THE MANONGS

THE MANONGS
Victorino P Mapa

They are forgotten now, the places where they once lived is hardly a memory. A city block in San Francisco - the area encompassing Kearny, Jackson, Washington and Montgomery streets where they once congregated, has completely disappeared. There’s a sleazy part in Los Angeles that starts from the corner of Alvarado Street and Temple that the city father’s designated as “Filipino Town” to remember them. But the Filipinos who live there now hardly know why it is so. What is perhaps characteristic of how they are recollected is a small, less than a hundred square feet cemetery in Maui where a few dozen of them are buried, some crosses askew, the names hand-scrawled. It is not at all noticed by the young who hie off to enjoy the pubs and bistros at nearby Lahaina.. These were the Manongs, the first Filipinos to come to the United States when the 20th Century was young , the predecessors who took the brunt of prejudice and discrimination for those who would come after them..
When first I set foot in the United States in the 50s. They had another appellation : OTs, or Old Timer - unbeknownst to them, a pejorative term given by the younger, better educated Filipinos who came after World War II. . The post-war Pinoys found the Manongs….…..”different.”. They were elderly, wore oversized suits bought off the rack, hair slicked back with pomade ala Rudolph Valentino and spoke a kind of patois that was a mixture of James Cagney English and words like “broo, pambrown, da kine” and referring to the mother country as “da islans”. “Hey bro, ya jus’ come from da islans? How’s t’ings down dere, da graff an corruption? “ Their questions were as offensive and grating as their ludicrous attempts to sound “stateside.” But the impudence was a shield to hide their inferiority, their lack of schooling. After the initial brashness however, their subsequent questions would denote a poignancy and homesickness that they cannot dislodge from their soul, “How does Manila look now? Has our country recovered from the war? Where are you from? My name is Ben Cruz. Have you heard of my family? I’m Ilocano and I haven’t heard much from my town since I left in……”I would begin to tell them what little I knew. The questions would gradually ebb and I would find myself the only one speaking . I was bringing them back to the land and people they have left behind , the motherland they have never stopped loving .
The first Manongs were like other immigrants who first set foot in America: the maltreated and abused , farmers working for obdurate landlords, the lowest of the low with no hope for a better future in their own homeland, Ignorant and unschooled they nevertheless shared the dreams of men who aspire to be free, the right to have his place in the sun, the privilege of steering his own future. They found that opportunity when America beckoned. She was beginning to flex her muscles at the turn of the 20th century. . She had built her skyscrapers and dug her coal mines with men from the old continent; built her railroads with the immigrant Irish and the Chinese coolie; In the expanding west her vast farms were now crying for men who were immune from the sun and the constant stooping that the work required. She conscripted the brown men from her new possession to work the sugar fields of Hawaii, the canneries of Alaska and the green fields of California.
The first wave arrived in 1902. The Manong couldn;’t have come at a worse time. The Philippine “insurrection” had just ended. There were tales about the atrocities of the war with yet more cruelties inflicted upon “our young American boys” by the dreaded “bolo-men” who attacked from ambush and just as suddenly disappeared, the press played up stories of the treacherous brown men who called you an “amigo” before hacking you from behind. “Behave yourself or Aguinaldo will come and get you!” was the admonition the mothers of America gave to their unruly children. And now they were here in America’s backyard. They heard the same gibes wherever they went, “You can worship with us but stand in the back of the church;speak our language but do not expect equality; work for our husbands but don’t mingle with our children! You may be President Mckinley’s little brown brother but you’re no brother of mine.”
They werer paid less than decent wages. couldn’t own property, weren’t allowed to live in “decent” neighborhoods and could not date white girls. Those that deigned to go out with them were labeled prostitutes. In fact, discriminatory laws were passed prohibiting the union between Filipinos and Caucasians TheManongs took work that the white man would not soil his hands with: Stoop farmer, busboy, barber, janitor, porter. Iinitially met them as fellow passengers on board an American President Lines ship on my first trip to the United States. I listened to their stories of how they fared when they came to America and took jobs that paid less than a dollar a day, of indentures in the canneries of Alaska that paid almost nothing, how they were beaten by red-necks and doors closed to them because they were……”different.” “during da depression bro, time was bad for all…we tram’ (tramped) on caboose treyns (trains) walked miles , find work, lose work, den’ we go ‘nother town, find work, anything, enywhere, but we help each other, no kababayan lef’ hungry, and we always find work….”
They were short-changed, conned and insulted at every turn. As with other émigrés that came before them the Manongs were made to go through the fire and forge of bigotry and exploitation before they could blend into the American mainstream. The mettle of the Manong shone through the hardships. His industry lending quiet dignity to whatever menial tasks were assigned to him.

THE PACQUIAO PHENOM

THE PACQUIAO PHENOM
Victorino P. Mapa

` He’s done it again – emptied half the Filipino population in America and siphoned them all to Las Vegas for the five day’s he’s there. The other half are incommunicado during the fight, all glued to their HBO pay per view – not to mention the empty streets all over the Philippines . The entire population indoors into all theatres, auditoriums , halls, ballrooms, homes to watch Manny. Only two people are able to fill all the rooms in Las Vegas each time they perform. The other one is Celine Dion. They have similarities: Celine is a knockout when she sings. Pacman sings and does knockouts. Manny wears his shorts up to his waist. Celine wears her strapless up to her waist. Her boobs are that low.
Juan Manuel Marquez checked in at the MGM Grand. The fans that greeted him were as sparse as a Manila cemetery a week after All Saints day. Not so with Manny at the Mandalay Bay. It was the usual mob scene redolent of a Cecil B De Mille biblical epic. He’s a rock star. The other one’s just a pebble. I’ve been following the build up to the fight on CNN and TFC’s TV Patrol. Both have been doing bios on the two. Even then it is a no-contest for the Mexican. Juan Manuel’s home appears to be on top of a garage. He’s proud of his five cars and the love and affection of two Mexicans: His mother and trainer. Pacman has mansions dotting most of the Philippine islands. His home in Forbes Park is the entire year’s budget of the Philippine Government. Manny owns all the vehicles in Mindanao plus a brand-new Ferrari. 100 million Filipinos venerate and light candles to Manny, not to mention, try to borrow money. I’m checking the rumors that Pope Benedict is about to Beautify him. San Manuel de Sarangani. At interviews Juan Manuel Marquez stumbles and struggles with his English. Pacquiao He speaks it mellifluously and sounds like Richard Burton. Why he even recites passages from Shakespeare. It’s why I believe the news that the Pacman will be opening a University in his home province. He’ll call it Pac U. Mommy Dionisia will be the dean: Mother packer. If successful a branch will follow: Pac U2. When he retires Manny plans to teach English. Ok, so I’m prejudiced.
Other comparisons are just as bad. Juan Manuel flies economy class on Mexicana Airlines Our Manny charters his own plane to cross the ocean. His entourage includes the entire Philippine Congress, all of who hold comp seats at ringside. Plus a staff of 90 coaches,assistant coaches, trainers, and an etcetera of assitants. The numbers do not include Freddie Roach and a dozen sparring trainers who meet him upon arrival. The congressmen is, of course an exaggeration (they always are) but the entourage of 90 is not. I am told the number grows along with his fame much like the pilot fish remoras that glue themselves to the undersides of a shark.. I can understand ten people preening the champ:Manager, trainer, cut man, masseuse, cook, court jester and a max maybe of four sparring partners to round it out. But 90? I mean, what do the other 80 do except osculate his culo and collect their pay? Manny’s ego doesn’t have to do with it. I’ve personally met the guy. Even my wife . She has a picture with him prominently displayed in our living room. Helps to buttress her small talk when she begins, “…as I was telling Manny the other day…”.The guy is extremely likeable and humble as Obama begging to be re elected. It is Manny’s heart which is as big as the Titanic iceberg. He just can’t say no. If you can wipe ass welcome to the club.
Filipinos fervently believe that Manny can never lose. The idea that he can be is too horrifying to contemplate.A loss would be far more ghastly than floods, typhoons, volcanic eruptions. National honor, world recognition,prestige, bragging rights, not to mention Pacman’s chances of becoming President will all go down the toilet . Juan Manuel Marquez quit drinking his own urine. This time around he wanted Pacquiao’s blood. That he almost succeeded should make all Pinoys afraid, very very afraid.

COMING TO AMERICA II

COING TO AMERICA, cont.
Victorino P Mapa

APL kept steerage full with ads in West Coast papers that addressed the manongs in particular, “Tayo maglakbay sa Pilipinas” They were on their way back to the mainland and I had them for company. I couldn’t ask for a better bunch of people. I listened to their tales of coming to the States for the first time, finding jobs as porters, busboys waiters and farm hands; where they could only stand at the back of the church during Sundays, not allowed to own homes or “live among white folks”.Their only choice was to rent rooms in sleazy parts of the city. They couldn’t date white girls. To do so would label their dates as hookers and they would be stopped by Highway patrols and beaten up plus other discriminatory acts ro remind them they were not first class citizens. Until Bataan and Corregidor dominated the headlines. From then on they became “our brave little brown brothers.”, but only if they kept a respectable distance. The manongs took the blows and paved the way for the new breed of Filipinos that would come after World War II – college educated professionals who no longer sought menial jobs, spoke better English and would blend into the American mainstream.
Five ayem and I was roused from my sleep by the manongs,.”Hurry up bro, da Golden Gate is coming up” We were passing under the famed bridge, It wasn’t golden but red. Majestic, magnificent. A view I wouldn’t have enjoyed if I came by air. Inexplicably it brought lumps to my throat. Customs was perfunctory and within minutes we were out. Followed the manongs to Filipino town that was then bordered by Kearny, Washington, Jackson and Montgomery. The Washington Hotel was its center. A room with a view of Kearny street and bath down the hall was $2.00 a night. Downstairs was the Bataan Café alongside a pool hall and a barber shop. The manongs took this wide-eyed, wet-eared and naiive newcomer under their wing. I am forever grateful to them for acclimatizing me to Tony Bennett’s city.
It was the best of times. The Bataan Café and its pinakbet, Dinengdeng and fried fish kept me grounded. Chinatown was across the street where a moundful of roast pork, steamed veggies and rice at the Looey wooey Gooey café only set me back $1.95;The first run movie houses along Market Street - RKO, Warfield, Paramount and Orpheum were still owned by the major movie studio. To entice customers during weak nights raffles were held during intermission where a ticket could win you a set of dishes, why those evenings were called “Dish Nights.” Ambling down the city’s main stem I could grab a hot dog for 19 cents and down it with a giant milk shake for 29 cents. It wasn’t kosher to walk around the Union Square area in sneakers and polo shirts. Nearly every male wore suits and the ladies’dress code was strictly out of I. Magnin. There were only two hotels of note on the Square, The Saint Francis on Powell and the Sir Francis Drake half a block away. The smaller Plaza Hotel stood on the corner of Post and Stockton where a Humungous Hyatt now stands. Flower stands dotted the sidewalks and cable car bells happily pealed ,luring tourists for a ride to Fisherman’s Wharf. It was a picture-book San Francisco and , more European than American. She was exactly how I imagined her to be. It was love at first sight for me, a feeling that continues to this day.
I saw San Francisco at a guiltless age when the blights and blemishes and the strife and turmoil that beset us today was not even in the horizon. Global warming was ages away. Kennedy was President , the legend of Camelot infected everyone and America was prosperous and happy. The sights and sounds that Tony Bennett serenaded are still there. Somehow they don’t seem to be the same.

Coming to America

COMING TO AMERICA
Victorino P Mapa

1958 - . The China Clippers that once water-landed in Manila Bay had long passed into legend. but Pan Am was still king of the Air There was no world capital that she did not fly to. Even to Manila. Our “Manila International airport” as it was laughingly called, was still in a World War II mode: Its terminal was a quonset hut inherited from the US Air Force. stapled together with plywood and wire-mesh.It looked more like a concentration camp liberated from the Nazis.
Up until 1957 Pan Am flew noisy, propeller driven DC-4s that crossed the Pacific with stops in Guam and Honolulu before three-pointing in San Francisco . The flight took almost two days and was as choppy as WWII B-29s under a flak attack. The seats came with equipped with barf bags. The Jet age came to Manila via Pan Am’s spanking new 707s shrinking travel time to only 19 hours. It was the year I would come to America.
I walked through the unguarded gates of the US Embassy into the lone three story building straddling the edge of Manila Bay. “When are you leaving?” the vice-consul asked.
“Day after tomorrow,” I replied. No big deal. Within minutes I had a US visa, no other questions asked. Fast forward to 2011. Applicants by the thousands, easier to pick up a date with Shamcey Supsup than get a US visa.. Everyone is assumed to be a potential illegal immigrant.
If Pan Am was king of the skies, the American President Lines was Queen of the ocean. . Crossing the Pacific with her was as enjoyable as the present day pleasure cruises. Those days however, sea voyages were not advertised as vacation cruises but as a mode of transportation, that is, to travel from points A to B. The APL ships leisurely wended its way to Honkong, Kobe and Yokohama thence to Honolulu before docking in San Francisco after 21 days. Sea travel was for me. I went aboard the SS PRESIDENT CLEVELAND. It had two classes of service: First and steerage. I chose the latter and why not? My heart was young and adventurous, not to mention cheap. The one way passage was only $275 one way. The trip included three meals a day served family style, that is, bowls of food, salad and rice plunked on a looong table and you reach, brudda reach!. Midnight, a snack of saimin noodles is thrown in.
Cabin? What cabin? We were stacked forty guys to a dorm. Your choice was lower or upper bunk. It wasn’t co-ed. Starboard was for the boys, aft for the girls. We met and danced every other night to the sounds of a three piece band played at the recreational hall. First run movies alternated on other nights. Our favorite pastime was to come close to the barrier that separated us from first class and listen to a 12 piece band render the tunes of Berlin, Gershwin and Kern. First class passengers dressed in tuxedos and gowns stood on their own upper railing and engaged us in polite conversation.Leonardo Di Caprio and fellow peons re-enacted the scene in “Titanic.”
Two days in Hongkong, very very British .. The Union Jack flag unfurled everywhere and young Queen Elizabeth was in every Hongkong dollar. I could hear the mellifluous voices of James Mason and Ronald Colman at the hotel pubs. Rickshaws were ubiquitous at sidestreets The Chinese was a coolie in his own land. Asian countries have unshackled the chains of colonialism at the end of WWII but it was still alive and well in this British Crown Colony, albeit slowly dying.
Got off in Kobe, took an overland trip and re-boarded the ship in Yokohama. One of the stops included a tour of the Mikimoto Pearl farm. I was offered a can of pearls for US$10. The can was an evaporated milk tin, the big sized one. “No thanks, “ I said. “What will I do with it?” I told the story twenty years later to my kids. All of them said, “Stupid!”
Honolulu. The mind conjured tales of Stevenson . Melville and Michener’s South Pacific, of intrepid Polynesians who crossed the vast ocean to settle its many atolls and islands. Receptionists from the Hawaii Visitors Bureau came on board to greet us with leis. A lovely, beautiful, happy people , I thought to myself. I pictured myself sitting under a shade tree and sharing coconut juice with a sarong-clad maiden . I immediately fell in love with a winsome lass who garlanded me with a lei.. “Aloha!” I said.
She shattered my illusions when she replied, “Kumusta ka na,”
Ay susmariosep! Counterfeit Hawaiians! They were Pinoys!
To be continued.