The Waiting
By Ron Darvin Written as a springboard springboard for discussion of how long-term separation impacts the lives of migrant families, this short play was first performed at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver, Canada in November 2014. No set is required to stage this-play. The two characters-Isabel, a Filipino woman in her early 40s, and Miguel, her 1S-year old son-face the audience as they recite their monologues. Isabel: Mabuhay! My name is Isabel and I'm from the archipelago of 7,107 islands, high tide-2108 low tide-the Philippines! I'm 31. I’m just kidding! I'm 41. I just wanted to see if you'll believe me. Because you know, my friends, they ask me "Isabel, what's your secret for looking so young?" And I tell them, "Hay naku, lnday, it's all about moisturizing! That's why I use Dove. You know? 'Because you're more beautiful than you think!"' There are many Doves, but my favorite is Dove Pomegranate. Ay, it smells so good! You know in Manila I didn't even know what a pomegranate was. The first time I saw one here in Canada I said, Oh my! All those seeds! So hard to eat! That's why I just put it on my face. So I've been living here in Vancouver for eight years now. First two years as live-in caregiver for the Choi family. After staying with the Chois, I got an open work permit so I opened the door of my life. I told myself, "This is it, Isabel! This is your chance to find new opportunities!" And you know, when I was young, I always said "I want to be on Broadway!" $o I got a job here at Tim Horton's near the train station... on Broadway! After another two years, I got my permanent residence, and of course I tried to get my family here right away. But that took another two years. So much paper work! And plane tickets aren't cheap you know. I haven't gone home to Manila for six years… Ay but who cares about that city? They don't film movies there like Fifty
Shades of Grey-unless you're talking ta lking about pollution! Anyway, last yea4, my son Miguel...Miguel moved here to be with me. He's 15 now. He was barely seven when I left Manila but now he's here. My son is here. And after all these years of waiting, this, this is all that matters.. Miguel: Hey. Sup. Miguel here. Been in Vancouver for over a year. What's that? Oh yeah, Vancouver is ok, I guess. Pretty different...well, aery different. Stuff here is crazy expensive like a hundred times more than in Manila. We stay in this basement suite on 43rd and Fraser. Actually, I don't know why they call it a 'suite' when there's nothing 'sweet' about it. Freezing during winter, and I can't ca n't play my music because Mr. Rajagopal upstairs complains it's too loud. It's nothing like the place we had in Manila, where we had real windows that overlooked the street. Now the street overlooks as. Basta next year, I'm turning 16, and I can't wait to get a job. I'm gonna get one at Timmies, earn a
shitload of money, money, and get out of this dump. Yeah, that's all that matters. Isabel: Sometimes I wake up in the morning, when it's still dark outside. I look at the white beams of the ceiling, and I say to myself, "Where am I? How did I get here?" I feel like I'm in that movie of Leonardo di Caprio. Uhm, what is that? The one where you're in a dream of a dream?... Ay alam ko na! l know I know. Inception! Then I realize, OMGI The dream is real. I have to get ready for work! So I make breakfast for Miguel and me. Spam, fried eggs, garlic rice, and lots of banana ketchup. I'm sure you didn't know you can make ketchup out of bananas, no? Only in the Philippines! Because you know all the bananas in the world come from us. FYI, banana ketchup is not yellow. It's red. We make it look like tomato ketchup so that you don't think we're weird. You know in Manila, Spam is not cheap. We only eat it on Sunday, before going to church. Now I tell my friends back home: You know what, lnday? In Canada, we eat e at Spam every day! After cooking, I shower quickly, and by six, I'm out of the house to get to work. Miguel doesn't wake up till eight. Hay naku, actually I don't know what time that boy goes to bed. I have a second job at a grocery on Broadway, and I'm there until 10 pm. By the time I get home, Miguel's in his bedroom with his headphones on. He always says he's doing his homework, but I think he's just watching videos. But what can I do? Teenagers these days.
Sometimes, I want to go into his room and just ask him: "How was your day, anak?" "How's school?" After a whole day of speaking in English: "How would you like your coffee?" "Two creams and a sugar, eh?" "Would you like a plastic bag?" After a whole day of all that nonsense, I'd like to come home and hear his voice, to speak to me in Tagalog. So that, you know, so that I could be home again. Miguel: I got home after school yesterday, and I was starving. Opened the fridge. Bagels and tuna salad. And leftover Spam. Ugh, I hate tuna salad. I'm sick of bagels' I want rice. And sinigang. Or adobo. Or kaldereta. But Inay can only cook these dishes on Sunday, her day off. She'd make a whole pot, and we'd eat it the whole week. But today is Thursday, and there's none left. That's what the tuna salad is for. Back in Manila, when I lived at my Lola's-my grandmother---- €very night we would have at least 3 dishes. My lola loved to cook. My cousins julian and Susan and uncle Alex lived there too. Julian is a year older than me and Susan is I think, eight. Anyway, Uncle Alex works at a call center, graveyard shift. He's a customer service representative for Telus. You know when you call to complain about yourcellphone bill and you call Telus, and you think you're calling someone who's in Surrey or New West, but the truth is you're talking to my Uncle Alex in Manila. They're trained to speak in a Canaaay-deee-an aaacceent like "How can I help you today?" "Let me adjust that bill for you." The other day, he told me that a customer was being friendly and said something about the Canucks game the night before, and he said "Oh yeah, yeah, of course, the Canucks!" My uncle hasn't watched a single hockey game in his life! If he saw e puck, he'd think it was a paperweight. Uncle Alex has dinner with us before he leaves for work. It'd always be so noisy around the dining table. We'd be talking about our day, joking around, and lola would keep on topping up our plate with food...Mary I'm hungry. Now I go home to our suite and all I have is tuna salad, and the TV. I don't know any of the neighbors. So I spend the rest of the evening playing GTA. And the best part is that lnay got me these kickass headphones last Christmas so that Mr. Rajagopal upstairs would stop complaining about the noise. So that means I could play until two in the morning-completely undetected! Yup, that's how it works. Isabel: Yesterday, I had a really bad episode at work. I had very little sleep the night before because I did the laundry and there was just so much to wash. Anyways, there was this woman who ordered a dozen donuts, and I mixed up her order and gave her scones instead. If you ask me, I was doing her a favor by not giving her those donuts! Really! Anyway, she had to walk back several blocks with her little daughter to tell me I made a mistake. Of course, I kept on saying sorry, sorry, sorry. She wasn't rude or anything. In fact, when I handed her the donuts, she smiled, and I apologized again. But then when started to head out, she turned to her daughter and said: "This is why you have to study hard, my love. Because othenrrise you'll end up just like her." I froze. "Just like her." The words echoed in my head the whole day, as I served these sausage biscuits and maple donuts, and swiped cans of beans and corry and handed out plastic bags. ]ust like her. What does it mean to be just like me? When I got home, all I wanted was to see Miguel, to hear his voice. I wanted to find in his face some sign that I've made the right choices, you know, that I've been a good mother? That I wasn't just "just like her." I knocked on his door. Miguel?... Anak? ...But he was asleep. Miguel: Couldn't sleep last night. It's exactly a year today since I last saw ltay, my father. I wonder how he is. If he thinks of me, sometimes. When I was living with my lola, and lnay was here in Canada, my father worked in Cavite, 40 kilometers away my lola's place. He had a sales job there, and because traffic is really bad, he rented a room in Cavite, and left me with my lola. He would go see me on Saturdays, and sometimes held stay till Sunday. I remember he used to say, Don't worry, anak, we'll see your lnay soon. Just wait and next thing you know, you'll be playing in the snow and eating spaghetti and meatballs every day! Every night I would wait for the phone to ring, for lnay to call and say, Miguel, come to Canada tomorrow! But as years went by, and as I waited for that particular phone call, I began to see less and less of my father as well. At first, he'd say he had to work overtime, that they needed him to work Saturdays. Sometimes it'd be because of the traffic... But you know even if he didn't come, I knew. I knew that just like me, he waited for lnay too. Isabel: Roberto? I can't wait for the time when my blood doesn't boil every time I think of that son-of-a bitch...Oh I'm sorry! Am I allowed to say that here? But yes, I guess there's no better way to refer to him. Or wait maybe...uhnr, a@*h#le? .
Ten years ago, when Miguel was five, I was teaching English at a public high school, and Roberto was a med rep-you know, a salesperson for pharmaceuticals. He'd go to doctors and talk about this new wonder drug, and how it will cure everything from migraines to acne? Anyway, we realized at one point, that no matter how hard we worked, what we were earning would never be enough to send Miguel to a good university, or to buy a house. Our neighbor Pacing had a cousin who went to Canada through the Live-In Caregiver Program,-and Pacing told us how their whole family got to go to Canada, and find jobs, and that life was good. So I thought to myself, “Maybe, I could do this. Yes, I loved teaching but I want to give my kid a good future, and in Manila, a teacher’s salary will never be enough.
At first Roberto didn't like the idea. Nakakahiya he would say- it’s embarrassing. What would the neighbors say? A teach6r going abroad to be a caregiver in someone's house? I told him "Roberto, there’s no space for hiya here. If we want to build this family, we'll have to let go of shame. We just need to do what must
be done." Miguel: I know I really should do my homework, but who cares about that. Even if you don't get A’s,
you're still a winner hire in Canada diba? University is just for rich people anyway. The other day, Ms. Nelson, that's my Science teacher-asked me something about the migration of swallows, and I read about it and shit, but I couldn’t speak up… I guess you could say I was just kinda worried,
you know, that they might laugh again-the way they did a couple of months back when I said Shao-ne-ssy instead of shaughnessy. I don't know why but I could never get that right. Isabel: You know, in shao-ne-ssy, when I was working for the Chois, I got paid 8 dollars an hour. They took out 325 each month for room and board, and that left me with around 900. I would keep 150 to pay for my phone, my shampoo, and of course my Dove Pomegranate, and some money for going out on my duty, off. The rest I would send home for Miguel's school and his living expenses. I was happy to earn more than twice I was earning in Manila, but of course I was so homesick. I missed my family, gossiping with my friends. I missed being a teacher. At first I would call Roberto every week, on Saturdays when he and Miguel were together, but then sometimes Roberto couldn't go to Manila, and to save money, I called every other week. Then it became once a month. Every night before going to bed, I would look at our family picture from the last Christmas I spent in Manila, and think about how happy we were... ‘Ay, ano ba, Isabel? What's a little homesickness? This is for your family! This...is for Miguel. Miguel: When my mom finally got the Family visa for us to come over we had to wait another year to get the money ready for our tickets, and stuff. Things were kinda ok the-first couple of months we were here. Everything was so new and different. Snow. Poutine. Japadog. As the weather got colder and colder though, temperatures at home got hotter and hotter. lnay and ltay started fighting. A lot. And it was always about money. I could never hear everything at the start because they used to fight in their room. Then later they'd fight in the living room-and by then, my headphones were already my best friend. One morning I woke up and went to get to get some juice in the kitchen and I saw that things were missing-the TV the microwave. I ran to my parents' room to tell them: Inay! ltay! We've been robbed! Call 911! But all I found was lnay sitting at the foot of the bed, crying. The closet was open and my father's clothes were gone...I haven't seen him since. Isabel: The moment I saw them at the airport I ran and I hugged Miguel so tight I think he couldn't breathe! I was afraid people would call 911 and report me for child abuse! I hugged Roberto, and then we headed for the Skytrain with all the luggage and sat in front. While he and Miguel were looking outside the window to see what Vancouver was like, I remember looking at my son, then him, this mary my husband. The mole on his right cheek, his mustache, his pointy ears-I recognized all of these. But then I realized that there was also a part of him I didn't recognize anymore. And although I couldn't put my finger on it. I knew something had changed. Miguel: Things change so much here. The weather, the seasons. One day you're at your lola's where it's always sunny and you have so much fury next thing you're in a city, trapped in a basement and it just keeps raining. Your voice changes, your body changes and you feel just like a pancake at IHOP. Your whole world, flipped upside down.
Isabel: So of course I took them downtown and I showed them Gas Town, Yaletown and my personal favorite, Metrotown. Everything was new and exciting at first. But then things changed when Roberto, no matter how hard he tried, couldn't find a job. He didn't want to do something like Tim Hortons. He thought it was beneath him. I'd tell him "But this is how it works here. You need Canadian experience." 'Nakakahiya," he'd say, and we'd always end up fighting. Because of my two jobs, I hardly got to see both of them. I'd be so exhausted when I get home. Many times, Roberto would go five blocks away to the house of Kiko, who's also from the same hometown. Kiko lived with his wife, two kids, his sister-in-law, and a cousin and Roberto would go there practically every day so that they could talk about life back in the Philippines, and how everyday was a fiesta. Kami naman, the only time we had as a family was my day off on Sunday when we went to church. And that's when l'd pray to the Blessed Virgin Mary to knock some sense into my husband's head. Otherwise, I'11 knock his head with something harder! Anyway, one night-this was like a year ago-he came home drunk. As I led him to bed and drew closer to him, I smelled something on his neck and it was not the smell of Dove pomegranate! I know every fragrance of shampoo, lotion and laundry soap in this house and I knew this was not one of them. "Roberto. Sabihin mo sa akin ang totoo. Tell me the truth." He broke down and cried. He'd been having an affair with that sister in law of Kiko for the past 3 months! At that moment, I couldn't think straight. After a these years, working there in Canada, giving up my hiya to care for him, for our son, this is how he repays me? “Lumayas ka dito! Leav e us! Don't ever come back!" He took his clothes, some of our stuff, and then he left. Miguel: It's all her fault! Why ltay left. She's always "Roberto, you have to do this. Roberto, why don't you do that." She's the same way with me, and she drives me nuts! Miguel, study hard. Do the dishes. Just eat your tuna salad and stop complaining! In Manila, I never had to do the dishes. Lola would always take me to school. Here, lnay keeps on saying: "Tandaan mo anak, school is important." But she never helps me with my homework. She doesn't even find the time to attend the, parent-teacher meetings, and I feel I'm the only kid in school whose parents never show up. When she gets home, she's so tired. "How can I give up a whole shift just to be able to attend a meeting at your school?" It's always about making money. More money. "It's for you, anak, for your future." But what about me now? What about my life now? She wants me to study college after, but what use is college anyway? She graduated from a university in Manila, she was a teacher, now she makes sandwiches and works at a grocery. What's a degree for? School is such a waste of time. Basta next year, when l'm 16, I'm gonna find a job and make my own money, so that I don't have to hear her say "Money doesn' t grow on trees, Miguel!" and how she “sacrificed her life" for me. But living so far away from me, not being able to see me for 7. F@#%ING. YEARS. Tell me...didn't she sacrifice me too? Isabel: Sakripisyo. Sacrifice. This is what it's all about right? Blessed are the poor for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. That's what Father Dela Cruz used to keep on telling us at our parish in Malabon when I was growing up. I had this image of heaven in my head. Everything was gold-the walls, the curtains. And there would be food everywhere- and snow! The angels would be flying around, and we'd all be dressed in white. So even when my parents couldn't feed their seven kids, and we would go to sleep hungry, I thought, that's, ok. In heaven, I'll have all the fried chicken I want with all the banana ketchup money can buy. All I need is to wait. And so when I thought of coming to Canada, I thought-what's a few years of sacrifice? If I could do it for a better life? For my son? The night before I left for Canada, when Miguel was about to go to bed, I held him in my arms. "Anak, tomorrow, Inay is going somewhere, ok?" "Where Inay?" "To this place called Canada." "What will you do there?"
"I'm going to find us a new house where everything is gold, with lots of food, and where they have snow!" "Wow,! I want to go with you, lnay!" "Not yet anak, I have to go there first, and then you'll follow ok?" He nodded, and then fell asleep. While he lay there, I looked at my son's face, his eyes, his cheeks. I knew that tomorrow, if he saw me crying when I left, he would cry too, and I wouldn't be able to leave. So the next day, before he woke up, I kissed him on the forehead. And then I took my bags...I took my bags and left. I was crying all the way to the airport, I was crying on the plane...Sometimes, I feel, I haven't stopped crying since. Miguel: Sometimes I feel this is when I started remembering things so clearly. That morning lnay left. I remember waking up, with the white beams of the ceiling looking down on me. I remembered my dream-I was in this beautiful place with bi& golden houses, and snow. "That must be Canada! That's where lnay said she was going." I was so excited! I ran to the kitchen to tell her. "I saw it, lnay! | saw Canada!" But she wasn't in the kitchen, and instead, I found my grandmother. "Where is lnay, Lola? I want to go with her to Canadal" Lola bent down and held my hand, "Miguel, your lnay has left." "Left w-here? Aren't we going with her?" "No, Canada, is very far away. This morning, your ltay took her to the airport." "To the airport? Why didn't they take me?" "Oh they don't allow kids at the airport!" "Why didn't she say goodbye?" "You were still asleep and she didn't want to wake yov" "But when will I see her?" I remember the tears were already streaming down my cheeks. "I want to see my Inay!" And all that Lola said was, "Sorry Miguel...you'll see her...soon." Isabel: Sorry, anak, soon. I promise you. Life will be better. For you. For both of us. Soon. Miguel: That time my mother left, whe n I was seven , ‘soon’ became days, weeks, months. At seven, I realized a very painful truth: my mother had abandoned me. And as the years went by, and her image began to fade. I could no longer remember what it was like. The way she touched my cheeks. The feel of her hands. Sure, she sent home money, sent me toys, and chocolates. Sure, there were phone calls, and pictures. But you can't hug a phone call, can you? And a picture can't tell you that everything will be all right. Isabel: [faces Miguel] Just wait anak. Soon everything will be all right. Miguel: [faces Isabel] lnay, all these years I've been waiting. Tell me, please tell me, when does soon begin?
