward his box. “You need to put the heavier stuff on the bottom.”
“Oh.” I begin unpacking everything to start over, ashamed.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. Will you get the scale, please?”
I back away and let Dad finish.
After both boxes are full, Dad weighs them. One is a bit over and the other a little under the fifty-pound limit, so he swaps a few items until both are good to go. He then tapes them shut, writes Tito Maning’s address on the sides in large letters with permanent marker, and binds them with nylon rope for good measure. He pats one and says, “For Maning and Chato.” And then the other. “For Danilo and your lolo and lola.”
When I think I’m finished packing my suitcase, Mom comes in and makes me run through my checklist with her to ensure I have everything. It’s all there, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m forgetting something important. After she says good night, I pull Jun’s letters from the box, bind them with a thick rubber band, and shove them inside my backpack.