Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Pinoy Heroes

         I waited in our old Pontiac while my father disappeared into the grey tenement.   I knew he wouldn’t be long because this had become our weekend ritual.   A few minutes later, he emerged with two familiar, bronzed-faced Filipinos, Manongs or Uncle’s Eddie and Pablo. I  was twelve and we were going to watch baseball at Sick’s Stadium.  They always treated me.

   They were family and bachelors.   There were many single men in our community because of restrictive immigration laws.   I didn’t know at that time few Filipinas were allowed in the country.  Men entered more easily because America needed inexpensive field and factory laborers.  The thought was they’d return to the Philippines at the conclusion of their working days.  

   “Hello, Manong!”   I greeted each.

   They dressed immaculately in cardigans and pressed slacks.   Their shoes shone from a recent buffing and they smelled of sweet cologne.   They shed the look of the janitors they were during the week.   They were elegant!

   We never drove directly to the ballpark.   Instead, we stopped for lunch at Al’s Casino on Second Avenue, minutes away from Local 37, the union hall that processed Pinoys for the Alaska canneries.   Men hung out waiting to be dispatched as butchers, slimers and warehousemen.  Al’s was popular for it’s Filipino favorites – adobo, rice, pancit.

   The casino lay below street level.  We entered a stairwell sandwiched between two pawnshops, it's windows flush with watches, guitars and jewelry, cast off by the desperate.

   We descended the shadowed stairwell to the combination restaurant and poolhall.   Mahogany men filled the smoke-shrouded room.  Small groups stood around chatting.  Some shot nine-ball while others played rummy at the tables scattered throughout the room.  Sparse lighting emanated from shaded lamps, hung from the ceiling.  Odors from cigars, cigarettes, cologne and the cuisine blended and permeated the air.  We crossed the room and sat at the narrow, wood-paneled counter.   It wasn’t long before men sauntered over.

   “Tst!  Bicente, dis your boy?”  they asked my father in island-thick accents, 'th's transmuted to 'd's and 'f's became 'p's. 

   After nodding “yes”, my father, Pablo, Eddie and the men slipped comfortably into Tagalog – relief from their broken English.   I listened not understanding.

   “You e’t?” they questioned me.

   “Adobo!  Inihaw!”  they ordered the savory marinated meat dishes though I hadn’t responded.  “And, Chinese broccoli.”  My nose crinkled.

   “It’s good por you!”  my father injected, knowing my aversion to vegetables.  This was his constant admonishment to my siblings and me whenever we’d turn our noses up at a meal.   That or he’d launch into a story about the poor orphans in the Philippines.

   “More rice, cook!"  the men continued.   “We hab a growing boy!”

   “You like baseboll?”  another queried, placing his strong hand on my shoulder.

   “I nodded.  "Going to see the Rainiers today.”

   “Who’s your paborite player?”

   “Balcena!”  I smiled.  I knew that Bobby Balcena, the “Filipino Flyer” was the right answer. He played outfield for the Seattle Rainiers in the mid -50s and was our hero.   He’d appear at community lunches and dinners to autograph baseballs for kids.   I hoped to play just like him someday,

   “You go to school?”  the subject changed.

   “Yes, Manong.  Sixth grade at Immaculate.”

   “What you learn?”

   “Reading, arithmetic, spelling…I really enjoy reading.”

   “Good.”  added one.  “I nebber hab dat chance.   Always work the pields…pick asparagus in Calipornia…salmon in da canneries.   Alaska!  Blood money!    Here’s somet’ing por your education.”   He slipped five dollars into my hand.  “I jus’ gambol, anyway.”

    “Thank you, manong.”  I tucked the money into my pants-pocket.

   “I nebber hab dat chance, boy.   You study.”   He whispered before returning to a pool table across the room.

    An hour passed.  My father and uncles completed their lunch and conversation.   They shook hands with their compadres.   “Mabuhay, goodbye.  See you next Saturday.”

    Some of the men followed us the stairwell but no further,  as if they faced another prohibition that restricted them from climbing.   They drifted slowly back to their games of pool and rummy…occasionally peeking over their shoulders to glimpse our departure.   Others returned to the counter…to the comfort of shared dialect.  We climbed the stairs, entered the warm light and clean air, leaving behind that crowded purgatory. My father, uncles and I left for the ballgame.  We went to bask in the sun.

·      Pinoy is derived slang for Filipino.
·      Manong is a respected uncle.

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