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.